9-1-1 enjoyer, bucktommy enthusiast

lex - she/her - writer (allegedly) - artist (in theory)

[chimneyschewinggum]

Let's talk Teacher Buck and his crushes!

I personally have a preference for Kindergarten teacher Buck, because he is adorable with little kids.

This got long so I'm putting it under a cut

• Buck immediately thinking Sal and Gina are both super hot then trying (and failing) not to fumble his way through his whole 'Welcome to Kindergarten' spiel. He's only just discovered his bisexuality, so he hyperfixates on Sal just a little bit. Okay, a lot, sue him.

• Buck on car rider duty feeling his heart speed up when he recognizes Sal's car pulling up. Sal flirts with him through the window just to watch Buck's cheeks turn a pretty pink.

• Buck berating himself a fairly regular basis because he absolutely should not be thinking about one of his students parents this way.

• School events almost feeling like a weird form of torture because Buck can barely focus when Sal is in the room (they feel a little worse when he's not there).

• Buck not being able to stop himself from telling Sal he made the cookies he keeps looking at during the school bake sale. He's not proud of the smugness he feels when Sal runs the price up on them during the auction. He'll also never admit to keeping the note Sal sends in his daughter's folder the next day praising how delicious they were.

• Buck and Sal spending way too long chatting in the parking lot after school events. This is how Buck finds out Sal is a fire captain and how Sal finds out Buck used to be a fire fighter, but his leg got crushed in that engine bombing and it never did heal quite right. Sal gets really quiet and Buck thinks he's freaked him out, so he's quick to say it's all okay now, though, and teaching these past few years has been so incredible. He knows he's babbling, overcorrecting, making things weird, but he can't make himself shut up. They eventually say an awkward goodnight and Buck goes home feeling like an idiot.

• One day an unfamiliar truck pulls up in the car rider line and an extremely hot, built guy gets out. Before Buck can ask who he's picking up, the Deluca girls start yelling "Tommy!" from where they're waiting on the upper sidewalk. They run up and throw their arms around him, talking over each other and bubbling with excitement. "Alright, alright," Tommy guy says, popping the back door open. "If we leave now we'll have time to stop for ice cream before your dad gets suspicious about why it's taking so long." Dread washes over Buck as he comes to the conclusion that this must be Sal's boyfriend.

• Buck once again goes home feeling like an idiot, then feels even more like an idiot because obviously he and Sal were never actually going to go anywhere. He's his daughter's teacher, it would have been completely inappropriate. He never should have been flirting and acting the way he been in the first place.

• Buck resolving to do his best to be strictly professional from then on out. But Sal is damn charming and it's extremely difficult. Tommy is also incredibly interesting and sweet and, god damn it, he's doing it again. What the fuck is wrong with him?

• One day when his leg is aching something awful, Buck is in a particularly bitchy mood and snaps that Sal's boyfriend probably wouldn't like to hear that he's flirting with other people when he's not around. Sal looks very confused for a moment, then laughs. "I'm not so sure," He says with a wink.

• Buck asks to be switched out of car rider duty.

• The rest of year goes fairly smooth. Sal tones down his flirting. His daughter talks about Tommy in class sometimes and Buck smiles and nods. Gina, Sal, and Tommy all show up for Kindergarten graduation and Buck tries not to be weird about it.

• When the last day of the school year comes to a close, a bunch of the other teachers insist that Buck join them for after work drinks. He doesn't really feel like going, but he can't come up with a good excuse fast enough so he's dragged to the bar and gets a margarita shoved into his hands. He actually ends up having a really good time and lingers at the bar far later than he planned, and before long he realizes most of his coworkers have all gone home. He finishes his drink and is about to tab out when two figures siddle up to his table. "Can we refill that for you?" Sal asks with an impish grin.

• Embarrassingly, Buck learns that Sal and Tommy hadn't actually been dating when Buck snapped at him that day. Sal had genuinely liked Buck, but was also aware that he at least had to wait until his kid was out of his class to make a move. However, Buck's words had made him look more closely at his relationship with Tommy and realize that oh, shit, he was in love with his best friend. Not too long after that they officially got together, to the surprise of literally no one else that knew them. "Glad I helped you figure that out," Buck says, and tosses back the rest of his drink, ready to storm out. He's a little bitter, okay?

• Before he can move, Sal's hand lands on his thigh and Tommy is moving his chair a little closer. "In case you missed it, you're not my daughter's teacher anymore, and we're actively trying to pick you up here."

• The three of them fall tangled together through Buck's front door and don't come up for air for the next two days.

• By the end of the summer, Sal's daughters are excitedly telling everyone that will listen that they have two moms and three dads, and this is absolutely not an issue at all in 9-1-1 hand wavey way.

[sad-girl-hours23]

tawny tuesday

picking up from here

He leaves the bathroom and walks down the hall to the bedroom. The door is open; Buck gently knocks on the doorframe anyway.

Tommy's sitting on the bed, against the headboard, Buck's copy of Big Cats open on his lap. He looks up at Buck and smiles—friendly, with a hint of amusement.

And yeah, Buck probably should have put that back on his bookshelf before offering up his bedroom. His face grows hot. "Can I get you anything?"

Tommy sets the book on the nightstand. "I've got everything I need. Thank you." He smooths his hands over the spreadsheet on either side of him.

Oh god, the bed. Buck scratches his brow. "I'm so sorry, I forgot to change the sheets. Let me go get them and I can do that."

Tommy shakes his head. "Don't worry about, you've already done so much for me."

"Okay, well I can go get them if you want to change them—"

"Evan, it's fine. I'm actually feeling really tired, think I'm going to turn in now."

"Oh, okay. Well, goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Buck turns off the light and shuts the door.

He shuffles to the couch and wonders about Tommy's sense of smell—if it's more human or animal or some mix of the two—and hopes Tommy doesn't think his bed reeks. He drops onto the couch with a sigh; he forgot to grab a pillow from his room, but he doesn't want to disturb Tommy. He forgot a blanket too, but he's too lazy to get up and grab one from the hall closet.

[stricklandermewmew]

For chapter 12 of A Madness Most Discreet by the wonderful @annepi-blog

Nobody panic it’s fake blood😚😚

This is also an excuse to draw more Tybalt/Mercutio

[buckbuckleykinard]

psst everyone should go read @annepi-blog's wonderful fic A Madness Most Discreet

https://archiveofourown.org/works/86130881/chapters/227764316?view_adult=true

[sad-girl-hours23]

I think I saw you asking for story titles, so here is "When There is a Hunger."

Thanks for the prompt!! I loove this title and it pretty much instantly inspired a story when I read it, although--admittedly--I'm not sure why this story 😅I think my first thought was this is about a shifter and it sort of grew from there. I'm not sure if the title exactly fits (once i write part 2 i might be able to explain it better lol) but I hope you like it anyway. Endings are hard so it kind of ended weird, but there is going to be a part 2 to this because I have more I want to explore, but I just wanted to get this part out there :) This is 1,478 words just fyi.

Buck is a park ranger (i guess they are called state park peace officers, at least in California) in some undetermined place in California. Or—potentially he has a different job, I'm just not sure what but basically the premise is—

Buck was put on dedicated assignment at this particular park 5 years ago, shortly after he participated in the search for the missing pilot—Tommy Kinard—whose helicopter crashed in these same woods. Unfortunately it was only ever a search and not a rescue, or even a recovery—they never found a body, only the burning wreckage of a Leonardo AW139. Buck passes by the crash site on his patrols and every so often he finds himself lingering, checking the area for anything that could have been missed. He doesn't know why he does it, it's been years and the only thing he's ever encountered near the site is a mountain lion.

The first time he'd nearly had a heart attack—the big cat couldn't have been more than 50 yards away—but it didn't advance and neither did Buck. He sees the mountain lion from time to time, usually around the same area, and they always keep a polite distance from each other without incident, so Buck never reports the sighting. There haven't been animal attacks and the few times a sighting had been reported were far away from any campgrounds or hiking trails and were during the first month of the active search mission for Tommy Kinard. Besides, Buck wouldn't want any of his more trigger-happy colleagues to get any ideas.

One day, he's called into work on his day off. The office is chaos when he enters. A woman was found dead in the woods, two puncture wounds in her neck. Buck's fellow rangers, Adam and Eric, aka Tweedledee and Tweedledum, are arguing over who gets to be the one to kill the mountain lion.

Buck's heart hammers in his chest. "What makes you think it was a mountain lion?"

"The wound's consistent with their bite," Adam says.

"And the victim's boyfriend said he saw a mountain lion not far from the campsite, near where he found the body," Eric says.

Buck rolls his eyes. "Oh, the boyfriend said that? How convenient. Don't you know it's always the boyfriend?"

Buck's boss, Amelia, sighs.

"I've never seen"—they all look at him and Buck bites his tongue—"I've never seen any reports about sightings near any of the campsites, have you? What about the boyfriend—is he being questioned?"

Adam and Eric exchange looks that Buck ignores, but Amelia looks at Buck like he's grown two heads. "Yes, of course he's being questioned, but Buck—this is pretty open and shut."

Buck sighs. "I just—I don't think a mountain lion did this."

She frowns. "Then I guess you've got two weeks to prove it."

"Then what?"

"You know what, Buck."

Adam mimics the sound of a gun cocking, Eric mimics the sound of one shooting.

Buck doesn't wait for Amelia to turn around for him to give them both a finger each.

Two weeks.

Buck pours over the preliminary findings report, the autopsy still pending. Nobody had mentioned to him earlier that the victim also took a blow to the back of the head. According to the report, it was most likely she had fallen when the animal attacked her.

Buck tosses and turns and loses sleep over it that night. The next day, he finds the mountain lion near the crash sight again. Maybe he's sleep-deprived, or maybe he's lost his mind, because he finds himself walking closer to the animal, his hands up as if to show he means no harm. "Listen," Buck says, even though he knows it can't understand him, no matter how much intelligence seems to be behind those eyes. "If you see anyone else with this uniform"—he pulls at his shirt—"you run as fast as you can in the other direction, okay? Those assholes will shoot first and ask questions never."

The mountain lion walks away first and Buck stays standing there until it disappears amongst the trees.

Buck obsessively checks for updates, but there still hasn't been anything found to indicate foul play.

One week.

The weather report predicts rain. That's all Buck needs is to have any potential evidence washed away. He's poking around the place where the woman's body was found when he hears a branch snap and he sees the mountain lion walking slowly toward him. He wonders, then, if he'd got it all wrong. Just because he's never seen it this close to a campsite, doesn't mean it's never been this close. It stops a few yards away, turns around, and walks a few feet back in the direction it came from. Then it turns its head and looks at Buck.

"Uhh—"

The mountain lion walks towards him again, much closer this time, not stopping until it's right in front of Buck. Buck doesn't move a muscle—he's honestly not sure that he can. The mountain lion bites the billowing sleeve of Buck's jacket and tugs, pulling Buck forward and off-balance. What—does it want him to follow? "Okay, but if you eat me, I'm going to be so mad." Buck swears the animal huffs. It lets go of Buck's jacket and Buck follows it until it stops, maybe 200 yards away. Then it noses at the ground, scattering a pile of leaves and sticks, and digs into the dirt until it just barely unearths what appears to be a bloody article of clothing. Then it sits back and looks at Buck.

"Holy shit." He's not thinking when he rubs the animal's head and murmurs, "good kitty," but at least he doesn't lose a hand. The mountain lion pushes against his hand, emitting a low rumble from his chest. Buck laughs quietly. It doesn't stick around as Buck puts on his gloves and bags the bloody clothing and the bloody rock it was hiding.

It's enough evidence to prove the mountain lion innocent and the boyfriend guilty.

Eric and Adam are pissed, but that's nothing new.

It's Buck's day off, but he's walking through the woods anyway. He wants to tell his four-legged friend the good news. All of a sudden, a shot rings out from the direction of the crash site. Buck's blood runs cold. "No, no, no," he shouts as he runs faster than has in his life. He doesn't want to believe his eyes as he falls to the ground and pulls the mountain lion onto his lap, blood pouring from the bullet wound in its side. He doesn't have a medical kit with him, so he tears a strip of cloth from his shirt and uses it as a tourniquet. He's frantic as he pulls his phone out of his pocket, he curses when he drops it on the ground.

All of a sudden, the creature in his arm trembles and yowls and Buck's tears are clouding his vision, so he feels the change before he can comprehend what he's seeing. "Holy shit. You're"—not a mountain lion? A man? Hot?—"you're Tommy Kinard." He picks up his phone and frantically calls 911, giving them their coordinates and explaining Tommy's condition. He's covering Tommy with his jacket just as Eric walks into the clearing. "You shot him, you asshole."

Eric's eyes are wide as he shakes his head. "No, no, I shot"—he looks around, visibly shaking when he meets Buck's eyes—"it was just here."

Buck ignores him, turning his attention back to Tommy. "Help is on the way, okay? You probably don't need me to tell you this, but a helicopter's going to be quickest."

Tommy makes a noise that might be laughter, followed by a groan.

"Don't laugh! Oh my god, I'm sorry." He squeezes Tommy's hand and keeps talking, even though Tommy doesn't say much in return, he stays mostly conscious at least.

Buck rides in the helicopter with Tommy and he stays at the hospital during his surgery and is there at his bedside when he wakes.

Tommy's voice is rough from disuse when he tells Buck he didn't need to stay.

Buck frowns. "Of course I did. Is—is there anyone I can call for you?"

Tommy seems to think about it for only a few seconds before he shakes his head.

"You can stay with me."

"That's—I can't ask—"

"You're not. I'm offering. Just until you get back on your feet. Five years is a long time to be away."

"As long as I'm not putting you out."

"You're not, I promise. Besides, I have a lot of questions."

Tommy laughs, but it quickly turns into a groan. He shrugs off Buck's concerned look. "I'm fine."

Buck squeezes Tommy's hand. "Then what do you say, we get you home?"

[politenotice]

WOW, this took way longer than i thought it would. i forgot how to write, and then decided i could no longer write :)

here's PART TWO -- or the aftermath -- of buck and tommy's disastrous first date, this time from tommy's POV.

(PART ONE is here) and here is @sad-girl-hours23's original post that inspired both of these ficlets!

thanks for letting me play in this sandbox, jess <3

*****

To describe the inside of Tommy's new house as 'sparse' would be like describing the Sahara as 'kinda dry' or his savings as 'pretty low'. To describe Tommy's new living situation as uncomfortable would only be accurate if, wandering around his new 2 bed, 1 bath Craftsman, you were unable to look beyond the lack of furniture and decor to see a man taking his first real breath in years.

And as Tommy leans back in his deck chair in front of his 80 inch flat-screen that he can't mount because his living room wall is too unstable he reminds himself that it's all ok, because this is mine and it's not going anywhere. He reaches down into the cooler he's been using as a footrest, right to the bottom where the iciest beers are, and fishes one out. He props his bare feet back up as he pops the cap, uncaring where it lands. 

That's a tomorrow problem, just like everything else.

Tonight, it's just him, his snacks, and whatever he can zone out to on TV.

After hopping around, Tommy settles on While You Were Sleeping. It's a film he's seen more than enough times, but never like this. For one thing, it's the wrong time of year — the twinkling lights on Lucy's Christmas tree are a reminder to put himself down to work the holidays again this year, rather than something that sparks anticipation and excitement for his first Christmas in his own home.

Tommy used to think it was sweet — endearing, even — how Lucy tangled herself up in such a crazy lie and, in the end, was rewarded with an unexpected love… but the laughs that used to ring out while he watched her fall deeper and deeper in lies and love have been replaced by a tightness in his chest, and the bitter memory of a lying, beautiful idiot who managed to turn to the best date Tommy had ever been on into one a stand-up comic could turn into a career defining bit.

Why depress himself with a rom-com when he can fall into a pit of despair by watching the news instead? 

Tommy flips channels quickly and is greeted with rolling new coverage of yet another explosion. With multiple crews on scene, and a firefighter down, Tommy shoots a welfare check text into the work chat and keeps his phone close by as he watches the scene develop in ultra HD.

Preoccupied with his phone, Tommy missed the part where the reporter mentioned a firefighter trapped under an engine, and he definitely missed the part where she revealed that said firefighter was one the 118's very own. Not long ago Tommy was arranging a water drop to save them. Bobby's a great captain but shit, his house seems to be taking hit after hit.

He sits forward, totally absorbed by the scene unfolding on-screen. Flashing lights and shouting fill the gaps where the reporter runs out of commentary and Tommy finds himself hypnotised and unable to look away. 

The camera shifts and zooms. 

The screen fills with a shaky close up of a firefighter clinging to consciousness, his face rubbing against the grit beneath him as shards of glass glitter on top of a life-threatening amount of lost blood. 

It's a scene Tommy's intimately familiar with; he thinks of his 1st Lieutenant who was laughing at a dirty joke minutes before he never laughed again, his body all twisted up in the wreckage of an Apache blown out of the sky.

Tommy shivers; another fallen brother writhes in front of him. His breath catches when, on a particularly ghoulish close up, the firefighter's face is revealed.

The burst of red above his eye isn't just blood, and Tommy couldn't tear his gaze from his blue eyes if he tried. If he knew the man's name, he'd call it out. If he could somehow break through the screen and into the chaos, he would.

Whatever bond they forged during the few hours they knew each other has strengthened beyond measure: how is it that this guy, who he hasn't been able to stop thinking about, who has ruined every date Tommy's been on since, should be a firefighter at the very house that Tommy left less than three years ago?

Tommy's never put much stock in fate but he's starting to think it might be time to.

The coverage rolls on, endless, continuing after a street full of people lift the fire engine off his long lost date's leg and paramedics bundle him into an ambulance. 

Tommy pulls up the message he sent to Howie months ago when he promised to find some time for them to catch up in person and types out a quick hope your boy's ok before switching channels.

He settles on a documentary about Machu Picchu, partly because he doesn't know anything about it but mostly because he'd rather think about Mark's smile and eagerness to tell Tommy all about his adventures in Peru instead of the pain-stricken grimace he's become nauseatingly familiar with.

* His name is Evan Buckley. Tommy learns that from the news.

Evan Buckley lives in an extremely nice building on Grand Street. Tommy learns that from Howie who probably should have questioned why Tommy was asking for Evan's address in the first place.

Howie calls Evan Buck. Tommy's itching to know why Evan spends his life hiding behind any name that isn't his own.

Standing outside Evan's door, mouthing the words to a script he's nowhere near close to memorising, Tommy wonders who the hell he thinks he is turning up unannounced. He knocks gently — if Evan doesn't hear it then Tommy can take it as a sign that he's making a huge mistake and run a mile.

Rocking back on his heels for long enough to feel like an intruder, Tommy seriously considers walking away. Evan's injury is probably career ending and there's a pretty high chance they'll never cross paths again. He could end it here and spend the rest of his life regretting it. 

Finally, when Tommy's thinking about high-tailing it down the hallway, there's a gentle shuffling on the other side of the door. 

'Uhh,' comes a muffled voice, 'if you've come here to kick the shit out of me you should know a fire engine already beat you to it.'

'I come in peace.' Tommy waves at the peephole awkwardly. 'Can we talk?'

The lock clicks with noticeable hesitation and then, very cautiously, the door opens. On crutches and with dark circles under his eyes, Evan looks as beautiful as he did the night Tommy met him.

Or some version of him, anyway.

Evan turns away from the door, nimble on his crutches for a guy with a lot of leg to swing, and leaves Tommy to let himself in. He propels himself forward easily and props himself up on a bar stool to rest while Tommy eases the door shut.

Tommy should ask how Evan is, even though it's obvious. Quick as Evan is, he still looks worn out from walking to and from the door. What comes out instead is, 'Should I be worried that Howie calls you Buck? You don't have like, a secret, third identity, do you?'

Evan leans his crutches against the kitchen island. 'Should I be worried that you know Chimney?'

Tommy shrugs honestly. 'I don't know, should you?'

'Probably. He's dating my sister so he's probably got a ton of dirt on me.' Evan sighs. Despite only having met once, the distance between them feels unfamiliar. Tommy has only known Evan in close-up, both in person and on-screen. Now here he is in full view, vulnerable in a way Tommy assumed you saw after years knowing a person. 'How?' Evan prompts.

'We used to work together.' Tommy keeps his approach gentle. He takes a casual step forward and stops. 'At the 118. You probably took the spot I freed up when I moved to Harbour.'

'Oh.' Evan rubs the back of his neck, probably to soothe himself, but Tommy guesses he's been sleeping like shit, too, and is probably full of aches and pains from top to bottom. 'That's really cool. Weird, but cool. T-thank you, I guess. You kinda changed my life by leaving.'

'Kinda changed my own life, too.'

'There were three other Evan's at the academy.'

Tommy narrows his eyes. 'Ok?'

'That's why I go by Buck?'

'Oh!' At least someone's paying attention; Tommy's too preoccupied with the stubble darkening Evan's jaw. 'Got it.' He closes the space between them. He pulls out the bar stool next to Evan, careful not to drag it along Evan’s very nice floor, and perches there. He forces himself to look more relaxed than he feels, because there's a brittleness to Evan that wasn't there before, and Tommy doesn't want to be another person adding to his stress.

'I'm really sorry for lying,' Evan says and Tommy doesn't just know he is — he believes it, too. 'My name isn't Mark, obviously, and I've never even met a gym teacher but everything else I said is true.'

'Even the part about it being your first date with 'a dude'?'

'Especially that part.' Evan drops his head and winces. If he's in pain it isn't coming from his busted leg, but somewhere deep inside that Tommy wants to reach and learn how to soothe.

'Did you like it?'

'O-oh yeah, I mean — it was totally unexpected but I do that sometimes just… jump in, you know?'

'I'm starting to,' Tommy says honestly because he's only recently developed a taste for impulsivity. Buying a house in dire need of love he isn't yet skilled enough to give is just the first in a long line of decisions he'll make that will change the course of his life.

The other decision is fidgeting around next to him and desperately trying to find a more comfortable way to sit.

'Let me help,' Tommy says before he can second-guess himself. He stands and motions for Evan to put his arm around his shoulders so Tommy can help him to his feet. Evan doesn't hesitate to accept — he puts his arm around Tommy and hisses when his cast bumps Tommy's leg.

As they walk towards the couch, Tommy clocks that Evan's bed is a flight of stairs away. It doesn't bother him, the thought of Evan struggling up the stairs at night, but it does pull at something inside of him that reminds him that he'll be going home to an empty house tonight.

Tommy helps Evan down onto his couch which would not look out of place in a show home, and would definitely not feature next to the word 'comfortable' in the dictionary. But he settles Evan the best he can and, to Evan's surprise, does his best to prop his leg up. 

'How's that?' Tommy asks, doing his best not to loom over the guy he barely knows but is worrying about like they've been married for 20 years.

'B-better,' Evan stammers. In the harsh, industrial lighting of his loft, Evan's eyes are so blue and soft and sincere. Tommy wants to kiss him — probably will — but he retreats to grab Evan's crutches first so he's not stranded.

Away from Evan, Tommy takes in more of his surroundings. It's a gorgeous property. A little… minimalist, if Tommy's being completely honest, but then who's he to talk? He's still sleeping on a mattress and pulling balled up Henleys out of a suitcase.

'How long have you lived here?' Tommy minds his tone so Evan knows he's genuinely curious and not passing judgement. He grabs the crutches and decides to wait until their next meeting to try them out himself.

'Um, not too long. There was a girl. Then there was a lease. And then' — Evan points to his leg as Tommy sets the crutches down in arm's reach — 'no more girl.'

'Jumped in?'

'Oh yeah,' Evan laughs, 'belly-flopped in the deep end.'

'Ouch.' Tommy laughs, too, and fuck it feels good. 'If it makes you feel better I just bought a house that's falling down. I have no furniture and no idea what I'm doing.'

'Ouch.' Evan's still laughing and wincing. He reaches down to rub the cast that's clamped around his leg as if he might be able to feel his hands rubbing his skin through the plaster. 'Where's your furniture?'

'I was leasing a furnished place. I have a TV.'

'And a two-thousand dollar coffee machine.'

'I — yes,' Tommy says dumbly, remembering how hopeful he was that Evan, or Mark, wasn't only planning to follow him home from the bar for something as innocent as a coffee. Unless that coffee was going to be sipped in bed long after the sun had come up.

'Are you, um, still serious about it? The coffee?'

'Absolutely.' Tommy eases himself down and sits on the floor so he can look Evan in the eyes when he says, 'I didn't come here for an apology. I came here because I haven't been able to stop thinking about you.'

'Oh,' Evan says, his mouth forming a perfect O. 'It might just have to be coffee for a while.'

'Of course.' Tommy looks around. Evan has a nice kitchen. 'Maybe I can come over and make us dinner. Save you a car ride.'

'I'd really like that, Tommy.'

There's an accumulation of miscellanea on Evan's side table: a couple of books, a half eaten bag of Sour Patch Kids, a remote control, earphones, and a marker, which Tommy zones in on quickly. 

'Tell you what,' Tommy says, grabbing the marker and uncapping it with his teeth. 'When you're ready —' he sets the tip of the marker to Evan's cast and waits for permission. The hitch of Evan's eyebrow is all it takes for Tommy to scrawl his phone number on the inside of Evan's thigh. 'Give me a call, ok? Or text me. Whatever.'

The tips of Evan's ears are bright red. His cheeks, too. Their fingertips graze when Tommy hands the marker back and even from the slightest touch Tommy knows Evan's palms are sweating.

He's completely charmed and in real danger of testing their limits of their combined restraint.

'I should get going,' Tommy says and is that a pout on Evan's lips? 'Do you need anything before I go?'

Evan taps his chin with his index finger. Tommy can tell he's not really thinking about it — he made his decision as soon as Tommy asked the question – but if he's finding some joy in making Tommy wait well, then Tommy will wait.

'How about you kiss me better, huh?'

Not wanting to lose his track record for his excellent bedside manner, Tommy rises up on his knees, leans over and, with only the tiniest moment of hesitation — just enough to feel Evan's nose bump his own — presses their lips together gently.

They kiss and kiss until Evan's fingers tangle in Tommy's hair and Tommy's neck starts to ache from the angle he's being held at. Reluctantly, he breaks away, and there's that pout again, more vibrant now Evan's lips are cherry red and kiss-bitten. His eyes are still closed, and Tommy kisses both of Evan's cheeks, and the underside of his jaw, as an apology and a promise.

'Better?' Tommy asks, breathless and so, so happy he knocked on Evan's door before he could talk himself out of it.

'Not sure,' Evan says, 'we should probably try again just to, you know, make sure the treatment's working.'

Tommy laughs because, despite barely knowing each other, Evan's already an expert at twisting his arm. 'Ok,' he says, still breathless and caught up, and leans in.

[dharmaavocado]

WIP Amnesty

So all the way back in 2024 after I binged all of 911, I started writing a time traveler's wife au because I love weird magical bullshit and tbh I hated that book but liked the general idea. I wrote 11k, got stuck, wrote a bunch of other stuff, and then s8 and s9 happened and now the way I characterized this version of Tommy and the 118 is so outdated that there is no way it is ever getting finished. That's not to say I won't ever write this au--I actually think there's even more narrative and thematic meat to it now then back when we just had s7--but it will never be this version of it. So I am releasing it into the wild as an interesting artifact of another time.

i. Evan, 33

When they met for technically the second time, Tommy was in the middle of stealing a helicopter based solely on Howie’s hunch.

“Not my hunch,” Howie said. “Hen’s hunch. You doubting her hunches now, Kinard?”

“I doubt you need to say the word hunch this much,” Tommy said, tucked into a corner of the hangar, running mental inventory of which aircraft was fueled and ready to go. “You know I’m always going to back Hen’s play.”

“Oh good, because full disclosure, if you tried to weasel out of this I was going to remind you that you owe me a life debt.”

“You’ve already called in that debt like eight times now,” Tommy pointed out.

“You saved his life?” someone shouted loud enough that Tommy had to pull the phone away from his ear.

“I’ve told you this story,” Howie said.

“Uh, you definitely have not.”

“Eyes on the road, Buck!” the third person in Howie’s conspiracy snapped.

“We’ll be there in twenty if Buck doesn’t get us killed,” Howie said, and the call cut out on presumably Buck’s offended hey!

A guy saved your life once and you paid and paid and paid.

By the time Howie and his fellow miscreants skulked through the hangar in full turnouts—Jesus Christ, they were definitely getting arrested—he had everything ready to go. All they were missing was Hen and her good as confirmed hunch.

“Tommy!” Howie said, hand held out, which Tommy used to pull him into a hug, folding over to compensate for the difference in height.

“Did you somehow get shorter?” he asked with one last solid pat to Howie’s back.

“That any way to talk to the man who granted you the sweet gift of life?” Howie retorted.

“Don’t say it like that. It makes you sound like you’re my father.”

Howie grinned. “You wish.”

Two weeks after Howie dragged his unconscious ass out of a methane filled mall, they went out and got heroically and unwisely drunk, and the list was amended to Love, Actually, monster trucks, craft beer, and shitty fathers.

Tommy offered his hand to Howie’s tagalongs. “Tommy Kinard.”

“Eddie Diaz.” Diaz’s grip was strong and firm, and he gave the traditional two pumps. “Thanks for helping us out, man.”

“I’m still making interest payments on that life debt,” he said dryly, attention turning to the last co-conspirator. The kid was tall, easily his height and comprised of about eighty percent leg, eyes wide and blue. A punctuation of a birthmark was stamped along his left brow like god’s most perfectly placed semi-colon.

“Hey,” the kid said, beaming so hard that Tommy ran the risk of sun blindness if he stared at that grin head on, “it’s you.”

Tommy raised his eyebrows, which only made the kid grin wider.

“Wait,” Howie said, glancing between them, “Tommy is—”

“Evan Buckley,” the kid said quickly and loudly. “Everyone calls me Buck, but it-it’s Evan.”

“Evan,” Tommy said, his offered hand shaken enthusiastically for a beat too long before he could gracefully extricate himself.

“It’s so good to finally meet you,” Evan added, the shape of the words sharp with relief, as if Evan had been counting down the minutes.

“I wasn’t aware I was keeping you waiting,” he said.

In his peripherals, Diaz’s eyes went wide and a bit crazy. “Chim is always talking about you, so it feels like we know you already.”

“Really,” he said flatly with a matching flat stare for Howie. “And here I thought you only remembered I existed when you needed a favor.”

“You think I keep that Maurice story to myself?” Chim said, breezy tone undercut by how squirrely he looked.

Across from him, Evan’s brow furrowed as he mouthed Maurice to himself.

“You’re clearly lying.” Tommy jabbed an accusatory finger at Howie, who flinched. Despite being able to talk down panicked civilians, Howie had a terrible poker face. “But since we’re about to do something monumentally stupid that will only get us fired if we’re lucky, I’m choosing to ignore whatever this is.”

Howie rolled his eyes. “Gee, you’re a real swell guy.”

“Just remember that when I’m calling in this favor. Let’s go.”

He herded everyone into the helicopter—a tight fit for three men in turnouts and Evan’s giraffe legs certainly didn’t help—and outfitted them with headsets pilfered from a grounded Bell 260, feeling like an overgrown nanny. A feeling that was not helped by the way Howie and Diaz were jostling for the seat next to Evan. Howie won through the expedient method of kicking Diaz’s shin and climbing in while Diaz swore.

“You’re popular, kid,” he said to Evan, who ducked his head with a pleased grin.

Howie snorted. “I’m here to stop their one shared brain cell from bouncing between them like the world’s dumbest screensaver. You have no idea how much these idiots enable each other.”

“Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea of what two idiots can get up to,” Tommy said, grinning at the disgruntled look Chim shot him.

“What does he mean?” Evan asked, glancing at Howie before his attention snapped back to Tommy. Christ, that stare was intense. “What do you mean?”

“Ask me about Howie and Hen’s probie years some time. Speaking of, you sure this is her plan?”

“It’s Hen,” Howie said irritably even as he elbowed Evan repeatedly in the ribs until Evan finally broke that stare. “What do you think she’s planning?”

“I wouldn’t put it past her to commandeer the entire Coast Guard.” Tommy straightened, and sure enough there was Hen, striding into the hangar with a lot less confidence than she needed to make this work. “Excuse me, gentleman. I have a felony to be complicit in.”

He thumped a fist against the helicopter and crossed the hangar, moving quick with purpose. That was the only useful thing his old man taught him: act confident and like you belonged and people would let you get away with murder. It was how he kept Gerrard from clocking him and how he ended up hating himself for a solid two decades.

It was easy enough to steamroll Melton, who had a preexisting paranoid suspicion everyone was secretly laughing at him that Tommy was not above abusing when needed, and he needed to if only because Hen, despite coming into the 118 and upending his life, was really bad at lying. Which was probably, he reflected as he led her away, why she was so good at upending his life.

“What are you doing?” Hen asked quietly.

“Helping out an old friend. Thought you’d be a little more grateful.” He cut her a look, but Hen remained unimpressed as ever. “I’m disappointed that you went for Donato over me. She’s not certified for solo flights yet. That’s sloppy work, Wilson.”

“I’ve had a lot on my mind.” There was a defensive note to her voice.

“Karen okay”

“What? No, she’s fine.” Hen softened, just a touch. “We’re fine.”

“Glad to hear it.” He hadn’t spent much time with Karen, who hadn’t been welcome at the firehouse for obvious reasons, but he’d been at their wedding and danced with the brides.

Hen sighed. “Tommy, why are you doing this?”

He spent literal years wanting to be honest with Hen, and so he said, “You asked.”

She softened further before her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “But I didn’t ask.”

“Yeah, about that,” he said, and gestured to the helicopter and the three grown men inside.

“You weren’t answering your phone,” Diaz said, as if that was a valid reason for them stealing a helicopter for an unauthorized rescue mission.

Hen was unimpressed, judging by the flex of her jaw, but before she could even draw breath for a sharp retort, Howie obnoxiously snapped his gum and said, “Hey, Hen, it’s Tommy.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” she said.

“No,” Howie continued, heavy with meaning, “it’s Tommy.”

Hen’s head whipped towards him and then, bafflingly, to Evan, who shrugged, bashful and apologetic.

“Tommy,” she repeated.

“Apparently,” Howie said darkly, and snapped his gum again.

Tommy didn’t bother waiting for them to start making sense; they had maybe ten minutes before Melton started to pull paperwork that didn’t exist. “You’ve gotten weirder since I’ve been gone,” he said, handing Hen the last headset and bullying her into the copter before climbing in himself.

“You have no idea,” Howie said.

“I’m about to fly us into a hurricane based solely on Hen’s hunch,” Tommy said dryly. “I’ve got some idea.”

“Hey, you said hunch,” Evan said with genuine delight.

“Yes, I did,” Tommy said, and took them up and out.

--

They were an hour into the flight, the rain and wind kicking up, and the tension was loud enough to sing.

“So,” Tommy said in the aftermath of Hen and Howie angrily agreeing with each other, “I see you two still fight by pretending you’re not fighting. That’s a healthy way to approach conflict.”

Behind him, Evan swallowed a laugh. He couldn’t see the kid but he sure as hell felt the stare that been directed his way ever since they took off. It was enough to give him a complex about his piloting.

“We’re not fighting,” Hen insisted.

“Nope,” Howie agreed. “We’re good.”

Another gust hit, and Tommy breathed slow and even to keep from clenching up on the throttle as the old girl rode it out. He ignored the concerned look Hen threw his way. Flying into a hurricane wasn’t the best life decision he’d ever made, but at least this one didn’t come with being actively shot at.

“Just like how you were good back in—what was it? The Great Snit of ’13?” he asked, grinning at the twin offended noises Hen and Howie made.

“The Great Snit?” Diaz asked.

“First of all, no one called it that,” Howie said.

“Everyone called it that,” Tommy said.

“And second of all,” Howie continued at a much louder volume, “it was a minor disagreement, and we were perfectly professional. Weren’t we, Hen?”

Hen, as honest as she was, made a face.

“Is that what we’re calling being passive-aggressive about where you store the pressure bandages?” he asked. “Because that’s—hold on.”

The wind slammed into them, and Tommy gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw and did not think about turning them back towards land before he got them all killed. Hen asked him to go find Bobby and Athena, and that was what he was going to do.

“We good?” Hen asked quietly once they whole bird stopped shuddering.

“For now,” he said because he didn’t believe in false assurances when everyone was knee deep in the shit.

The tension ratcheted back up, although at least this time it wasn’t helped along by Hen and Howie pretending they weren’t pissed with another.

“Hey,” Evan said, “when exactly in ’13 were they fighting?”

“Why would you need to know that, Buck?” Diaz asked, so pointed Evan was in real danger of being stabbed.

“Just curious,” Evan answered.

“Curious,” Howie repeated.

“Yeah, about your and Hen’s probie years.”

Tommy could hear the kid’s shit eating grin.

“Don’t you dare,” Howie said. “That’s not even how it works.”

“Like you know how it works,” Evan shot back, a surprising edge to his voice.

“I’m pretty sure Hen knows how it works,” Diaz said before Howie could transition from arguing because he was tense and bored to arguing because he was genuinely irritated.

“Do not drag me into this,” Hen said, and then, because she just couldn’t help herself: “I’ve got some theories.”

“What theories?” Evan said, flat and—not offended, not exactly. Tommy recognized that tone, had used it for a good chunk of his life whenever someone came prodding at all his tender, hateful parts. It was the tone he’d used for Howie and for Hen and for himself in those lean, starving years following his discharge. It was the tone of someone who didn’t want to be looked at. It made him ache, even now.

“While I’m enjoying this little radio drama,” Tommy said, ignoring Evan’s baffled radio drama, “you wanna let the pilot see the script?” He could only see Hen and the way her expression set, still and carefully neutral. This was a shared secret and he was on the outside. “Or maybe not.”

“Hey, wait, it’s not like that,” Evan said so earnestly, like he was actually worried they’d inadvertently hurt this feelings, that Tommy seriously considered taking the risk of them crashing into the ocean just to turn around and meet Evan’s stare head on.

So it was, all things considered, a welcome distraction when dispatch came on the radio and said, “LAFD Copter 1701, do you read? Firefighter Kinard, come in please.”

He barely kept from wincing. “Go for Kinard.”

“Call from Chief Simpson.”

Fuck.

“Firefighter Kinard,” Chief Simpson said, and even through the wind and the storm fucking with the connection, Simpson’s heavy disappointment seeped through. Tommy’s stomach clenched, an old, tired reaction to his name being said that way. “I know you’re not doing what I think you’re doing, and Captain Wilson and the 118 better not be with you.”

There was no answer that would not incriminate them. Might as well take the tried and true route of outright insubordination and make his old sergeant proud.

“Chief Simpson,” he said, hissing air through his teeth, “trouble reading—sshh—can’t hear—sh-sh-shk—” and he threw in one more guttural stop for good measure before flicking off the radio.

In the ensuing and, frankly, insulting silence that followed, Evan cleared his throat. “Did-did you just make fake mouth static at the fire chief?” There was that delight again, like Evan was charmed by the shit he just pulled.

“Think he bought it?” Tommy asked.

“God, no,” Howie said immediately. “That was awful.”

“Hey!”

“Sorry, man,” Diaz said. “It was not good.”

“Mm,” Hen agreed. “If we weren’t getting fired before we definitely are now.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” he said as they rode out another gust. “We’re flying into a hurricane. We’re probably gonna die anyway.”

“We’re not going to die,” Evan said, and Tommy felt his eyebrows jump to his hairline. Evan didn’t say it like a first responder with practiced assurance or with a soldier’s black irony. Evan said it with the casual certainty of someone who had skipped to the end of the book to find the happily-ever-after waiting for him.

“How do you know?” Tommy asked, and if he sounded curious it was better than pleading.

“Yeah, Buck,” Howie said, his usual sarcasm drowned by that strange loaded meaning everyone kept aiming at Evan, “how do you know that?”

“Uh, statistics?” Evan said.

“Buckaroo,” Hen said, eyes closed as if begging some higher power for patience, “what does math have to do with this?”

Buckaroo Tommy mouthed to himself, unfairly charmed.

“Statistically speaking, none of us should be alive,” Evan said. “I mean, how many close calls have we had? A ladder truck crushed my leg and I got struck by lightening.”

“Don’t forget the tsunami,” Diaz added.

“Right, the tsunami,” Evan continued blithely, as if the words coming out of his mouth weren’t objectively insane. “Chim, you had rebar go through your brain, you’ve been stabbed, and Jonah the serial killer stopped your heart twice.”

“What the fuck,” Tommy said with feeling, and was promptly ignored.

Evan didn’t even pause. “Eddie, you had a forty foot well collapse on you and you were shot. Twice.”

Diaz made a noise. “Are we counting that time when I was in the Army? It was before I knew you.

“We’re counting that,” Evan said firmly. “And Hen, you’ve…”

“I’ve what?” Hen asked.

“Wait, have you almost died?” Evan asked.

“No, because unlike the rest of you,” Hen said, much too smug for a woman Tommy had personally witnessed get tangled in the hose line she was supposed to be winding, “I have good sense.”

He and Howie barked out a laugh at the same time.

“I see we’re conveniently forgetting that factory fire,” Howie said.

“The worst I got was a scar,” Hen said flatly.

“Mm, so Sal didn’t have to lead you out when you got turned around by the smoke?” Tommy said, grinning at the disgruntled look Hen shot him.

“Who’s Sal?” Evan asked.

“Tommy’s Eddie,” Howie answered. “Don’t make that face. Bobby fired him when Sal shot his mouth off.” He sighed. “Don’t make that face.”

Tommy really wished he could see what faces Evan was making, especially since Hen was now directing an apologetic look his way. There was a rhythm to their banter, a familiar dance they had long since memorized the steps too. Tommy may have been invited to cut in, but he was just off the beat enough that it made his gums itch.

He cleared his throat. “What about me?”

There it was again, Evan’s attention snagged and caught on him, and Tommy was self-aware enough to admit he liked it. “Chim saved your life,” Evan said.

“Carried him like a princess out of an exploding mall,” Howie added.

Tommy rolled his eyes.

“So like I said,” Evan continued, “we should all be dead by now. The odds are on our side that we’ll make it through this. It’s just statistics.”

“That’s not how math works,” Diaz said.

Evan made an offended noise in the back of his throat. “Which of us had math superpowers from being struck by lightening?”

Tommy had no choice but to laugh at the sweet absurdity of it. If he knew what the 118 had turned into he might have made an effort to call Howie up more often. “That is some baseline you’ve got there, kid.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Howie muttered.

“You don’t believe me?” Evan asked with that same astounding earnestness, as if Tommy’s answer actually mattered to him.

“Your insane math is very persuasive,” he said dryly, and insanely felt Evan’s beaming grin warm the back of his neck.

--

Back when Tommy had been a gangly limbed, wet behind the ears kid with unearned confidence, his flight instructor had taken him aside after a particularly hard landing and said, “You’re a cocky shit, Kinard, and might have some talent buried under your bullshit, but the only way you’re ever going to be a decent pilot is if you learn you’re going to die one day.”

“You think I got talent?” Tommy had said, snapping a cocky grin that got his weekend pass revoked.

But that advice hadn’t been wrong. It was a hard lesson to learn, and it took a rescue op going to hell with a gut shot man dying in the back of his bird to drive the point home. The soldier, barely older than him, had bled out before they reached the base.

If Tommy brought the copter down onto The Uno’s hull in a landing that would have made his old instructor suck air through her teeth, he at least brought them down.

We are not going to die, Tommy thought, and the words were in Evan’s voice.

“I think that knocked my teeth loose,” Howie complained.

“If you think you can do better than you can fly us into the next hurricane,” Tommy said. Behind him Evan snorted a laugh, and Tommy felt that old cockiness stir; the kid thought he was funny. “We’re on a tight schedule. One good wave is going to wash us and our ride out to sea.”

“Right,” said Hen. “Chim, you’re with me. Buck and Eddie, let’s get a line started so we can get down there. Coast Guard is on their way but I don’t want to wait, especially since we probably have injuries.”

He’d always seen something in Hen ever since as a probie she declared she was bringing in the tide. Howie would say it was righteousness, and that wasn’t wrong, but Tommy always thought of it as solidity, like Hen was a fixed point they could anchor themselves to.

“Look at you now,” he said quietly.

“Look at you,” Hen shot back, that same jut to her chin, a challenge to meet her where she stood.

“You know, I’ve actually missed you,” he said, and met her grin with one of his own.

There was a rhythm to working rescues, ingrained muscle memory that kept him upright when he was so exhausted that the edges of his world went sharp and brittle. It kept him moving now, helping to anchor the line and follow them down into the ship where they began triage.

Howie and Hen moved together, never missing a beat. It was a shame that Eli left before Hen arrived, ostensibly because his wife wanted to be closer to family but mostly because Eli’s patience had finally been wrung dry and he was about a week away from punching Gerrard in his hateful face. Eli would have liked Hen, and he would have liked Hen even more with Howie.

“Athena,” Evan said, folding her into what objectively looked like a really good hug. Comforting. “Where’s Bobby?”

“There was a lost kid,” Athena answered, looking back to the capsized corridors. “He went to get him.”

Evan and Diaz shared a single and look, and then Diaz shouted, “Hen, we’re going after Bobby!”

“Copy,” Hen said, her attention trained on the gunshot victim. Howie lifted one hand in acknowledgment.

“Wait,” Tommy said, and Evan came up so short and abrupt that Tommy nearly winced in sympathy for the kid’s leg muscles. Diaz went ahead. “Do you know where they are?”

“Don’t worry,” Evan said with the same easy confidence of we’re not going to die, “we’ll find them.”

“Buck,” Diaz said, and then Evan was loping after him on his ridiculous giraffe legs.

There was a pricking helplessness to watching Evan and Diaz disappear down the gaping dark corridor while he tried to do the math of how quickly water was flooding in, how long before the entire ship would be dragged down.

“Buck’s gonna Buck,” Athena said, hand wrapped around his forearm. “Good to see you again, Kinard.”

Tommy matched her ironic tone. “And you, Sergeant Grant. You should let Hen check you out.”

Tommy had enough run-ins with Athena during his tenure at the 118 to know she could out stubborn even Gerrard, and so the fact she barely protested betrayed how exhausted she was. She didn’t sit so much as fold, Hen guiding her down.

“How did you know to come find us?” Athena asked.

“Hen had a hunch,” Tommy offered.

Athena laughed, thin and high, so close to the edge of exhausted hysteria that the only keeping her from tipping over was probably Hen’s fingers on her pulse. “Thank god for your hunches,” she said.

“And thank god for pilots who still owe Chimney a life debt,” Hen returned, her gaze cutting to him, an invitation to join in.

“A guy saves your life and you pay and pay,” Tommy said, and went to radio the Coast Guard for an ETA.

--

Evan and Diaz still hadn’t returned when the rescue evac arrived and took over. Tommy knew better than to insert himself into a situation that didn’t need him, and took up a post by his bird, which hadn’t been swept into the Pacific. The hurricane had blown past, and clear skies were creeping back in. With any luck there might even be some sun later to dry out his flight suit that was bunching in tender places.

Howie was shepherding their patients onto the medevacs. A Coast Guard ship was designated for triage and transport, and the sooner they got there, the better. Their gunshot victim and the injured mother would need blood transfusions, and everyone else was exhausted and dehydrated and on the verge of hypothermia. They needed to get moving, which would have been made easier if Athena Grant hadn’t planted herself on the hull and said, “I am not leaving without my husband.”

“Athena,” Hen said, her hands cupped under Athena’s elbows, “Buck and Eddie will get them, but the best thing we can do right now is to get to safety.”

Athena set her jaw. “And who’s going to get them to safety?”

That was his cue, and Tommy didn’t need Hen’s pointed look to carefully cross the slick hull to towards them. “That would be me. I’m their ride.” He hooked a thumb towards his helicopter.

Athena’s eyebrows rose in a lean, unimpressed arch. “And you’ll wait?”

In any other situation, Tommy would be inclined to offense, but Athena was clinging to sanity by sheer will. Tommy truly couldn’t say he’d be this calm in her place if his husband was in the belly of a ship subsumed under an entire ocean.

“As long as it takes.”

Athena’s eyebrows didn’t drop.

Hen leaned in and whispered, just on the edge of hearing, “It’s Tommy.”

Athena’s eyebrows lowered and her jaw softened. “You’ll wait.”

“I’ll wait,” he promised, though god only knew what he was promising.

Athena nodded once, and when Hen tugged her to the medevac she didn’t resist. “Bobby’s gonna love this.”

Sure would be nice if any of the 118 clique could be bothered to loop him in on where he fit in their strange dance, but he’d settled for getting everyone off this doomed cruise ship. The Coast Guard copters took off, and Tommy was left to wait.

It didn’t take long; LA hadn’t managed to beat the Midwestern politeness out of Bobby Nash, who abhorred tardiness. No sooner had the sun risen then the stragglers climbed out of the ship. Evan carried the lost kid on his back, skinny arms wrapped around his neck and Evan’s big, gentle hands looped under the kid’s knobby knees. Bobby was leaning on Diaz, and Tommy couldn’t tell if he was injured or if it was sheer exhaustion pulling Bobby down.

“Need a lift?” Tommy shouted.

Evan’s head jerked up, smile breaking like the day, and in his head Tommy heard, on repeat, Hey, it’s you.

--

Setting down on the Coast Guard ship’s helipad was a hell of a lot easier than a cruise ship’s hull, but he was pretty sure there was at least one sigh of relief from the back. Evan, who had taken the seat upfront like it was reserved just for him, said, “Not to backseat pilot, but this was a much smoother landing.”

“I can always leave you on the next sinking ship,” he said, cutting the engine and the rotors.

Evan snorted as they didn’t climb out of the copter so much as fall onto their feet in their haste to get free. Tommy didn’t take offense; he loved flying but even he was happy to get his feet on the ground. For the first time since Howie called, he felt his shoulders unknot and his back muscles unlock. God, he was going to sleep for the next fourteen hours.

They barely cleared the pad before Bobby, exhaustion melting from him like Minnesotan snow, ran down the stairs and onto the deck, his entire focus on Athena, who was running just as fast towards him. They collided, Bobby lifting Athena off her feet. They were smiling so hard that it took two tries for them to kiss properly.

Tommy had a reputation for being a cynical bastard, but he was also a sucker for romance, and he didn’t even try to stop his grin, basking in the relief and joy radiating from Bobby and Athena. It was a sweet reminder than happy endings still happened, even for men like him and Bobby Nash.

Evan’s hand on his shoulder nearly startled him. Gone was Evan’s bright smile, replaced with a quiet solemnity that sent a shiver down his spine.

“I told you that we weren’t going to die,” Evan said, a twitch at the corner of his mouth ruining the gravity of the statement.

Tommy laughed so hard he snorted, and Evan’s surprised delight just made him lean into Evan’s grip.

“I,” he said, once he caught his breath, “will never doubt your crazy lightening math again.”

“It’s just statistics,” Evan said, and squeezed his shoulder under the bright, hot sun of a new day.

ii. Evan, 6 maybe 7

The first time Tommy met Evan went like this: he was six months at Harbor and the constant knot at the base of his skull was slowly unraveling, bit by bit.

“Hey, Kinard,” York called, head hanging over the back of the couch and his feet up on the coffee table. “How’d the date go?”

“Who said I had a date?” Tommy said, downing the last of his coffee before it grew colder. “Put your feet down. Who raised you?”

“Wolves,” Shore said, grinning at the finger York gave her. “And we know you had a date because you wore a shirt that wasn’t black.”

“Or gray,” York helpfully added.

“You must have liked them.” Shore collapsed on the couch, kicking her feet up next to York’s. “The blue brought out your eyes.”

Tommy bit down on the reflexive denial. This wasn’t the 118 and Captain Santiago wasn’t Gerrard; she regularly talked about how her son was dating his way through his entire college campus. His latest boyfriend was from his statistics class but before that he briefly dated a girl from his Gothic Lit seminar.

“He was fine,” Tommy said. The knot unwound a little more. “Not really my type. Too brooding.”

“Add it to the list,” York said. “Kinard likes ’em cheerful.”

Tommy eyed their boots and considered knocking their feet to the floor. Better to let Santiago catch them and assign cleaning duty. “You got a list going?”

“We’ve all worked together long enough that I unfortunately know everyone’s tastes.” York gestured out beyond the lounge towards the hangar and the crew within. “Mitchell likes ’em tall, Wu likes ’em short, and Nancy here likes ’em stacked.”

“I am a connoisseur of men’s tits,” Shore said. “I will not apologize for that.”

Tommy snorted; of the very few things Shore felt compelled to apologize for, sex didn’t make the list.. “And what do you like?” he asked York.

“Me?” York’s grin was lazy. “I’m easy. I like everything.”

“Christ,” Tommy said, on a laugh. “I should introduce you to Howie.”

York eyed him curiously, the same he did every time Tommy doled out another crumb about the 118—Hen’s insane organizational method or Howie’s constant gum snapping or Sal’s habit of keeping all his tools on his left—like York couldn’t figure him out.

“You’re hard to read,” Shore said, slouching down further. “Hence the list.”

“I don’t know if I should be touched or file a HR complaint,” Tommy said.

“Personally, I’d go with the complaint,” Santiago said. York and Shore swung their feet to the floor with guilty speed. “I’m positive there’s something you should be doing.”

“We’re going, Cap,” Shore said, heaving herself upright and then tugging York after her.

Santiago waited until they had gone before saying, “Are they bothering you?”

Tommy again caught his reflexive denial—he’d dealt with far worse hazing—and instead considered the question carefully and seriously. If he wanted his life to be different than he had to be different.

“They’re only giving me a little shit, Cap, and it’s coming from a good place,” he finally said, satisfied with his answer.

“Glad to hear it, although you let me know if that changes.” She bumped her knuckles to his shoulder. “Those radios aren’t going to test themselves.”

Tommy took the hint and headed to the hangar. He wasn’t a probie, not with the all the years under his belt, but he was still new to Harbor and got assigned some of the scut work, albeit not the worst of it.

He finished running through Copter 1701’s frequencies when static scratched across the line, quick and loud enough that he almost missed the pop of displaced air. Tommy shook his head and wriggled his little finger in his left ear. Please let that not be a sign of an ear infection. He got them all the time as a kid, but he’d thought he outgrew them once he hit puberty and shot up two feet in eleven months.

He hopped out, and said, “Hey, Mitchell, are we expecting any incoming—”

There was a kid staring up at the copter used for medevacs, head tipped back and mouth open. He was six, maybe seven. Tommy was shit at estimating small children’s ages; all he could say for certain was that the kid was somewhere in that nebulous zone between toddlerhood and puberty.

A quick glance around didn’t reveal anyone resembling a parent or a guardian. Hell, none of the other crew in the hangar had noticed the kid at all. The kid darted forward to touch the copter’s strut.

“Hey,” Tommy said, and the kid snatched his hand back, expression equal parts guilty and mulish. He adjusted his tone as he closed the distance. “You like helicopters?”

The kid nodded, sending his mop of blond hair bobbing. There was a birthmark stamped along the edge of his left brow, and his chin bore the telltale scrap of asphalt rash and his eyes the telltale redness of a recent crying jag. “They’re cool.”

“They are very cool,” Tommy agreed, hesitating a moment before crouching to put himself closer to the kid’s level. His left knee, which never worked right after Afghanistan, cracked. “This is the one we use when we need to take someone to the hospital if they’re hurt. And that one”—he pointed towards another medium duty copter—“we use for rescues when trucks can’t reach them.”

The kid’s eyes widened further. “Do you know how to fly?”

“I do. Do you want to know which one is my favorite?” At the kid’s furious nod, he pointed to the Bell 206. “It’s small but fast.”

“Cool,” the kid said, and took off towards it, moving far faster than anyone with those short legs should be able to.

Tommy stood with a wince, absently rubbing his knee before catching up in a dozen steps. “Easy there. We don’t want you getting hurt.”

The kid’s shoulders inched up and his lower lip wobbled. “Sorry,” he said in a small voice.

Oh no. No parental figure appeared to save him; Tommy was on his own with a child on the verge of tears.

“Hey, you’re not in trouble.” He crouched again and caught the kid’s gaze. “I’m Tommy. What’s your name?”

“Evan.” The kid blinked his tears away in a practiced move.

“It’s nice to meet you, Evan.” He offered his hand, and Evan took it with narrow eyed suspicion, like he thought Tommy was making fun of him. Tommy solemnly shook his hand, so small in his own. “Did you come here with anyone?”

There wasn’t a school tour scheduled because he hadn’t been drafted to lead it; it was a station wide joke that he talked to kids like they were all retirees, but he remembered being that young and hating how adults spoke over and around him. He wasn’t going to make another kid feel forgotten.

So if it wasn’t a school trip then Evan was probably a firefighter’s son. Shore and York didn’t have kids, Mitchell only had nieces, and they threw Singh a baby shower last month. He was still slowly and carefully learning everyone’s lives, but Evan had to belong to someone.

“My sister,” Evan said, wobble returning. “I can’t find my sister.”

“What does she look like?” The question earned him a blank stare. “What’s her name?”

“Maddie.”

There was no Maddie among the pilots, but there was a Matilda on ground crew for B shift. Maddie could be a nickname. She seemed too old to have a brother this young, but Evan could be a half-brother. Their father wouldn’t be the first to suffer a midlife crisis and get his new girlfriend pregnant.

“We’ll find her,” Tommy said firmly, and pushed himself to his feet—he was going to have to ice his knee when he got off shift—and held out his hand to Evan, who took it after another suspicious stare, leading him from the hangar to the station house.

They barely made it through the door when Wu stuck her head out of the kitchen, and said, eyebrows practically in her hairline, “What do you got there, Kinard?”

“This is Evan,” Tommy said. Evan peeked out from behind him. “Evan, this is Emily. We work together.”

“I think that’s the first time you ever used my first name.” Her wary stare was perfectly matched by Evan. “What’s up with the kid?”

“Evan,” he corrected. “We’re looking for his sister.”

“Maddie,” Evan said helpfully.

Wu’s eyebrows which had inched down, furrowed. “Do we have a Maddie?”

“You would know better than me.”

Evan’s eyes went large and tragic.

“Oh no,” Wu said, physically recoiling, and Tommy made a mental note that she was not the go-to for any calls with children. “Cap has the roster. She’ll know Maddie.”

“Thank you for your help,” he said dryly, and Wu stopped panicking long enough to glare.

“Cap’s in her office,” Wu said, and then made herself scarce, probably worried that Tommy might take leave of his senses and leave Evan in her care.

“C’mon, kid,” he said, turning towards he admin wing. “We got a new lead to follow.”

Evan made a confused face, and Tommy had to accept that a six year old was not the audience for his jokes.

“Are you a fireman?” Evan asked, short legs working overtime to keep up; Tommy guiltily shortened his steps and slowed down.

“I am,” he said.

Evan furrowed his brow, birthmark adorably scrunching up. “But you fly helicopters.”

“You can be a firefighter and still fly helicopters.”

“Huh,” Evan said, like this never occurred to him. He idly scratched his chin, and a scab peeled away. Blood seeped out.

“New plan.” Tommy veered towards the locker room. “Let’s get that taken care of before it turns gangrenous.”

“You’re weird,” Evan said with all the world-weariness of a fifty year old noir detective.

Tommy cracked up, laughing so hard he snorted, and Evan gave a little pleased smiled.

The locker room was empty this far into the shift, and he swung Evan up to sit on the counter.

Evan gave an indignant squawk and kicked his feet, barely missing Tommy’s hip. “Sorry,” Tommy said, leaning out of range. “I’ll ask next time.”

There was that stare again, more confused than wary, like Evan didn’t understand why an adult was apologizing to him. It was terrifyingly familiar, and Tommy ignored the sour clench of his stomach. He was an adult now, not that small, scared kid, and he got to choose who he wanted in his life.

He cleared his throat and dug out the first aid kit from the cabinet. “All right, Evan, let’s get you cleaned up. Don’t want your sister thinking we’re not taking care of you.”

“Okay,” Evan said in that small voice, and offered his small palms.

Christ, the kid was breaking his heart.

Tommy took out the alcohol pads, ripping open a packet with his teeth. “This is going to sting.”

Evan tipped up his chin and firmed his jaw. “I’m ready,” he said, and then winced when Tommy, cradling Evan’s hand in his own, gently drew the pad along the scrape.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, trying to be as quick as possible. “How’d you get these?”

“Fell,” Evan said.

That would explain the cuts on his palms from where he tried to catch himself. Kids got banged up all the time. Tommy had spent damn near his entire adolescent perpetually bruised and bloody, but there was something about the way Evan said it, so matter-of-fact for someone so young, that drove him to ask, “Where are your parents?”

“Work.”

Finished with his left hand, Evan obligingly offered his right palm as Tommy tore open a new packet. “Do you know where they work?”

Evan shrugged. “Maddie takes care of me.”

Palms done, Tommy turned his attention to Evan’s chin. “You know,” he said, as Evan made a small noise and jerked away, “if you’re ever in trouble, you can go to any fireman for help. That’s what we’re here for.”

“Okay,” Evan said with a look that clearly said Tommy was being weird again but Evan was willing to look past that.

Tommy sighed, knowing better than to push, especially when he didn’t have anything to go on but old, tired fears from his own childhood. This was a conversation to have with Maddie and not Evan.

“Done,” he said, resisting the urge to tell Evan he’d been brave only because he didn’t think he could stop from laughing at the sheer offense Evan was sure to take. He rifled through the kit until he unearthed the box of, huh, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles bandaids. Mitchell must have stocked it last; his nieces were going through a phase. “Pick your poison, kid.”

“Donatello,” Evan said promptly. Tommy would have guessed Raphael or Michelangelo, but maybe Evan just liked the color purple. “These look weird.”

Tommy squinted at the bandaids. “I think it’s one of the new shows.” It was a safe guess. It felt like every other year there was a new version of the turtles out. Tommy had been obsessed with the live action movies from the 90s. Had watched the first one so many times he wore out their VHS copy, and his dad refused to buy another one.

Evan made a face but he sat still as Tommy carefully placed a bandaid on each palm and then over his chin. “All patched up,” he said, and gave in to the urge to ruffle the kid’s mop. “Can I lift you down?”

Evan gave the question serious consideration before nodding, arms held up so that Tommy could swing him back to the ground.

“Can we find Maddie now?” Evan asked, a droop to the words. Tommy gave it ten minutes before Evan had an exhausted meltdown.

“We’re back on the case,” he said, and earned himself another look that clearly said Evan thought he was the weirdest person on the planet.

They left the locker room but only made it one hall over when Mitchell popped in from the back and said, “And here I thought Wu was pulling my leg, but you have a kid. Who gave you a kid?” He leaned just enough on you to have Evan glaring up at him. Mitchell was a tall bastard, taller than even him, and so thin that it was a real concern that’d blow away when the Santa Ana winds came through.

“This is Evan,” Tommy said, surprised when Evan reached for his hand. “We’re looking for Maddie.”

“So I heard.” Mitchell hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Matilda is covering for Singh. She’s out checking the tanks.”

Evan’s head swung around, a bloodhound catching the scent, and then he was ripping his small hand free and racing back towards the locker room and the side exit.

“Thanks for that,” Tommy said, and Mitchell held up his hands in apology.

He lightly jogged after Evan, picking up pace as Evan careened around the corner, nearly bouncing off the walls as his sneakers skidded along the freshly mopped floor. The new probie was putting in the extra effort.

“Maddie!” Evan shouted, out of sight.

Tommy rounded the corner, ears popping. No Evan. He ducked into the locker room, but it was empty. The exit door was closed. The hallway was empty.

“Kid?” Tommy called, backtracking the way they came in. “Evan?”

Shore met him at the kitchen, scrapping her hair up and away from her face. “You missing something?”

“You see a kid go through here?” He held out a hand at hip height. “This tall. Blond hair. Birthmark on his left eye.”

“Sorry, no.” She finished tying her hair back. “I was not aware you have a highly specific kid.”

“Not mine.”

“See, now that just raises more questions,” she said just as the bell went off.

It was a medevac, a spinal by the sound of it, and he was the pilot on call. “Can you look for him? I gotta—”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. What’s his name?”

“Evan,” he said already turned towards the hangar. “His sister is Matilda. Maddie. We think.”

“You think? Did you just pick this kid up off the street?”

“Hangar, not street.” Santaigo called for him. “Fuck, I gotta—you got him?”

“I’ll find him,” Shore said, flapping a hand dismissively at him. “Go before Cap writes you up.”

He hauled ass and only received Santiago’s mildly disapproving eyebrow. It was a smooth flight and a smoother rescue—couple overestimated their hiking abilities and had a nasty fall down a steep slope—which was good because the worry dogged him, teeth gnawing at his stomach.

“You find him?” he asked Shore when they finally made it back to Harbor.

“Not me,” she said, glaring at errant hair that was whipped up by the wind. “Mitchell said he thinks he saw the kid get picked up by his sister. Not Matilda, by the way.”

“Thinks he saw or actually saw?” Tommy said.

Shore was unimpressed. “It was on the far side of the lot, but he saw.”

Relief pried the teeth loose. “Okay, that’s good. Evan was getting scared.”

Her head cocked to the side. “So you like kids.”

He jabbed a finger at her chest. “Do not put that on the list.”

“Too late. It’s already on there. You like cheerful men and want kids. You’re secretly a big softie, Kinard.”

It was just Shore giving him affectionate shit, but she wasn’t wrong. He spent too long trying to be the kind of man his father and, later, Gerrard would like and hating himself for it. Maybe he liked that he had a soft spot for lonely kids.

“Like a marshmallow,” he said.

Shore grinned. “Yeah, you can stick around.”

“As long as I have your permission,” he said dryly.

She punched him in the arm, the edge of her knuckles digging in enough to bruise. “Probie just made some coffee. I saved you a cup.”

He followed her inside, and the knot unwound just a little more.

--

iii. Evan, 33

His fourteen hours of sleep was going to have to wait until after Santiago pulled him into her office to rip him a new one.

“Care to explain why I had to learn from Chief Simpson about your little stunt, Kinard?” Santiago asked, mouth a hard line.

Tommy folded his hands behind his back and settled into parade rest, his gaze directed to the left of her ear. Gerrard had loved it when he did that. Got a real power trip out of it.

“Cut that out. I’m not your drill sergeant.”

“Sorry, Cap.” It took conscious effort to relax his muscles and soften the line of his spine. “Old habits.”

“They do die hard.” She leaned back against her desk, careful not to dislodge the multiple, haphazard stacks. She claimed to have an organizational system, but Tommy only saw the mess and it made his palms sweat. “I’m still waiting on that explanation.”

He felt his face settle into careful neutral blankness, another old habit he couldn’t shake. Gerrard had only ingrained it further; Tommy couldn’t afford to show weakness with him, and to Gerrard emotions were the biggest weakness.

“I should have informed you, sir, but we had no proof at the time that The Uno was in distress.” Despite his best effort, his gaze slipped to left of Santiago’s ear. “And even if we did have confirmation, it was outside of LAFD jurisdiction.”

“Well outside,” Santiago agreed, and when he chanced a glance, the corner of her mouth was hooked up, a line of load bearing amusement girding the reprimand. “Unauthorized doesn’t even begin to cover your joyride. If The Uno had not been in distress you would be looking at suspension right now if not outright termination or worse.”

“We got lucky,” he said, that old cockiness bleeding back in.

Santiago’s gaze went sharp, and he forced his expression back to placid stillness.

“You’re such a shit, Kinard.” She pursed her lips, tongue tucked up against her teeth the way it did when she was considering someone. “Explain your thought process to me.”

He hesitated, and hated that he did so. Santiago didn’t set traps for him to fall into. She meant what she said or she wouldn’t have said it.

He exhaled. “I worked with firefighters Han and Wilson for years, and I trust their instincts, especially Wilson. She’s one of our finest.”

“She’s been noticed,” Santiago said, and Tommy felt the faintest prick of pride. There was going to come a day where he got say he knew Hen when.

“Wilson said that something had gone wrong, and I believed her.”

“You should have come to me,” Santiago said.

“I didn’t want to put you in an awkward position.”

She snorted. “Much better for Simpson to think I have no idea what’s happening in my own house.”

He flinched.

Santiago sighed and pushed off the desk. “Damnit, kid, I can’t have your back if you don’t let me in. I’m not Gerrard. I will never toss you to the wolves.”

Tommy swallowed; she never said what she didn’t mean. “I know.”

“Do you?” Santiago didn’t soften—she was not the kind of woman whose kindness came as comfort—but she caught his eye and said, “There are people I would fly into a hurricane for without hesitation.”

“I owe them,” he said, the words small in his mouth.

“We’ve all heard the shit the 118 gets into. I like Nash. He doesn’t have the usual ego.” That meant that Bobby hadn’t been an asshole to her, still a rarity with the upper brass, who remained skeptical of anyone neither white nor a man. “It anyone deserves the benefit of incredible stupidity and doubt, it’s them.”

Tommy considered that, and Santiago patiently waited for him to finish turning it over. That was one of the things he appreciated most about her, her willingness to give him space to carefully think things through.

“You wouldn’t have officially signed off on it,” he finally said.

“Christ, no. You didn’t have a single shred of actionable intel.” She smiled at his unimpressed look. “But given this was a Cat-5 and we’re still cleaning up after the tsunami, I might have assigned some pilots to patrol along the coast so we could act quickly in the event of any flooding.”

“Oh,” he said.

There was that amusement again, and Santiago reached up and gripped his shoulder. “I told you, I got your back, kid.”

“I know, Cap, but old habits—”

“Die hard.” She gave him a shake. “I don’t want to see you for the next three days. Don’t argue with me. You’re out of flight hours and the coming adrenaline crash is going to lay you out. You good to drive?”

“I live close. I’ll be fine.”

“Good. Get out of here.” She lightly shoved him, waiting until he was at the door before adding, “That was a hell of a flight you pulled off. You’re a good pilot.”

“Thank you, sir.” He let slip nineteen year old Tommy’s grin. “The trick is knowing you’re gonna die.”

Santiago barked out a sharp laugh. “Get the fuck out of my station, Kinard.”

Tommy lifted two fingers in a salute because he was still a cocky shit at heart and got the fuck out of her station.

--

Tommy didn’t even bother pulling his truck into the garage, just parked in the driveway and stumbled to the door, avoiding the one rickety porch step he meant to fix but still hadn’t gotten around to yet. He let himself inside, reflexively sticking his left leg out to prevent Whitlam from making a jailbreak. Whitlam yowled his disapproval and immediately tried to scale his shin. Tommy scooped him up before the claws could come out. Whitlam squirmed and wriggled until Tommy gave in and draped him over his shoulders like a furry, drooling shawl.

“I’m not going to feed you,” he warned Whitlam, who only upped his diesel purr until he was half-deaf in his right ear.

He detoured to the kitchen long enough to drink some water and eat a handful of olives straight from the jar because he was too tired to even pour a bowl of cereal, all with Whitlam studiously grooming his ear and the hair at his temple.

“Time for bed, bud,” Tommy muttered, staggering towards the bedroom where he shed his pants and socks, Whitlam amiably rocking with the motion like an old sailor at sea. There was no getting around the shirt, and so he gently removed Whitlam, who registered his complaint by going boneless and pooling from Tommy’s hands onto his pillow.

“I’m not going to fight you on this one,” he said, falling face first onto the bed. He was out before he even pulled up the covers.

His slept the sleep of the exhausted—dark, dreamless, unmoving—and was shocked awake thirteen hours later by Whitlam lodging his complaint about his late breakfast by lying directly on his face.

“I think you might be kind of dumb,” Tommy said once he lifted Whitlam free. “There is no way you’re getting fed faster if you smother me to death.”

Whitlam, resting place reassigned from Tommy’s face to his chest, settled in for a session of purring and drooling as Tommy gently rubbed fingers along the hollows of his skull, paying particular attention to the spots behind his ears and along his jaw.

By the time Whitlam had decided they procrastinated enough, his phone had just about vibrated itself off his bedside table. He fished it free of the usual detritus of life—the odd gas receipt, lip balm, small bottle of sunscreen—and took one look at the notifications piled up on the lockscreen before tossing it onto the bed.

“We need food and coffee before we tackle that.” He scooped Whitlam into the crook of his arm like a particularly hairy and dumb baby. “What do you say to some breakfast?”

Whitlam scrambled free, leaping to the floor and sprinting so fast towards the kitchen than that he drifted around the corners, claws scrabbling along the hardwood floors Tommy had discovered after a truly terrible weekend pulling up the old carpet.

He followed at a more sedate pace, shoving a hand through his hair and idly scratching his stomach. He really should just give in and get an automatic feeder, but he liked the chore of portioning out Whitlam’s food while Whitlam wove between his feet and did his best to trip him. And it was good for Whitlam to get the social interaction when the girl across the street came to feed and play with him during his longer shifts.

“All right, all right,” he muttered, dancing around where Whitlam went up on his back legs to try to claw the bowl out of his hands. “You act like you’ve never been fed once in your entire life.”

Whitlam was too busy shoving his entire face into the bowl to dignify that with a response. Tommy ran a hand along Whitlam’s spine, clicked on the coffee maker, and went to take a shower.

It wasn’t until he was showered, dressed, fed, and on his second cup of coffee that he braved his phone. Every group text he was in had blown up—no one gossiped like a bored firefighter during a q-word shift—including the one with his old army buddies, who had heard it from a friend of a friend in the Coast Guard. Those were easily dealt with by sending a pic of Whitlam, draped over his shoulders in his post-breakfast daze and grooming his ear, as proof of life.

There were several texts from Donato complaining about how she missed all the fun even though she was the one who insisted on visiting her family. Despite years of therapy, he was constantly baffled by people who actually liked and voluntarily spent time with their family outside of nagging obligation.

More surprising than Donato was a text from Lena Bosco, who had a kick like a mule and blushed every time a woman expressed admiration for her arms. Be careful with the 118. They get attached.

Even through text, her withering tone was clear.

118 was my old house before I transferred, he sent.

During the six minutes it took for Bosco to reply, Tommy finished his coffee and successfully diverted Whitlam’s attention from his ear with a few well placed chin scritches.

That explains a lot about you.

“Ouch,” he said, and then, with more feeling, “Ouch.” Whitlam, displeased his chin scritches had stopped, dug his claws in a little more. “You’re about to lose privileges if you keep that up.”

Whitlam purred and kneaded his shoulder.

“I see you’ve called my bluff. Touché.”

Whitlam purred louder. Shore was right; he was a soft touch.

Well, he put it off long enough. Taking a fortifying breath, he opened the thread he had with York and Shore. He didn’t bother scrolling back, not when the latest was from Shore, in all caps with an inadvisable amount of skull emojis: KINARD YOU ASSHOLE.

Hello to you, too, he sent back. I'm fine, if you were wondering.

We weren’t, York replied.

Tommy barely had enough time to read it before his phone rang. He sighed, and said, “I’m not going to apologize.”

“You absolute asshole,” Shore said, an echo to her words. She was in the hangar.

“So Nancy’s upset,” York said, and then made a pained noise when Shore punched him the shoulder.

“Am I on speaker?” Tommy asked.

“It’s just us,” York said, answering the question he hadn’t asked. “We know you’re a wallflower.”

That made him smile for no good reason, even as Shore said, “I cannot believe you didn’t give us a call.”

“It was my old house,” Tommy said instead of it didn’t involve you because that would have ensured Shore physically crawling through the phone to punch his face in. Whitlam grumbled a protest as his resting perch tensed, and Tommy made the conscious effort to relax his shoulders.

“And we’re your current house,” she snapped.

York sighed. “What Nancy means—”

“Oh, I know you’re not about to go putting words in my mouth, Wesley.”

“—is that you don’t have to fly into hurricanes alone.” York paused. “That’s not even a metaphor. Jesus.”

Yeah, that was the effect the 118 had on everyone, even him when he’d been there. Jesus.

“I didn’t want put you in a position where your careers were at risk,” he finally said, careful.

Shore made a deeply offended noise.

“Nancy is taking a lap,” York said after an awkward pause. “While she’s doing that you want to replay that sentence and pinpoint the exact moment you come across as an—hey, Nancy, what is he?”

“An asshole!” Shore shouted in the background; Tommy could perfectly picture the angry cadence of her pacing. She did that a lot in the aftermath of the tsunami, when they were out of flight hours and grounded until they got their federally mandated four hours of rest, too exhausted to fly but too wrung out to sleep.

“Is it the part where I made a decision for you?” he said.

“Ding, ding, ding! Jim, tell him what he’s won!” York’s voice dropped back to his usual register. “We’re big boys and girls. We can decide what to risk our careers for.”

Tommy scrubbed a hand over his face. He’d been out from under Gerrard’s thumb for longer than he’d been under it, but old survival instincts died even harder than old habits. “You’re right. I should have trusted you. I just—” He blew out a breath, frustrated in how to explain it. “I owe them.” It was what he tried to explain to Santiago, what Howie and Hen were to him. What he had been to them: a beaten dog snapping and biting, and then, perhaps, a friend.

“Your survivors club,” Shore said, voice closer, like she snatched the phone out of York’s hand.

“My survivors club,” he agreed.

Five months in, York and Shore had taken him to the nearest ladder bar and asked him if he liked Harbor and poured tequila into him until he had said, drunk but sincere, I love it here. You never had Gerrard.

“Next time,” Shore said firmly, “you call us. We’re your house.”

Tommy’s first instinct was to joke and deflect—Of course I’ll call you next time there’s a hurricane we need to almost kill ourselves flying into—but that was the reflex of a scared kid who had made himself small so his sorry excuse of a father could feel big. Tommy had learned to love that kid no one else had ever bothered to, but he’d grown and he changed and those survival tricks now hurt rather than helped.

He breathed in, and on the exhale said, “You’re my house. Next time, Nancy, I call you.”

“Oh, first name,” York half sang, like they were kids on a playground. “That’s how you know he’s serious.”

“Don’t you have a job you should be doing?” he said, which was when the bell went off, loud even through the shitty phone speaker.

“I swear to god if you jinxed us,” Shore said.

“Send Whitlam pics. We got rights,” said York, and hung up.

Tommy sent over a picture of Whitlam with eyes rolled back in sleep, tongue hanging out and drooling on his shoulder. Two hours later Shore texted, all lower case and lacking any punctuation, asshole i mean u not whitlam he’s perfect, and knew he was forgiven.

--

The thing everyone forgot about big, dramatic rescues was that they always came to an end and you were forced back to regular life and all the chores that waited: laundry and dishes and cleaning Whitlam’s litterbox. He was taking the latter out to the garbage bin when his phone once gain buzzed.

Package successfully delivered, he fished his phone from his pocket. For the first time in over a year, Howie had resurrected their survivors club chat. Hey tommy what are u doing tonight? We owe you a beer.

You owe me more than a beer, he replied, avoiding the bad porch step out of habit.

2 beers?

He snorted, ducking down and scooping up Whitlam when he tried to make a run for it. “You’re very predictable. Ever considered switching up your tactics by trying literally anything else?”

Whitlam bit his chin.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” He released Whitlam to do his customary post-shit laps.

To Howie he texted, You owe me a steak dinner for flying into the hurricane and a weekend in Vegas for landing on a capsized ship.

Why, Mr. Kinard, how forward, Howie responded. But u should know my hand is spoken for.

Before he could respond with an appropriate quote from Pride and Prejudice—the Colin Firth version, of course—Hen texted, Unlike you, we have kids. A beer is all we can afford.

His eyebrows jumped up. Howie, you have a kid?

Her name is Jee-Yun, and she is the light of my life that once didn’t let me sleep for 49 hours.

Who would give you a kid? he sent.

Wouldn’t u like to know, Howie responded with—was that a winky face emoji? Are u in? I’ll even bring Eddie so there’s someone worse at pool than u.

Tommy rolled his eyes. I play a good game.

Howie’s response was a succinct, if insulting, row of laughing-crying emojis, which only served to make him nostalgic for the days before texting when you had to actually call someone to make fun of them. Christ, he was old.

How are you so bad at figuring out angles? Hen said. You have to know math to be a pilot.

I don’t know why you think this is convincing me to go drinking with you, he replied.

U love us, Howie said.

Whatever you need to tell yourself. He hesitated, stomach knotting like he was fourteen again and Michael Giri had just smiled at him in English class. Jesus, Kinard, get it together. So I should expect the entire 118 squad?

It was, he reflected as the chat went silent, more embarrassingly obvious than if he had just outright asked if Evan was going to be there.

It was Hen who broke the silence. Shaw’s. 7p. First round is on Chim.

Only the first round, Howie responded. I’ve got a kid to send to college some day.

We all got kids to send to college, Hen replied.

See you there, he responded.

He got two thumbs up back.

“Well,” he said to Whitlam who had completed his laps and was now snoring in a sunbeam, “I guess I’m going out.”

--

Shaw’s was a popular ladder bar where the staff didn’t blink at two men half undressing to show off their scars. It was far enough from Harbor and his house that it rarely made the drive worth it, and it meant less of a chance to run into Howie and Hen. Not that was particularly likely given they both had kids. He still couldn’t believe Howie had a daughter. Howie had always been good with kids on a call, coaxing out smiles under the most nightmarish of circumstances, but that skillset didn’t always transfer over to children of your own. He should know.

“Yo, Tommy!” Howie called, waving from a corner table.

He crossed to them, avoiding the clumped crowd around the pool tables, catching the chair Hen kicked towards him and eyeing the bottles on the table. “You started without me?”

“You don’t have kids, but trust me when I say you do not take a night out for granted,” Howie said.

“Who said I don’t have a kid?” Tommy said, keeping his expression placid.

“You do not. Wait.” Howie leaned forward, stabbing an accusatory finger at his face. “Please tell me there isn’t a tiny Kinard running around.”

Even Hen, who was always good at clocking his bullshit, furrowed her brow like she couldn’t quite suss him out.

Tommy finally cracked a smile. “I’m the only Kinard around.”

“Thank god,” Howie said, and slid a bottle towards him. “Got you one of your terrible beers.”

“I see you still have the palette of a nineteen year old,” he said dryly, taking a drink. It wasn’t a bad choice. Maybe Howie’s palette was improving.

“I ordered,” Hen said.

Maybe not.

“Where’s Diaz?” Tommy asked.

“Got stuck in traffic after dropping Chris off,” Howie said. “His son.”

Tommy intellectually knew that he was at the age where the majority of his peers were settling down and going about the business of raising the next generation, but it was still shock to look around and seeing most everyone he knew doing exactly that. The Howie he’d known back in their shared 118 days hadn’t been able to keep a girlfriend longer than three months. But then Howie had known a Tommy playing straight from so deep in the closet he had weekly tea date with Mr. Tumnus. But now Howie had a daughter and Tommy had brought his last boyfriend to Harbor’s holiday party. They were so far from who they used to be they might as well be different people on a different planet.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s see ’em.”

Hen and Howie don’t need to be told twice. Hen was faster on the draw, and Tommy’s leaned forward, elbows braced on the table to better see the pictures.

“Jesus, he’s a full on teenager now,” Tommy said. Denny still had at least one more growth spurts before he was done, but already his face was losing its baby softness. Kid was going to have a hell of a jawline when puberty was finished with him.

“I know.” Hen’s express was fond and wistful. “No idea when that happened.”

“I remember when he was small enough to fit in my hand.” It was one of few times Karen had come to the station, Denny in a sling across her chest. Tommy didn’t have strong feelings about babies—unlike Shore, who had responded with a blunt oh, no thank you when offered baby Singh to hold—but he’d been game to take the kid to give Karen and Hen a break; Hen had confessed that she got more sleep during twenty-four hour shifts than she did at home. He’d been surprised at Denny’s tender, dense weight in his arms.

“And I remember how he spit up on Chim,” Hen said with a grin.

“He was a champion spitter upper,” Chim agreed. “Got me right in the face once.”

Tommy swiped to the next photo. Denny grinning with a small girl half hidden behind him.

“Mara.” Hen’s voice dropped, not quite hushed, but gentler.

“Your daughter?” he asked, although it was obvious.

“Our foster daughter, but yes, we want to adopt. Here.” Hen flipped through until she got to one where Mara was smiling, gaze directed somewhere beyond the camera.

“She’s cute.” What Mara was was happy, and Tommy dropped his voice to match Hen’s. “You and Karen are good parents.”

Hen’s gaze was heavy but not unkind, and for a moment the years slipped away and Tommy was back on the 118’s floor and Hen was demanding their respect. She always saw more than any of them.

“Thank you,” she said, answering all the things he hadn’t said.

He bumped his shoulder into hers.

“Okay, we’ve all seen Denny,” Howie said, earning himself a kick to the ankle judging by his wince. “This is Jee-Yun.”

Jee-Yun was soft cheeked and adorable with bright eyes and a wide grin, and Howie adored her. Howie was the kind of father to carefully cut Jee’s food into small pieces and walked stooped over so he could hold her hand and listen to her babble and peer curiously at whatever caught her attention. He was the kind of dad Tommy never got.

“She takes after you,” Tommy said as Howie flipped through the album.

“She gets the smile from her mother,” Howie said. “This is Maddie.”

Maddie was dark haired and dark eyed, and her cheek was pressed to Jee’s little fat one, the two grinning and squinting against the sun, Jee with her mother’s smile.

“Maddie is Buck’s sister,” Hen said, so casual it had to be deliberate. She tipped the bottle back and drank.

Tommy glanced back at the photo. He would never have guessed Evan and Maddie were related if he hadn’t been told. There weren’t many similarities—hair was different, bone structure, too, even the shape of their noses—but the smile, the shape and the brightness, that was the same in all three: Evan and Maddie and Jee.

“Huh,” he said, and relinquished Howie’s phone back to him.

“You started without me?” Diaz asked, pulling out the last chair and snagging a beer for himself.

“I am not wasting my one night out,” Howie said.

Diaz made a face and then said, “Oh, are we doing pictures? This is Chris.”

Tommy bit back a sigh as another phone was shoved in his face. He liked kids, especially his friends’ kids, but there were only so many pictures he could make the appropriate noises over and comment on how cute the kid was before he lost his mind. Last baby shower—that time for Wendell and their partner—he, Wu, and Shore had ended up in the kitchen for a breather before venturing back out for more baby talk.

But he wasn’t a complete asshole, not anymore at least, and so politely made the right noises as Diaz proudly showed off his kid. It wasn’t like he had to fake enthusiasm; Chris was a cute kid; it was easy to see Diaz in the line of Chris’ jaw and the shape of his eyes.

“Oh, I forgot about this one,” Diaz said.

Tommy blinked back in to a photo of Evan and Chris grinning with a boa snake draped over their shoulders.

“They go to the zoo a lot,” Diaz said in answer to Tommy’s raised eyebrows. “Buck’s got an in with the zookeepers.”

He filed that away. “So do you all use Evan for free babysitting?”

Evan, Howie obnoxiously mouthed to Hen.

“It’s not using if he offers,” Diaz said.

Hen shrugged when he looked to her for confirmation.

“Huh,” Tommy said, and finished his beer. “Where is Evan?”

“It’s a Buckley night,” Howie said, that same breezy tone as he when he made the Maurice crack and still just as fake. “Just Buck, Maddie, and Jee. I’d say they’re watching movies, but given Buck and Maddie’s truly tragic lack of film knowledge, they’re probably playing a game.”

“More likely they’re drinking when Jee’s in bed,” Hen said, adding for his benefit, “You sneak in time around the kids when you can.”

“I cannot wait until Jee starts kindergarthen,” Howie said. “Maybe that will finally tire her out to sleep for a full night.”

“You’re gonna cry like a baby when she does go,” Diaz said in the tone of a man speaking from experience. “You’ll miss the days when she was always underfoot.”

Howie made a face. “She pops up like a monster in a horror movie. A cute monster,” he hastened to add.

“Enough kid talk,” Hen declared. “We’re boring our guest of honor.”

Tommy shrugged and took another swing of beer. “I don’t mind.”

“Everyone minds after awhile,” Diaz said, companionably nudging Tommy’s arm.

“Not everyone.” Howie had that grin that meant he thought he was being clever. Tommy braced himself. “Buck loves kids.”

Diaz tipped his bottle towards Howie. “He really does.”

Tommy squinted suspiciously at them and their suspiciously innocent expressions. The whole thing had the vibe of meeting the boyfriend’s family only without the boyfriend.

“Okay,” he said, shifting his feet apart in case he needed to push up and out for a quick exit. Old habits. He forced himself to lean back. “What is this about?”

“Just buying an old friend a beer,” Hen said in a passable imitation of his voice. “Thought you would be a little more grateful.”

He grinned and, following Diaz’s example, tipped his bottle at her.

“That was impressive flying,” Diaz said, tone generous with the compliment. “Where did you learn?”

“Army, actually,” he said, keeping his expression bland in the face of Hen and Howie’s interest. He’d been so careful and militant in never letting anything personal slip in fear of drawing Gerrard’s attention that he never said anything true at all. Even when Gerrard was gone, the habit was too ingrained for him to do more than dole out the occasional crumb. The closest he came to opening up was with Sal, but even then he was still lying, if only by omission. “Did a couple of tours in Afghanistan.”

“No shit,” said Diaz. “Me too. Did two tours over there.”

“Everyone did a tour there, even the kids who hadn’t been born when this started.” He gave Diaz a speculative look.

“How young do you think I am?” Diaz demanded, laughing a little at Tommy’s raised eyebrows. “I have a kid.”

“You were a child bride,” Howie said.

“I was eighteen.” Diaz’s tone was a touch defensive, and Howie held up his hands, palms turned out. Diaz’s attention turned back to him, and Tommy could see him doing the math in his head: the standard contract for an Army pilot, how long he’d known Hen and Howie, his tenure with the LAFD. “When did you get out?”

Now it was Tommy’s turn to do the math. “Close to fifteen years ago. Medical discharge.”

Diaz whistled. “That during the Taliban resurgence?”

Tommy snorted. “When wasn’t there a resurgence? Caught some flak over Kandahar during an evac. Got us out of there, but I caught a round in the side. Hit my spleen and I needed surgery to remove it and stop the internal bleeding, and then the whole thing got infected.” The resulting scar wasn’t pretty, but it appealed to a certain type of guy. Evan was a firefighter; he probably appreciated a good scar.

“Jesus,” Howie said quietly, and Tommy found himself sharing a look with Diaz, grateful to have someone who understood. “So that got you kicked out?”

“Discharged,” he and Diaz corrected at the same time. He hesitated a moment; old habits died hard but they did die. “I probably could have stayed on, but my captain heard a rumor that command was going to open up a Don’t Ask Don’t Tell investigation. I decided to take the discharge and keep my benefits.”

He watched as Hen and Howie did the calculus—his father, DADT, Gerrard—and solved for x. He was an asshole who snapped at every offered hand, and the fact he bit out of fear didn’t make it better.

“I didn’t know it was that bad,” Diaz said. “It was repealed right before I enlisted.”

Tommy finished off his beer; his throat was dry. “Christ, you’re making me feel old.”

“Imagine how we feel,” Howie said lightly. “Hey, child bride, go get the next round.”

Diaz rolled his eyes but made his way to the bar without further complaint.

“You know what’s funny?” he said before Hen could say his name in that fucking awful gentle way of hers. “I did my probie year at the Nine-Nine.”

“I didn’t know that,” Hen said.

“The 118 was down a couple of guys, and I got seconded to fill in. It was supposed to be temporary, but Gerrard liked me.” He kept his tone ironic rather than bitter. “Posting became permanent.”

“And you got stuck there,” Howie said.

“We all got stuck there.” Hen held out her drink. “To us survivors.”

“I’d drink to that,” he said, gamefully tapping his empty bottle to Hen’s and then Howie’s, “but I'm dry.”

Howie tipped his head back. “Hey, child bride, where’s our drinks?”

“This better not be a thing,” Diaz called back, heading their way with a pitcher.

Tommy took in Howie’s smirk. “Sorry, man, but it’s definitely a thing.”

Diaz rolled his eyes, and once he poured them fresh glasses, they toasted properly: to the survivors of the old 118.

[stricklandermewmew]

My apologies. Please take these happy blorbos

[blue-arts-stuff-deactivated2025]

Well I am starving but I guess I can share some unicorn mint with the class..... 🙏sorry for the bad coloring skills but I really wanted to draw some proper BuckTommy for once. Their outfits are based on their first date outfit and I think it would be a niche scenario where both will redo their first date again sometimes.

2 alt for you to use. U can use my art freely for your fic just please remember to put a credit on it. :] have a nice day bucktommy nation!

\[°□●]/

[corporatebanana]

So many good and thrilling options but bt stardew au is so fun so 🍆🍆🍆

HELLO!!! thank you lex!!! here is some stardew au :)

🍆🍆🍆

Ravi holds Tommy's beer hostage at the end of the bar. He eyes Tommy over before he offers, "I have a favour to ask. Your beer'll be on the house if you do it." Raising an eyebrow, Tommy asks, "What's the favour?" "Fix him." Ravi nods to the corner booth, where Evan sits morosely staring at the table littered with empty glasses. Tommy raises a brow. Evan doesn't mope. Evan gets his hands dirty and solves everyone's problems. Maybe, though, he needs some help solving his own problems, Tommy realizes. When's the last time someone's helped Evan, when all he does is take on request after request for the town? Tommy doesn't pile requests on Evan's back; he's used to taking care of himself. He could help, though. As he watches Evan sigh, spinning a glass between his hands, Tommy nods. "Give me another beer for the sad sack?" he asks, and turns to see Ravi's already holding out another glass. "Thanks. Wish me luck?" "Luck." Ravi throws over his shoulder as he moves down the bar to serve Bobby.

[trilliath]

Mountain Pose Ch. 4

WIP - 10k chapter - M - Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard

Additional Tags: Buck goes to yoga, I would also go to yoga if Tommy Kinard was the instructor, Queer Identity Development, Community is complicated

Snippet:

"Hey, Maddie. 'Sup," he says as he slaps the speakerphone on rather than try to manage holding it up to his face as he blinks away the crust of sleep. "Are you sleeping?" she asks him, scoffing. "It's almost noon." He grunts and says, "Obviously I am not asleep, I am talking to my mean judgy sister." She squawks a little as he snickers, then says, "That's me, mean and judgy, calling my lazy whiny little brother just to see how he's doing." "Okay, maybe you're not mean," he says, smiling as he swipes his eyes and then yawns. "What are you up to today?" "Oh, nothing much, doing some cleaning. Laundry, ugh." She groans as there's a clatter and a clang and then some rushing water. She sighs and says a much lighter, "But later I'm gonna go to a yoga class I think." He laughs. "What? I exercise! Sometimes."

Read on Ao3

[apollabarnes]

bucktommy au: mr. and mrs. smith

okay i'm sorry!! i tried to make buck an assassin but he refused. so we're still doing crime but it's just a different type! and it's not really mr and mrs smith because. well. there's flirting before but they find out before they get together.

buck met athena in minnesota. or perhaps it's more accurate to say that athena robbed the art gallery that buck was doing security at, but instead of knocking him out or shooting him, she offered him a job. (because buck was only working security in order to find out how to get through it so he could steal a painting of his own.)

athena's got a crew; bobby, who used to be on the other side until he retired for reasons that never get talked about but that even buck knows about — eddie, their muscle, may and harry, athena's kids and props department (and infrequent medical staff), and ravi, who hacks and does a lot of stuff that buck only half understands at the best of times. they rob and grift their way across the country, aiming for people who have done their own fair share of something bad. it's a very pointed karma.

he and athena take turns at being the grifter, depending on the con, and bobby's always in charge, and buck's… got people he can rely on for the first time since maddie left. the second a job starts, he knows they're all getting out of there just fine.

a few years after buck joins up, they start hearing rumours about another crew who are doing the same sort of thing that they are. bobby starts muttering to himself but buck is happy to let them do their thing — there are more than enough bad guys to go around — right up until this other crew starts going after their targets and getting there first.

bobby, eddie and ravi spend an entire week picking their base apart and looking for bugs. may and harry hit the dark web looking for clues. athena reaches out to her old partner romero. buck seethes and drinks coffee and stares at the hot guy who's started showing up at his gym. he's gotta ask about that routine. maybe if he gets enough practice in, he can back eddie up when he needs to. (buck is a fast runner, but his punches are. eh. there's room for improvement.)

they get their first look at the other crew on a job in chicago and buck — buck has to wonder if tommy kinard knew who he was when he flirted with him outside the gym in portland and asked him out to coffee while he promised to show him a new routine.

buck's offended and turned on in equal measure, and he feels a little bad about the jerking off he does that night. he wakes up the next morning and thinks: good. okay. focus on taking them down.

well. he does do that. but the jerking off doesn't stop.

tommy and the rest of his crew (sal, the mastermind, chim, the hacker, hen, the grifter, tommy — the muscle, obviously — and karen, their thief) start haunting them. bobby knows sal from back in the day, and sal seems to be offended that bobby has switched sides and is determined not to let him get away with anything.

buck takes that as a challenge. he's a good grifter and a great thief, and with the rest of his team to back him up he has a feeling he can get just about anything that exists.

he snatches a painting that karen was two floors away from right before she gets in position. he distracts tommy while athena and eddie are liberating a surveillance program that ravi's going to yeet into space.

he distracts tommy in what buck thinks is a terrible wig, enough foundation to cover his birthmark, a smooth english accent and a smoother whiskey, and once he's got confirmation that athena and eddie are out and no one's the wiser he plants a kiss on the corner of tommy's mouth, slips him a hotel room key, and sashays out of the bar.

he saves the screenshot of tommy walking into the empty room and looking disappointed right before he realizes what happened as tommy's contact photo. not that he actually has tommy's number.

his phone rings when he's halfway through cracking the safe and he thumbs it to his headset. whatever it is must be important if they're calling him instead of using the radio.

the safe swings open as the call connects and buck is staring at an empty safe. no diamonds. "better luck next time, sweetheart," tommy says, voice so smooth buck feels a little drunk with it, and then then buck is listening to the dial tone.

"son of a bitch," buck mutters, his face impassive by the time he turns around. they're probably watching and he refuses to give them the satisfaction.

"i'm gonna punch him in the face the next time we're in the same room," eddie swears, pushing a takeout container down the table after he takes a spring roll for himself.

"he's got a few inches on you," buck says, taking a mushu pork for himself.

"sal? no he doesn't."

ah. buck knows exactly what he wants to do to tommy the next time they're in a room together, and also knows he can't. tommy doesn't like him. and any one of their team members could walk in. but he thinks about it. he thinks about it a lot. it's a bit of a problem.

the only thing that keeps buck from having an inappropriate reaction to seeing tommy in person the next time is that they're both in the middle of fleeing some very angry, very armed bodyguards, and the fear is overriding the urge to get a boner. and the urge to offer to give tommy one.

they skid around the next corner fast enough that none of the guards can see which hallway they ran down, and tommy tugs buck into an empty office. "shh," tommy whispers, pressing buck against the door.

"buck, everything okay?" bobby's voice comes over the intercom and buck taps it twice as an okay, then a rapid three for an sos. "ravi, what's—"

"oh boy," ravi chimes in, the sound of typing in the background. "someone appears to have doubled the guards tonight."

buck grimaces as someone runs through the hallway, tensing up when tommy leans into him. he opens his mouth to ask him to back off, and then there's a big hand over his mouth and tommy's holding a finger to his own, and there's the crackle of a radio outside their door and—

"party crashers," a new voice chimes in, and buck jumps. would jump, if he wasn't wedged between a door and a mountain of a man. as it is, he mostly just twitches. "this is why we rsvp, people. it's embarrassing to have two parties on the same night."

tommy's jaw tightens like he wants to say something.

"they linked into our comms," ravi warns. they can be heard, so be careful. "we've got two friendlies stuck in an office on the fifth floor, and — any ideas how to clear it?"

"normally we'd send t to go bust some faces, but your thief seems to have gotten him caught."

"don't worry, i can bust some faces. starting with yours."

"eddie. take the west stairwell. athena, front door. draw as many guards away as you can without looking like threats."

"ladies, east side."

"ravi can you—"

"already blocking the radios," chim says, and buck thunks his head back against the door. damnit. they're good at pushing buttons. he kind of hates them.

there's no noise of bone against wood because tommy saw what he was doing and slid his hand behind buck's head. so now buck almost gave them away, tommy's hand is still over his mouth, and his other hand is cradling buck's head, and buck wants to crawl into a hole and die because he's blushing. it's better than the alternative but not by much.

"really? the guards?" are the first words out of athena's mouth when she opens the door. tommy keeps buck from stumbling, and he shoves his hands in his pockets.

"doubled the numbers," buck retorts. "maybe like someone told them we were coming?"

there's a damning silence from the other end of the comms but buck catches tommy wincing.

"come on, eddie's holding our exit," athena says, looping an arm through buck's. tommy trails after them, maintaining a prudent distance. buck's not sure if he's afraid one of them is going to hit him or if he's worried they'll try to pick his pockets. (joke's on him, buck already lifted the patent and squirrelled it away while they were waiting for a rescue.)

tommy's waiting outside his hotel room when buck gets back that night, a wry grin on his face. "you picked my pocket."

"i'm very good at what i do. it's already gone," buck adds, in case tommy is thinking about trying to get it back. buck still isn't as good at punching as he'd like, but eddie says his grappling is getting better.

"bit disappointed that i didn't notice," tommy continues. "not every day a cute guy feels me up."

"do you have a concussion? are you trying to get me to say something embarrassing?" buck checks, because what. what does tommy mean, he wishes he'd felt buck stealing something out of his back pocket.

"why? what would me admitting that i find you attractive make you say that you would find embarrassing?" tommy asks, raising an eyebrow. buck doesn't appreciate how quickly he's able to turn that into a — a flirtation. damn it, he's flustered. and he grabbed one single beer at dinner, so his brain to mouth filter is a little looser than it normally would be. especially when confronted by the guy he's been a little obsessed with for the last year.

"how many times i've thought about getting you naked."

"how many times?"

"lost track."

"when was the last time?"

"about twenty minutes ago."

"when's the next time?" tommy asks, the smirk softening into something a little more genuine.

"right now," buck says, pushing his hotel room door open and yanking tommy in by the neck of his t-shirt.

eddie pelts buck with a pillow when he comes in to get him the next morning, and bobby mutters something about a truce while sending a text.

[corporatebanana]

lost for words chapter 1 ☕📖☕

bucktommy - 2.3k - 11k total - explicit -alternate universe, sex worker evan buckley, author tommy kinard, TBI aftermath, speech disorder, self-esteem issues, explicit sexual content, edging, car accident, mentioned tommy kinard/OMC, post sex regret, angst with a happy ending.

Tommy learns firsthand after his crash that traumatic brain injuries can cause neurogenic stuttering. He knows he should be telling the world how grateful he is to have survived a helicopter crash with just his stutter as his only lingering condition, no matter how long it takes for him to get the sentence out. Tell that to the gurgling pit of shame that stops Tommy from even trying to speak, though.

When Tommy's speech therapist mentions practicing more outside of their sessions, Tommy figures the only way to get someone to want to listen to him speak is to hire them. An escort's a perfect solution to his problem, really. It's a bit of a problem that Evan's so hot he has Tommy tongue-tied in a whole new way. He should just ignore all that, though; Tommy didn't hire Evan for sex, so they won't be fucking.

They won't be fucking, right?

you can read chapter 1 of lost for words on ao3 here!

big big thanks to @ambernotember @stuckinthemiddle22 and @wee-fuckin-woo for looking this over for me y'all are the BEST :)

chapters will be posted every second day until all 5 are out, so feel free to wait until the 15th to read the complete fic! :)

[buckbuckleykinard]

3/3 of my We Are Enough fandom zine contributions! I was lucky enough to be asked to do the cover for the nsfw section of the zine. There’s literally know way this doesn’t get marked as mature immediately so I’m putting it under the cut in the hopes that folks will still be able to see it. If that doesn’t work I’ll explore some additional avenues for sharing

Edit: here’s my best attempt at sharing little parts of the full piece without it getting flagged lol

[buckbuckleykinard]

3/3 of my We Are Enough fandom zine contributions! I was lucky enough to be asked to do the cover for the nsfw section of the zine. There’s literally know way this doesn’t get marked as mature immediately so I’m putting it under the cut in the hopes that folks will still be able to see it. If that doesn’t work I’ll explore some additional avenues for sharing

Edit: here’s my best attempt at sharing little parts of the full piece without it getting flagged lol I’ll post the full image on ao3 and post the link here when that is done

Edit 2: ao3 link:

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

[pluralityofaxes]

tie your man down with your red string of faith

[Uncropped on AO3]

[sad-girl-hours23]