something in the way you move

Buck is always in motion.

At any given moment some part of his body is always moving. Whether it’s his knee bouncing up and down in the engine on the way to a call, or full on pacing when he’s on the phone; arms waving expressively as he regaled anyone who’d listen with his latest late night research topic.

If he had something in his hands, he’s fidgeting. Twisting and turning it between his fingers, opening and closing whatever it is. His keys, one of Christopher’s toys, the label on his beer bottle, you name it.

Then, there are the noises. If he's got a pen, he’s clicking it. His empty finger finding a staccato rhythm against the tabletop. The idle cracking of his knuckles that always seemed to pull a look from Hen if she was around. Even the faint humming that Eddie could detect as Buck thoughtlessly moved around his kitchen, from the latest recipe that Buck managed to wheedle out of Bobby, to the cabinets to the stove and back again; so at home in the space that it made Eddie’s heart flip every time he witnessed it.

___

Buck fidgets. Eddie notices.