Summary: On their way to Nash's first birthday party, Margaret and Phillip's rental car blows a tire. Luckily, an off-duty firefighter shows up to help.
Excerpt:
Phillip's smile tilts oddly, followed by his head. "I-I'm so sorry, this is going to sound strange, but do I know you...?"
"I have one of those faces," the man says, glancing Margaret's way and nodding in acknowledgment of her presence. It's unexpectedly nice. The clerk who rented them the car spoke only to Phillip the entire time.
Then he does a double take worthy of Bob Newhart. "Mrs. Buckley?"
She blinks, then gasps. He's not just familiar. "Oh! You're Ev—um, Buck's friend."
'Friend' isn't the right word. She winces a little the second it leaves her mouth, because you don't kiss your friends the way Evan did this man on Maddie's wedding day. She certainly never has, and Philip better not have.
for the fic title game: “and time just stops ticking”
Oh, you know I'm doing some weird magical bullshit with this one. Now usually I stick Tommy in the torment nexus (if not meant to go in the torment nexus why torment nexus shaped?), but let's give Buck a go around this time.
There is only so much weight Los Angeles can hold (only so many catastrophes and emergencies and death) and when another one occurs, time fractures and Buck fractures along with it.
He is living in Buck Actually and Buck Begins and Buck Bothered and Bewildered and Mother's Boy and he is pulling people (and bodies) out of the rubble. He's living it for the first time and then again ("I'm not supposed to be here," he tells Bonnie. "He's waiting for me."). He is sitting with Mitchell and Tommy is kissing him in the loft kitchen and he is trying to lift the tank off Saleh and he is writhing on the floor and begging it to stop please stop. And then it's always the same: he goes home, alone.
And then there's hands on him and he's being pulled up and out and he's back where he's supposed to be. "What happened?" Chimney asks as Hen shines a light in his eyes. "You went catatonic."
"I'm fine," Buck says, and he is. All of that already happened. He made it out. He's going home, alone.
It's dawn by the time they're relieved, and then it's even later when he leaves the 118 (arguing that he doesn't need to go to the hospital he's fine), and it's nearly noon when Tommy, exhaustion dogging his heels, walks out of Harbor to see Buck leaning against his truck.
"Do you want to come home with me?" Buck asks. "We can talk."
"I'd like that," Tommy said, and he holds out a hand for Buck to take, and they go home.
rc words cant describe how much i love the power ranger au fic so im just gonna give you an image that summarizes my thoughts
Alex, I want you to know the fic was inspired by this cover of the MMPR theme song, which is absolutely going to be my most-listened-to song this year:
Here's a little something from the next bit of even up the score.
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Because he'd been in a desert getting shot at during what would've been his college years, Tommy never had the opportunity to really let his creativity soar by inventing a stupid drinking game. But since he's on the wrong side of 40, he's both making up for lost time and taking the first steps toward a midlife crisis by coming up with one now.
The game is called Did You Honestly Think You Deserved Anything Different? and the rules are: every time Tommy thinks of Evan spitting out I don't have feelings for everyone I sleep with, he takes a drink. There are three empty glasses lined up in front of him and he's just about done with his fourth. He's not sure if that means he's winning.
Smacking his lips, he's just about to flag down Estefania for another glass of Craftsman small batch IPA when someone slides onto the stool next to him.
"Is this a private pity party or can anyone join?"
It's the nature of the beast looking and presenting the way he does, he supposes with an inward sigh, but it never gets any easier explaining to perfectly nice women that they're barking up the wrong tree.
Tommy turns his head to politely turn this newcomer down, then freezes. He'd recognize those eyes anywhere.
"Or is it invitation-only?" Kimberly Hart asks with an impish grin.
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Tagging: @screamlet, @dharmaavocado, @beanarie, @geddyqueer, @setmeatopthepyre, @capitalnineteen, @nosecrinklewrites, @leashybebes, @mugsywrites, @wearethecyclones, @ashesandhalefire, @peppermintquartz, @liminalmemories21, and anyone else who wants to share with the class!
Made-up fic title = heads or tails (alternate title: head or tail 🤪
everything's a road trip fic to me at the moment apparently. OKAY. SO.
buck and tommy, back together, everything's fine, theo's around maybe, idk, on a long school trip or visiting family i dunno man, he's wherever fic writers (or the show, let's be real) send christopher when the grown ups need some time alone.
they realise, hey, wait, we've never actually taken a vacation before, that's weird! they make the initial decision for a road trip over a destination holiday by tossing a coin. and it's fun and silly and they just...roll with it. beach or mountains? toss a coin. ruby's or norm's? toss a coin. turn left or right at the next intersection? toss a coin. who gets to top tonight? toss a coin. stop in this town for the night or keep going? toss a coin.
they're heading back into california, have a couple of days left before they're due home and buck's driving. tommy's fiddling with the coin they've been using this whole trip, an old silver dollar he's had since he was a kid.
"debating dinner?" buck asks.
"heads we swing by reno and get married tomorrow," tommy says. "tails we wait til we're back home."
tommy kinard's age: Or, let Buck bounce on that age gap, kids
So. Let's talk about Tommy Kinard's age. Because every time I see him listed as 40 in a current, modern day fic, I lose my mind a little.
Now, obviously , you can do whatever you what in a fic, and I know WHY people do this - some word of god + LFJ's age, with a side helping of That Other Shipper Fandom Doesn't Get to Call Tommy Old if He's Less Than Ten Years Older Than Buck.
However.
Buck is a grown man who canonically dated and changed his life for a woman who was 42 when he was 26 and does not need to be protected from getting his back blown out and his heart claimed by a hot older man.
So, "Tommy Was Born NO Early than 1980 and Is At least 46 in 2026: A Minor Thesis By Me."
First, we know a couple of things about his age from canon:
We know from "Chimney Begins" that Tommy was not a probie in 2005 when Chim joined. So he'd been there at least a year before that. For the sake of making him as young as possible, we will say that he has ONLY been there a year. We also knew that he "learned to fly" in the army.
So, that means:
He had to have joined the LAFD ~2004.
Had to have completed the necessary requirements for army pilots prior to that. For Army pilots joining prior to October 1, 2020, there was a 6 year service requirement after completing flight school.
To be a pilot, Tommy also had to be either a Commissioned Officer OR a Warrant Officer. Assuming he was not an officer, that means he had to complete all of the following before he could becoming a pilot: Army Basic Training, Warrant Officer Candidate School (WOCS), and Army helicopter flight school.
To make Tommy AS YOUNG AS HUMANLY POSSIBLE IN THIS TIMELINE: We'll also assume he joined the army at 17 with parental permission, which you can do because the USA is stupid and because his father seems like the sort - and also because we are going to make Tommy as YOUNG as he can possibly be in 2026 to prove my point:
Age 17: Graduates High school, Enlists in Army and does Basic Combat Training ~ 2.5 months
Age 17: Warrant Officer Candidate School ~1.5 months
Ages: 17–18 Army helicopter flight school (IERW) ~12 months (Can be up to 18 months, but we are making this the shortest timeline possible)
Ages 18–24: Aviation service obligation 6 years
Age 24: Leaves Army (Here, we give Tommy a LOT of assumptive grace. Getting into the LAFD Academy is hard, but we'll assume his officers wrote nice things or whatever and he got in right away.)
Age 24 :LAFD Academy: 22 weeks
AGe 24: Starts Probie Year
Age 25: "Chimney Begins" - has been with LAFD for at least a year. (in 2005)
SO, if he's 25 in 2005, that would make him born in 1980. In 2026, that that makes him no younger than 46. If he's born in 1980, that means he is 11 years older than Buck's 1991 birth year, which is fun and sexy if you aren't boring (and they are not.)
Notes:
Now, in truth, in a realistic timeline, Tommy would be older still.
He'd spent closer to 18 months in flight school and he probably had to take some time to apply/wait/join the LAFD academy, and maybe his parents weren't dicks and made him wait to 18 before he signed his life away to the military and/or maybe he gradated at the age of 18.
There's also issues with waiting for admission to WOCs and flight school.
And we have no IDEA how long he was in the LAFD before Chim came along
Honestly, 48 is more realistic and he could easily be celebrating his 50th birthday OR BEYOND. IF YOU AREN'T A COWARD.
BUT~ if you want him as young as possible, 46 is the bottom floor of what can be going on here in 2026. He can definitely be older, but he can't be younger and have the timeline make any sense.
In conclusion:
Sources:
(Just sources; don't join the military, kids.)
Army Aviation Special and Incentive Pay Policies to Promote Performance, Manage Talent, and Sustain Retention
Do you want revenge porn fic? Because this is how you get revenge porn fic.
Well hidden is my absolute obsession with Park the Shark. So...
Brendon Park is in LA for a medical conference. Maybe he's speaking on his research about bone grafts or something. It doesn't matter.
118 shows of for a call at the conference centre, and Buck can't help but notice how much one of thr doctors looks like Tommy. It's not him, obviously. The way he speaks and carries himself is too different. This man is... sharper.
Park catches the firefighter watching him and is... curious. He slips the man his card, room number written on the back, and goes back to his room once they're give the all clear.
He's half surprised the firefighter shows up, but it's quickly obvious that this man, Buck, is expecting him to be someone else. He's getting frustrated that he's not getting the responses from Park he expects, and it's putting a damper on things for Park.
"Who is he?" Park asks, sitting back on his heels, erection jutting out.
Buck licks his lips, looking from it to Park. "Who's who?"
"The man you're comparing me to," Park points out, like it's obvious. It is - painfully so.
Swallowing, Buck looks away before he grumbles. "My ex. You look just like him."
It gives Park an idea. "Unlock your phone."
Buck does without question and hands it over. Park opens the camera app, and before he starts recording, he shows Buck. "We're going to give him something to regret, then."
***
Across town, Tommy's woken up by a text message at 3 am. His phone is on do not disturb, but he's yet to remove Evan from the list of people who can bypass it.
Adding the amazing tags from @trilliath in this post:
#oooooof yeah#Park being the kind of ruthless that neither of them are is *muah* chef's kiss#i'm now imagining Tommy just sends a passive aggressive thumb's up back while his heart is shattering into pieces#Buck starts to melt down or get pissed at the apparent rejection and is like - fuck it we're making a whole goddamned sex tape now#Park's inherently a competitive asshole so he's like sure baby whatever you want - I'll make you forget him#He does try his very best - but when Buck ends up maudlin and full of regret after his otherwise very satisfying orgasm#he's not that surprised (or hurt - he knows better than to take it personally)#After - with morbid curiosity more than sympathetic interest tbh - he gets the whole story out of Buck for their pillowtalk#Then while Buck sleeps he sends himself all the pictures and videos because he might as well get something out of this weird night#And on a whim steals Tommy's number out of Buck's phone and decides to send him more pictures and video clips#Because he is ruthless and he's got no skin in this game so why not meddle away#tbh he's a little narcissistically pissed off his doppelganger is fucking dropping the ball so bad letting the love of his life get away#So he starts texting Tommy his critiques too - needling until Tommy finally gets pissed off enough to respond#(because you know he couldn't bear to block the guy when he kept peppering in more photos of Evan)#Tommy defensively tells him his side of things that Park brings up but it sounds weak to both of them#Especially when Park is like 'oh so you're literally just being a fucking coward???'#Maybe Park even starts criticizing Buck a little just to watch Tommy ride immediately and hard to his defense#and solidify his opinion that they deserve each other and are just being idiots about it#Because Park is a smart guy and he's easily putting together pieces of their fractured communication and being like - these MORONS#Texting Tommy like 'yeah sure you dumbass he definitely doesn't still have deep and profound feelings for you'#'He only spent TWO HOURS telling me about you'#'He only spent the night crying himself to sleep on the shoulder of a guy who looks just like you because I didn't kiss him right'#Park doesn't even have to caption the video clip of Buck coming while he cries out Tommy's name - that one speaks for itself#Park is like 'at this point if you DON'T show up here I'm about ready to try and make him fall in love with me instead out of sheer spite'#'and embarrassment for our shared face'#Anyway they've texted through the night and it's almost dawn and Tommy absolutely does show up to bang on the door and get his man#Buck is groggy and baffled but it just means he forgets to hide how heartbrokenly happy he is that Tommy's THERE and WANTS him#Buck stammers through an apology as he yanks his clothes on and Park lets Tommy glare daggers at him as he sweeps Evan away out of his life#Bonus - they send Park homemade porn as a weird thankyou forevermore much to his delight
As he drives home from Evan's loft for what is apparently the last time, Tommy feels like he's driving from the backseat in a body that isn't his. There's a road in front of him but he doesn't know which one, or why he's taking a left at the stop sign or running through an intersection to beat a yellow light. Everything feels so far away. It's like he's on the moon. Maybe he drove off a bridge and just floated upwards. If he rolls the window down, maybe he'll suffocate.
You're in shock, a little voice whispers in the back of his mind.
He's been in shock before, but every time feels like the first time. He's read that some people get used to it, that it makes a home in their bodies, but he's never figured out how. His autonomic nervous system just kicks in and takes over. It's easy to let it.
That's probably why he doesn't register the hulking creature that darts into the road until it's practically splayed over his hood.
The impact knocks him out of the fugue state and, when he slams on the brake, into the steering wheel. Gasping, he looks up and finds himself staring into the familiar dead-eyed stare of something that should no longer exist. It bares its soil-caked teeth at him in a hissing growl, then pushes off the bumper and goes lumbering across the street into Plummer Park.
Every ounce of adrenaline Tommy possesses enters his bloodstream at once, which is also a familiar feeling. Undoing his seatbelt, he wrests control of his body away from his nervous system and chooses between fight or flight.
He kicks open the door and takes off after it.
Thankfully it's late enough that there's hardly anyone in the park, except for a group of screaming kids in the basketball court who try to get their phones up to film as he runs by. He picks up the pace.
His legs are screaming. They're on fire. He can practically feel the lactic acid building up in his muscles, which are splitting open in tiny tears with every step. It's been a long time since he's been forced to sprint like this. Running isn't part of his usual cardio regiment anymore. It was never fun when he wasn't with a group. His team. It's a weak-ass excuse.
In the back of his mind, he hears the memory of a voice cheering, "Go, go, Tommy!"
Sucking in air, he pushes himself impossibly harder.
After what feels like a decade and with the help of a man shouting in Russian and pointing in a specific direction, Tommy finally starts to catch up. By the time he sees it, he also sees Santa Monica Boulevard.
Somehow, he manages to find one last burst of energy and overtakes the thing before it can hit the south parking lot.
Of course, it's anticipating that, and just as he launches himself at its back, it turns on its heel and slams a stone fist right into his gut, sending him careening into the side of a car. It crumples under him and starts blaring its alarm, which is exactly the kind of soundtrack this nightmare was missing.
Grunting, he starts pushing himself to his feet and throws up an arm just in time to block another blow, then sweeps his leg out to knock it off balance. The move buys him enough time to stand, but not enough to put him on the offense. He twists to avoid a stone punch and jumps back, dodging an immediate second. He doesn't manage to avoid a third, catching it right in the eye. The bone cracks and he goes down hard.
Tommy breathes through the pain and rolls the bulk of his body to the side, onto his belly, then slams his palms into the pavement and heaves with all his might. He springs up, then jumps back to put a little distance between them.
Sliding into the old stance is like greeting a long-lost friend. He crouches down and twists his waist ever so slightly, while bringing his arms up, palms out, fingers curled into claws. Powerful, light, and quick. They used to give him such shit for it.
"Look at crouching tiger, hidden dragon over here."
"More like slouching panda, sitting duck."
As funny as the pose is, they never could argue with its results.
When it comes at him again, he's ready.
Tommy loses time when he fights. Always has. It comes so easily to him. The back and forth, the push and pull—he fucking loves it. Muay Thai is fun, but it's nothing compared to this: a no-holds barred, drag-out fight for survival. His blood is singing an aria so high it's got to be shattering windows somewhere.
He has no idea how long they've been trading blows when he finally sees an opening, striking out with one hand to slap down its attempt to hit him and using the other to punch straight through the mud and clay caking its chest. His fingers curl around a cold, solid, pulsing thing, then he jerks his hand out as hard as he can. The heart he's holding gives one last lurch before he crushes it to dust.
With a whimper, the creature collapses to the ground, crumbling into wet soil.
Panting, Tommy stands there for a moment to try and get his bearings, but his eyes start watering. He wishes it was from the pain of what is almost certainly a fractured socket, but everything's hitting him all at once.
He broke up with Evan tonight. Sitting in the loft and watching the future he'd envisioned for them crumble as Evan called him cruel for leading Abby on, it became very clear that Tommy would never be able to tell him the truth about his past. If Evan ever learned that Tommy almost ended the world, that there had been a real chance Evan would never have lived to see the fourth grade because of Tommy, "cruel" is the kindest thing Evan would call him.
Getting that stupid parking spot out front made him think that maybe the universe was trying to throw him a bone. It had been: it allowed him to make a fast getaway.
But to have run into a putty in Los Angeles on this unimaginably awful night is just hilariously shitty luck, even for him.
Tommy blinks a few times to clear the tears from his vision so he can look at the mound of wet dirt and rocks at his feet.
Sometimes it astonishes him that a group of kids managed to take these things down, considering how easy it was to create them. Earth is a terrestrial planet. There's rock and soil and stone and clay everywhere. There was an endless supply for what could've been an army of putties—if one fell, ten more could've risen up in its place. He doesn't know why they only ever fought four or five at a time. Rita never utilized them the way he would've.
Panic starts fluttering in his marrow, but he tries to ignore it. It was only one. He hasn't seen or heard anything about putty sightings until now. It could be a straggler that somehow escaped Angel Grove and managed to make its way down the coast over the course of thirty years. It could be a complete coincidence.
It could be.
He looks around the empty parking lot, searching for a cold, bright gaze and a blinding smile in the shadows. He strains to hear that awful cackle. He closes his eyes and waits to feel the press of talon-like nails into his wrist as a burning-hot hand wraps around it, pulling him into familiar darkness. But all he hears is the sound of traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard.
Opening his eyes, Tommy sniffles a little, then presses the heel of his hand to the edge of his eye socket. He thinks about how gently Evan would touch him there. He flinches, and not just from the pain.
After a while, it's clear that Rita's not coming for him. Sucking in a shuddering breath, he turns around and limps back into the park. With any luck, his truck is still in the middle of the road where he left it.
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For the uninitiated, putties are mass-produced, golem-like foot soldiers under the control of Rita.
For the fic title thing, what popped into my head was "apple far from tree"
My first thought was that this would be a fic about Tommy and his relationship to his parents, specifically his father.
But then my second, better thought was let's make this a Buckley reconciliation fic told from Margaret's pov. 911 did the typical thing of sweeping away the Buck Begins arc with the throwaway line that Buck and his parents are doing some family therapy sessions and therefore everything is fixed now. Now I don't actually want the show to explore this because you know (gestures at all of s9), but I am so interested in what reconciliation would look like for the Buckleys. Even taking the secret dead brother out of the equation, the Buckleys emotionally abandoned both their children, parentified their daughter, and their son has some pretty serious CPTSD. How do you come back from that? Can you come back from that?
So let's set this fic post the Madney episode. Margaret and Philip are back in Pennsylvania and Margret is struggling with Buck dating a man, not because she's being homo- or biphobic, but because she can't remember if Buck ever came out to her and Philip? There is a giant pit where Buck's childhood should be. There were so many times in those handful of sessions where Buck would bring up some incident from his childhood and Margaret didn't recall it. Was this another part of his life Buck shared that she just didn't care enough to pay attention to?
Margaret makes more of an effort to be involved in Buck's life, asking after his job and his friend and his boyfriend, and it's hard going. Buck is wary when he's not outright suspicious. They butt heads, they fall back into old patterns, but she and Philip work hard to see Buck as the man that he has become and not the the boy who they wanted him to be, and Buck in turn is working hard to accept his parents are just people who fucked up real bad but are trying to make amends now.
He breaks up with Tommy and won't tell them why--he won't even tell Maddie why--and he mails her cookies for her when she meets with the student teachers and he sends Philip a batch of brownies so rich that they can only eat one a day. "My father, your grandfather, also loved to bake," she tells them on one of their scheduled calls. "Your father and I are useless in the kitchen, but I have his old recipe book around here somewhere. I'll find if for you."
"I'd like that," Buck says, and then, hesitant, "What was grandpa like?"
And then Maddie is kidnapped, and it's Buck calling her from the hospital once she's been found. He sounds scared and sad and so tired as he reassures them that no they don't need to fly out, Maddie and the baby are fine, her husband is with her, Buck has everything covered, hey Maddie is having a boy!
(Margaret has always privately, and shamefully, thought of Maddie as being easier to deal with than Buck. Maddie doesn't fight with them the way Buck does, doesn't push back as hard as Buck when it comes to their childhood, doesn't demand anything of them. They have a scheduled weekly video call where she and Philip get to talk with Jee, and they go out once a year for either Jee's brithday or Christmas. It occurs to her that Maddie is easier because, unlike Buck, she expects nothing from them. Maddie loves them, but she does so from a polite distance, and Margaret has lost any chance at having a real relationship with her.)
Then Bobby Nash dies, and Buck asks if he can come stay with them. They talk about Daniel and love and the smothering grief and how to keep living anyway (they don't talk about how her and Philip are having marital problems, how most nights one of them sleeps in the spare room, how their shared grief over Daniel might be the only thing keeping them together) They talk about Bobby Nash and how alone Buck feels now. They talk about Tommy. The three Buckleys slowly learn to be their version of a family.
And then something something Buck and Tommy obviously get back together and s9 never happens the end.
AU prompt where Buck said “I love you” and/or “I want to move in with you/together” during the breakup scene
Everything stops for a moment: time, the air, Tommy’s breathing. His hand is still on the door handle and he looks at it, studies it intently. His skin is dry. His cuticles are red where he was picking at his thumb just a minute or two ago.
“What?” he asks, finally, because he can’t think of anything else.
“I said I love you,” Evan says.
Tommy could’ve sworn he’d said something like “are you breaking up with me?” And yet, when he turns around, Evan’s eyes are full of hope instead of the devastating confusion of earlier.
“Listen, I know you’re going to start saying something about not being worth it or—or that I’ll find something better, someone better, or that I—that I don’t know what I want, but Tommy, I do know what I want and I’m sorry if—if it’s seemed like I’m only halfway in this because I’m not, I’m all in, I want to be all in with you and I know you have the self esteem of a—a—I don’t know, something with bad self esteem, sorry, I’m not in the right headspace for a simile right now, I just need you to know—no, I want you to know that I do love you and I can see us having a future and I meant what I said six months ago about wanting to see that future with you.”
“I don’t have bad self esteem,” Tommy says, but it comes out as “I love you too.” He takes his hand off the door handle, scrapes it down his face, and takes a step away from the door. “Are you sure?”
Evan meets him where he is, one hand on Tommy’s shoulder, the other making sure the door is still firmly closed. “I’m sure, Tommy,” he says.
“Okay,” Tommy says. “Let’s figure this out, then.”
As he drives home from Evan's loft for what is apparently the last time, Tommy feels like he's driving from the backseat in a body that isn't his. There's a road in front of him but he doesn't know which one, or why he's taking a left at the stop sign or running through an intersection to beat a yellow light. Everything feels so far away. It's like he's on the moon. Maybe he drove off a bridge and just floated upwards. If he rolls the window down, maybe he'll suffocate.
You're in shock, a little voice whispers in the back of his mind.
He's been in shock before, but every time feels like the first time. He's read that some people get used to it, that it makes a home in their bodies, but he's never figured out how. His autonomic nervous system just kicks in and takes over. It's easy to let it.
That's probably why he doesn't register the hulking creature that darts into the road until it's practically splayed over his hood.
The impact knocks him out of the fugue state and, when he slams on the brake, into the steering wheel. Gasping, he looks up and finds himself staring into the familiar dead-eyed stare of something that should no longer exist. It bares its soil-caked teeth at him in a hissing growl, then pushes off the bumper and goes lumbering across the street into Plummer Park.
Every ounce of adrenaline Tommy possesses enters his bloodstream at once, which is also a familiar feeling. Undoing his seatbelt, he wrests control of his body away from his nervous system and chooses between fight or flight.
He kicks open the door and takes off after it.
Thankfully it's late enough that there's hardly anyone in the park, except for a group of screaming kids in the basketball court who try to get their phones up to film as he runs by. He picks up the pace.
His legs are screaming. They're on fire. He can practically feel the lactic acid building up in his muscles, which are splitting open in tiny tears with every step. It's been a long time since he's been forced to sprint like this. Running isn't part of his usual cardio regiment anymore. It was never fun when he wasn't with a group. His team. It's a weak-ass excuse.
In the back of his mind, he hears the memory of a voice cheering, "Go, go, Tommy!"
Sucking in air, he pushes himself impossibly harder.
After what feels like a decade and with the help of a man shouting in Russian and pointing in a specific direction, Tommy finally starts to catch up. By the time he sees it, he also sees Santa Monica Boulevard.
Somehow, he manages to find one last burst of energy and overtakes the thing before it can hit the south parking lot.
Of course, it's anticipating that, and just as he launches himself at its back, it turns on its heel and slams a stone fist right into his gut, sending him careening into the side of a car. It crumples under him and starts blaring its alarm, which is exactly the kind of soundtrack this nightmare was missing.
Grunting, he starts pushing himself to his feet and throws up an arm just in time to block another blow, then sweeps his leg out to knock it off balance. The move buys him enough time to stand, but not enough to put him on the offense. He twists to avoid a stone punch and jumps back, dodging an immediate second. He doesn't manage to avoid a third, catching it right in the eye. The bone cracks and he goes down hard.
Tommy breathes through the pain and rolls the bulk of his body to the side, onto his belly, then slams his palms into the pavement and heaves with all his might. He springs up, then jumps back to put a little distance between them.
Sliding into the old stance is like greeting a long-lost friend. He crouches down and twists his waist ever so slightly, while bringing his arms up, palms out, fingers curled into claws. Powerful, light, and quick. They used to give him such shit for it.
"Look at crouching tiger, hidden dragon over here."
"More like slouching panda, sitting duck."
As funny as the pose is, they never could argue with its results.
When it comes at him again, he's ready.
Tommy loses time when he fights. Always has. It comes so easily to him. The back and forth, the push and pull—he fucking loves it. Muay Thai is fun, but it's nothing compared to this: a no-holds barred, drag-out fight for survival. His blood is singing an aria so high it's got to be shattering windows somewhere.
He has no idea how long they've been trading blows when he finally sees an opening, striking out with one hand to slap down its attempt to hit him and using the other to punch straight through the mud and clay caking its chest. His fingers curl around a cold, solid, pulsing thing, then he jerks his hand out as hard as he can. The heart he's holding gives one last lurch before he crushes it to dust.
With a whimper, the creature collapses to the ground, crumbling into wet soil.
Panting, Tommy stands there for a moment to try and get his bearings, but his eyes start watering. He wishes it was from the pain of what is almost certainly a fractured socket, but everything's hitting him all at once.
He broke up with Evan tonight. Sitting in the loft and watching the future he'd envisioned for them crumble as Evan called him cruel for leading Abby on, it became very clear that Tommy would never be able to tell him the truth about his past. If Evan ever learned that Tommy almost ended the world, that there had been a real chance Evan would never have lived to see the fourth grade because of Tommy, "cruel" is the kindest thing Evan would call him.
Getting that stupid parking spot out front made him think that maybe the universe was trying to throw him a bone. It had been: it allowed him to make a fast getaway.
But to have run into a putty in Los Angeles on this unimaginably awful night is just hilariously shitty luck, even for him.
Tommy blinks a few times to clear the tears from his vision so he can look at the mound of wet dirt and rocks at his feet.
Sometimes it astonishes him that a group of kids managed to take these things down, considering how easy it was to create them. Earth is a terrestrial planet. There's rock and soil and stone and clay everywhere. There was an endless supply for what could've been an army of putties—if one fell, ten more could've risen up in its place. He doesn't know why they only ever fought four or five at a time. Rita never utilized them the way he would've.
Panic starts fluttering in his marrow, but he tries to ignore it. It was only one. He hasn't seen or heard anything about putty sightings until now. It could be a straggler that somehow escaped Angel Grove and managed to make its way down the coast over the course of thirty years. It could be a complete coincidence.
It could be.
He looks around the empty parking lot, searching for a cold, bright gaze and a blinding smile in the shadows. He strains to hear that awful cackle. He closes his eyes and waits to feel the press of talon-like nails into his wrist as a burning-hot hand wraps around it, pulling him into familiar darkness. But all he hears is the sound of traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard.
Opening his eyes, Tommy sniffles a little, then presses the heel of his hand to the edge of his eye socket. He thinks about how gently Evan would touch him there. He flinches, and not just from the pain.
After a while, it's clear that Rita's not coming for him. Sucking in a shuddering breath, he turns around and limps back into the park. With any luck, his truck is still in the middle of the road where he left it.
+
For the uninitiated, putties are mass-produced, golem-like foot soldiers under the control of Rita.
Do you want revenge porn fic? Because this is how you get revenge porn fic.
Well hidden is my absolute obsession with Park the Shark. So...
Brendon Park is in LA for a medical conference. Maybe he's speaking on his research about bone grafts or something. It doesn't matter.
118 shows of for a call at the conference centre, and Buck can't help but notice how much one of thr doctors looks like Tommy. It's not him, obviously. The way he speaks and carries himself is too different. This man is... sharper.
Park catches the firefighter watching him and is... curious. He slips the man his card, room number written on the back, and goes back to his room once they're give the all clear.
He's half surprised the firefighter shows up, but it's quickly obvious that this man, Buck, is expecting him to be someone else. He's getting frustrated that he's not getting the responses from Park he expects, and it's putting a damper on things for Park.
"Who is he?" Park asks, sitting back on his heels, erection jutting out.
Buck licks his lips, looking from it to Park. "Who's who?"
"The man you're comparing me to," Park points out, like it's obvious. It is - painfully so.
Swallowing, Buck looks away before he grumbles. "My ex. You look just like him."
It gives Park an idea. "Unlock your phone."
Buck does without question and hands it over. Park opens the camera app, and before he starts recording, he shows Buck. "We're going to give him something to regret, then."
***
Across town, Tommy's woken up by a text message at 3 am. His phone is on do not disturb, but he's yet to remove Evan from the list of people who can bypass it.
This is an experiment to see if there really are as few of us as people think.You can also use this to freak out your followers who think you’re 25 or something. Yay!
Goodmorning to the Anthropic Claude AI training scraper that suddenly decided to request 660 thousand pages (exactly the number I had remaining on the starter plan) and brought Pikiwedia down.
Sudden switch from diverse user agents like chrome, safari, messenger preview to Just Claudebot. I'm not even mad though, this is maybe the funniest thing possible, because I've inadvertently poisoned their training data with thousands of fucked up articles with normal urls.
Pikiwedia perseveres, back up with a better robots.txt. I hope Anthropic has a gery vood time with Pikiwedia's data :))
