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Follow me on AO3: space_cadet09 *FUCK ICE & FUCK AI*
///35/(she/her)/Bi (not for marketing purposes)/slut for angst///
\\\18+; under 18 DNI; i don’t do bashing or discourse///
Click Here for Part 1 (June 2024 - End of Summer Hiatus/Start of Season 8)
Click Here for Part 2 (October 2024 - Start of Season 9)
my heated rivalry pseud ao3 account is home_planet_hero_90.
here's a ficlet i wrote for "hold me under" by riley nash
Here's something literally nobody asked for but I will provide anyways. My fic master list (space_cadet09 on AO3).
Details below the cut including Tumblr ficlets and works posted on AO3.
Always taking prompts for rare pairs or buck/tommy! Send 'em to the asks (talk to me baby).
128 works as of 07/09/2026
Labeled to assist: Buck/Tommy, Sal/Tommy, Josh/Eddie, Ravi/May, All Other Canon Couples, Other
Like my work? Check out typicalopposite, writerdot, firewasabeast, bigfootsmom, and do_androids_dream for similar angst work and other authors I love including 30somethingautisticteacher, judymarch15, herrmannhalsteadproduction (Idontgohereeither), nine-one-wanton (nine_one_wanton), and rdng1230 (RiNew1717)!
My sickfic collection
My friends forward (non romance focused) collection
Crash that Helicopter Collection
Edits: Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Tommy Kinard/Evan "Buck" Buckley "Bad Things," Tommy Kinard/Evan "Buck" Buckley "Here Comes Trouble", Maddie Han/Chimney Han, Evan "Buck" Buckley & Bobby Nash (cw: addiction)
Tumblr Ficlets/Not on Ao3:
"The Cold" (BuckTommy haunted horror)
"Accusations" (Chris Diaz & Buck; angst)
"kryptonite" cw: dead animal mention
Bucktommy Prompt Request Roundup
"brotherhood" chim & buck spec fic for 9x14
"bobby knows best"post 9x14 ficlet
911 Season 9 Celebration Roundup
Tommy turned on by Buck 1.0 on the news
"Sanctuary" (Bucktommy; Whump)
Sad Athena Ficlets: "A Piece of Him (I)", "A Piece of Him (II)"
300 Follower Celebration (missing fic scenes): Tiny Heartbeats, Rich Boy Tommy, Double Date Disaster, Slice of Life
"Underdogs" (Eddie/Fr Brian & Buck/Tommy)
"Snapped"
"Tommy does this thing..."
"After the fact" (smut post "Holy Mother of God")
217 follower celebration (all hurt/comfort prompts)
"Special Order" (Tommy Loves Buck's Legs)
200 follower celebration: Madney H/C, Tevan H/C, Tevan Crack, SalEddie Crack, Tevan Fluff
"Bi Visibility Day"
"Buddies"
118 word challenge (thank you 118 followers!)
"Bee Mine"
Art for "Soft Silences & Gentle Mornings"
"Broken Glass"
"Give Me Evan Buckley"
Summary: Buck isn't feeling well and, especially after his bout with cancer, he struggles with worries surrounding being sick. Eddie & Tommy care for him.
A fic in universe of @judymarch15's "Better Together" in the "My Best Friend and a Pilot" universe.
Summary: Eddie finds Tommy and Buck after the Han's hasty hospital wedding, eating cake in the dim light of the hall. He joins Buck while Tommy dozes and they share a moment of quiet friendship.
"Something Blue"
Pairings: May Grant/Ravi Panikkar; Harry Grant & 118 Firehouse Crew; Harry Grant & May Grant
Summary: When Ravi proposes to May, Harry's determined to give May a gift that will be meaningful, so he reaches out to someone at the 118 that has a skill he needs to borrow.
"Stone Over Water"
Pairings: Eddie Diaz & Evan "Buck" Buckley
Summary: Buck has a tough day with Theo and work, and when his cravings to use hit their peak, someone shows up and gives him exactly what he needs.
"Like a Phantom"
Pairings: Eddie Diaz & Jack Abott (The Pitt); Eddie Diaz & 118 Firehouse Crew
Summary: The day starts like any other, but when the 118 is called to the scene of an accident and Eddie is tasked with life-saving treatment, it pulls up memories of the Army. Luckily, a familiar face is on scene, helping him - and the patient - pull through.
"Laugh Lines"
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard
Summary: Tommy wakes in the hospital after an on-the-job incident to Buck at his bedside, soothing him.
"Fine Print"
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard; Sal Deluca/Eddie Diaz
Summary: After a scene with Eddie, Sal closes off and leaves a little unsteady - when Eddie follows, his heart stops when he finds Sal the victim of a car crash.
A fic of a "maybe missing scene" from @nine-one-wanton's "Terms & Conditions" - Chapter 17/18.
"Like Old Times"
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard; Tommy Kinard & Howard "Chimney" Han
Summary: The 217 is the first station on scene of Chim's rebar accident and Tommy is shocked by what he sees. He meets the probie that took his place at the 118 and shares a moment of quiet support with him while he waits for news.
Summary: Christopher has a field trip on the Marine Science Floating Lab off the LA Coast - and Buck and Eddie are chaperoning. It doesn't go according to plan, and when they need assistance, the 217, with Tommy, are called in for support. buddietommy exchange 2026.
"A Slice Every Time"
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley & Sal Deluca
Summary: Buck attends a recovery meeting and feels a little unmoored, but meets Sal Deluca and shares a small celebration with him as they develop a friendship. sal deluca week day 7: free choice.
"When I'm Gone"
Pairings: Past Sal Deluca/Tommy Kinard; Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard
Summary: Sal Deluca is diagnosed with cancer and, in a yearly charity event dedicated in his honor, probie firefighter Buck collides with his past partner, Tommy. Sal Deluca Week, Day 2 Prompt: Traditions; Takes place somewhere in season 1; no abby.
"Bet On It"
Pairings: Sal Deluca/Tommy Kinard; Sal Deluca & 118 Firehouse
Summary: Sal's easy with his affection and the 118 makes a bet on it. When Tommy doesn't get the same reaction from Sal, he confronts him on why he's left out, surprised by the answer he finds. sal deluca week, day 1: firehouse shenanigans & prank wars.
"Safer At Night"
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard
Summary: Buck spirals after the events of "D.I.Y." (Season 9, Episode 14) and it's a slow build towards a crash landing. Tommy's there to pick up the pieces.
"Dreams in the Desert"
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard; Tommy Kinard & Eddie Diaz; Evan "Buck" Buckley & Eddie Diaz
Summary: On the last leg of their road trip, Buck struggles with a nightmare and panic. Eddie calls in reinforcements to help him through. Post season 9, episode 13; alternate universe-buck/tommy never broke up.
"Hey Jealousy"
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard; Tommy Kinard & Eddie Diaz; Evan "Buck" Buckley & Eddie Diaz
Summary: Eddie's been Buck's best friend for some time and, because of that, knows exactly how to get under his skin. Buck's jealousy can only take so much.
or
Five times Eddie is a little shit to Buck and one time Tommy is.
"Broken Little Bird"
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard
Summary: Struggling through pain, Tommy wades in memories of childhood love and abuse, guided by his mother’s voice and grounded by Buck as he fights to survive. Posted initially on tumblr, cross-posted on AO3.
"The Last Stop"
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard
Summary: After the 118 responds to a school bus accident, Buck learns a tiny hero has a hero dad, too. AU-Different First Meeting.
"Fresh Hell"
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard
Summary: Tommy is diagnosed with Lung Cancer and struggles with how this impacts his relationships and his life. When Buck finds out, they find their way back to one another one piece at a time. Posted initially on tumblr, cross-posted on AO3.
"Carry-On Chem"
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard
Summary: When Buck picks up the wrong luggage at baggage claim - with the wrong passport zipped inside - he goes on the hunt to find the owner, and finds love along the way.
Summary: After a horrific crash with the 217, Tommy Kinard decides it’s time to leave mid-air rescues behind and find work that keeps him on solid ground. Through a friend of a friend, he’s connected to a private security firm and takes on a new role as a bodyguard, one he quickly finds unexpected purpose in.
Meanwhile, Evan Buckley is thriving with the 118 until a call gone wrong sparks fears of a stalker. Reluctantly, he’s forced to hire private protection - and ends up with Tommy assigned to his case.
Through danger, violence, and fear, the two men form a bond that soon grows into something far deeper than professional duty.
"Thirty Days"
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard
Summary: After the loss of Bobby and meeting his attic-dweller, Buck decides to bake for Dwayne's AA meeting and winds up running into someone unexpected.
"Behind the Blue Line" [mild crossover with Heated Rivalry]
Summary: An accident leaves a known reality and alternate life with a man in love in both. Stuck between them briefly, what’s real and matters most is revealed.
"Minestrone Soup" [Missing Scene/Inspired by "Nonno Tom's" by @judymarch15]
Pairings: Eddie Diaz/Sal Deluca
Summary: Eddie calls in sick to work and Sal is worried about him, so he makes him minestrone soup and brings it by.
"Busted (Inked Up)" [Collab w/@judymarch15]
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard, Eddie Diaz/Dr. Val Salazar, Evan "Buck" Buckley & Eddie Diaz
Summary: When Edie, Buck & Tommy's daughter, isn't feeling well, Buck asks Eddie to check her over and they find out the girls went behind their backs to go to a tattoo parlor. Eddie and Evie, his and Val's daughter, share a special moment in the wake of Edie's confession.
"Trigger"
Pairings: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard
Summary: On a typical call, Buck runs into someone familiar and is confronted by something he thought he'd moved past - the bombing of the 118 ladder truck.
part 1 here, part 2 here, part 3 here, part 4 here, part 5 here
The call with Shane’s parents ends before he takes his next breath, his hands trembling as he tries to swipe the screen and answer the one coming in.
It says Lily and, for the first time, Shane wishes it didn’t. That they could be loud and together and he didn’t have to hide the fear – tangled and devastating – deep in his chest. That someone could push strength through a palm on the shoulder or draped in a hug.
“Ilya?” he nearly shouts when he finally gets his damn phone to function like it’s supposed to, pulling it up to his ear.
“Shane?”
It’s not him. It’s not Ilya on the other end of the line.
It’s a woman, her voice gentle but intentional. He can hear her muffled shouts even as his phone drops slowly from his ear with the quiet destruction that it isn’t Ilya on the other end.
“H-How…who is this?” Swallowing the knot in his throat takes more effort than he realizes, the thick horror of someone else knowing who he is – what he is to Ilya – tripping on a web of guilt on the way up.
“Svetlana. I am friends with Ilya.” Shane can hear the sharp click of her heels and a soft sniffle.
“Why are you calling me from his phone? Are you with him? Is he okay?” Shane’s pulling up to the airport already, nearly tripping over the curb as he beelines toward the first airline counter he spots. It’s busy – lines pooling and restacking sharply, the succinct and organized chaos only an airport can withstand.
Svetlana says something but he doesn’t catch it, he forces the button down on the side, driving the volume up as he presses the phone against his ear.
“What did you say?” he says with more irritation than he means.
“I found his phone.” The airport starts to tunnel, the sharpness of the herds of people dimming as a buzzing fills Shane’s ears.
Svetlana’s voice cuts through, pulling him back. “I saw your message on Instagram and got worried when he didn’t pick up my call.”
“How did you find him? Or – his phone?” The line ahead of him shuffles forward and Shane bites his lip, holding back a yell he knows the media will exploit if he’s not careful.
Can’t be Canada’s Hockey Darling when you’re calling a sixty-five-year-old woman a dusty–
“I talked to his brother after that,” Shane realizes she’s been talking and he’d started to lose focus again. The anxiety of Ilya still being absent is creeping up his spine, leaving the tension tight behind his ears and through his mouth where his teeth grate sharply together.
“He knew where he was?”
“I’m pretty sure whatever’s going on, it’s his fault,” Svetlana’s end brings a chime and the soft chatter of a busy restaurant – bar maybe? – and he hears her scuffle through a crowd, the clatter of her heavy purse onto a table.
Shane takes a breath, closes his eyes.
He uses everything he’s learned on the ice, pulling every piece of his anxiety, his worry, his fears and shoving them into a box. One tightly held behind practiced mental quiet and the precision of sharp breathing, focused energy, and the effort to pull a mask into place.
He can deal with the fallout later. When Ilya’s safe. With him. Hand in Shane’s, breath steady and clear in the rise and fall of his chest.
Shane takes another breath. Straightens his spine, flexes his hands, and steadies his grip.
“Svetlana, he sounded like he wasn’t doing well and I didn’t hear anyone else. No cars, no fighting, nothing. I don’t think anyone took him, but he couldn’t have gotten far. I’m booking the next flight I can – I’m at the airport right now,” the line moves ahead in broad strokes, a family of five and another of six being called to the counter. “I’ll send the flight details when I have them. You look around, ask businesses, see if anyone saw him – people must know him around there right? I’ll send you my parents’ numbers too, they’re gonna help.”
“Okay,” Svetlana’s already on the move again, shuffling towards what sounds like the bar and asking to talk with someone. “I’ll text.”
When they hang up, Shane’s path lights up, clear steps ahead. He’s a man of action, he likes to have structure, to have a plan. Know what to predict and when, and how he can shape the most critical parts of the puzzle.
The line clears and suddenly he’s next, driving toward the counter with intent. He books the next flight he can, finds out it leaves in about an hour, and heads right for his gate. He knows he should probably eat something or at least drink some water, take a beat and call his parents, figure out the details.
But he can’t think that far ahead yet, not until he’s on the plane. He trudges ahead and winds through security quickly, realizing now he doesn’t have a lot, but he can figure all that out later. He hopes Ilya doesn’t need much – that he can leave and come back to Canada with Shane at least for a few days.
His focus fades for a fraction of a second, but that’s really all it takes, and suddenly an image of Ilya – bloody and broken in the middle of the sidewalk – springs to mind. It flashes, bright and bold and all the wrong colors, his eyes closed, soft puffs of air only leaving small clouds behind in the cold.
When a heavy shoulder digs into his and a muffled, “Sorry, bro” scurries past, Shane’s pulled from his mind and thrown back into the present. He refocuses, makes it to his gate as they’re starting to board, and by the time he clips his seatbelt, he’s somehow staved off a panic attack and the burning urge to puke.
The plane’s hardly full and he has a row to himself, but the emptiness feels like an opportunity for more thoughts to take the seats. To flit through his mind unbidden. So he shifts his focus to something tangible.
While the plane drives toward the runway and heads for the sky, Shane pulls out his computer and a notepad he carries in his bag – one with writes and re-writes of plays, outcomes of how they’ve gone, statistics and reminders he wants to make sure the team concentrates on next.
The C on his shoulder doesn’t stand for nothing, and with that, he reminds himself of who the hell he is.
He’s Shane fucking Hollander.
He might be an ocean away from Ilya, but there’s plenty he can do to lay the groundwork for the next steps now. He forced his body to carry him through the airport, but now that he’s forced to be still, he channels every escaping bit of that energy into his mind.
As soon as he can, he pays for the in-flight wi-fi and works on messages to his parents, Hayden, and Marleau.
It doesn’t take long to hear back from his mom, and together they coordinate a plan for the game he’s missing and the next one or two behind it. She’s got the contact information for his coaches and knows their schedule like the back of her hand, so she takes on the same effort for Ilya as soon as Shane mentions he doesn’t know who Ilya has in his corner.
I’m already working on it, it’ll be easy to duplicate for him, just in case.
The message is a relief, one that comes with a wave of oxygen that lends a steady breath or two. He uses it like the carrot he needs to keep going. Fresh air – a breath without the continuous pinch of his lungs and the stuttering of his rapid heartbeat – waits for him to complete the next task on his to-do list.
They promise to wait for news before going anywhere, but Shane can’t be sure they haven’t booked their own flights to Moscow and plan to, somehow, be at the airport waiting for his arrival.
Hayden sends messages asking if Shane’s okay, if he’s having a breakdown or some kind of sudden psychosis caused by being overworked. Despite fear holding him hostage and the exhaustion of keeping tension tightly held behind his teeth, Shane huffs a laugh at that.
He tells him the same thing he told his parents, really. That he and Ilya are friends, and he got attacked when they were on a call together.
When Hayden doesn’t respond right away, Shane feels that same knot of dread hang heavy in his throat, his breath stuck as he waits for something – any indication of what his best friend is thinking. If Shane ruined his friendship with him because of it.
HAYDEN: Jackie called. Ruby puking and has a fever, sry. K…don’t u h8 him?
SHANE: I don’t. I mean, it’s more for press and stuff.
HAYDEN: K…ur not like…a Bears fan are u?
SHANE: Dude. No, of course not.
HAYDEN: Okay. Then…okay. Is he okay? U said he got attacked?
SHANE: I don’t know. I’m gonna miss the game. I’ll text you when I find out more.
HAYDEN: K. Ur ok if I still hate him, right?
Shane doesn’t respond, not because he’s upset, more that he doesn’t have the energy to keep it up, to joke around about it when Ilya’s still missing. Hayden is a good friend but not always the sharpest knife in the drawer. Reliable but still a jock, despite his best efforts sometimes.
Shane can feel the tremor building in his hands again, the sharp shift of his mind fluttering on the edge of panic, starting to tip into the tunnel of defeat.
So he stills. Closes his eyes. Focuses on the ice. The rhythm of the game, the force of nature he becomes when he’s faced with certain defeat. Men bigger, scarier, more experienced than him nowhere close to batting an eye as they stare him down through a face shield, in a mask.
He’s faced them, he can face this.
He exhales.
Next up is Marleau. Shane’s been working on a way to lay the groundwork of Ilya having some kind of connection with him, some kind of reason they’d be talking to one another. As he was thinking about what Ilya truly means to him, what the fear had been holding back until he admitted he was gay and that he wanted something real with Ilya, the thought came to him.
Maybe they could start a charity together. One that builds on what they know about the sport and passes it on to the next generation. Something they could surround their meetings in, an explanation if they’re seen getting coffee or grabbing something to eat.
It doesn’t have to be something fake, something manufactured. They’re both big names now, have worked hard to become who they are, what they represent to the league.
If they build a brand that shows them working together, they don’t have to keep up this stupid front – this rivals thing – any longer. It would be a release from their youth as angry rookies to mentors, meaningful voices in a sport they both love.
He puts together a vague explanation for Marleau and sends it off, thanking him for talking earlier and letting him know he’ll reach out when they know more about Ilya’s schedule.
Even though he knows Marleau is a friend, Shane’s heart still warms at the request to let him know if Ilya’s okay. That he’s worried about the guy, at least.
He has people.
People that care about him and support him – more than just Shane that can help take care of him if every fear of his comes true. If he has to nurse back together a broken bone, a head injury, time off the ice scheduled in months, not days.
It’s equal parts devastating as it is heartwarming, for Shane when he realizes this. How much he has in his corner – how quickly he knew he could rely on his teammates, his friends, his parents – that he could even call Rose if he needed.
Even with the threat of social anxiety hanging around every interaction dating as far back as he can remember, Shane still has plenty of people to call in a moment of need.
Does Ilya have the same?
If he does, he doesn’t talk about it – doesn’t have articles about his supportive parents watching from the sidelines, beaming with pride at his records. Shane knows there’s an embarrassing amount of photos on his mom’s social media pages of his accomplishments – on and off the ice – and his dad’s eyes shimmer with tears every time someone compliments him on something as small as the way he’s grown out his hair.
Ilya’s still such a big hole in the center of Shane’s life – one he longs to find the pieces of, to complete the puzzle and stare at the beauty of him whole. Every nook and cranny of his being, everything he’s proud of, every memory he has and how they shaped the person he’s become.
The pain he’s endured and how Shane can help mend the pieces back into place. He wants to understand him, to know him.
And now…
Now Ilya might be bleeding out in some back alley in Moscow, just out of arm’s reach but thousands of miles away. Shane can’t do anything more than watch the world fly beneath him slowly, the crawl of getting to him agony in every ticking second it takes.
Maybe if Shane had called sooner, he’d have stopped walking closer to the road – closer to someone that would’ve seen what had happened. If he helped make him feel better before the funeral, made sure he felt like he could make it through the battle of the time he had to face against his family – whatever that looked like – maybe Ilya wouldn’t have felt the need to call so late at night.
Shane doesn’t have a word for the emotion that starts to threaten to drown him, one that grows claws and digs into his knees and climbs, shoving spike after spike of fractured pain through his aching body as it tunnels its way into his ribs.
The breath that’s been simmering, shifting and rocking with the waves of frustration, anger, and fear that have been pummeling him since Ilya stopped talking – it starts to rattle against that sharpness of panic in his chest.
It feels all-encompassing, even in its deadly silence, the threat of worry taking over every last thought until there’s nothing but Ilya circling his mind.
“Sir?” The flight attendant is at his side, her face drawn into concern, her eyes bright with hope. “Are you okay? Is there anything I can get you?”
Shane forces out a smile that feels more like a grimace, steels his voice and answers as steadily as he can. “I’m okay. Thank you.”
She takes another moment before she leaves him, and he swears he can feel her eyes on him for minutes after she’s gone.
Now that he’s planned the next steps, knows what to expect, that everyone else will reach out when they have more information, Shane feels stuck.
Ensnared by the overwhelming grip his anxiety has on him.
Ilya, shivering and bleeding tipped up against a dumpster, nothing but a shirt wrapped around his trembling frame in the dead of Russian winter.
Shane blinks back tears that threaten to pour out, ones that are way too loud, way too big for a plane, where he’s not alone, not really, and he’s flying to Russia to find a man he hasn’t even had the chance to confess his love to.
Love.
The thought smacks him in the face with ferocity. Of course he loves Ilya, how could he not? He’s been growing with him, a piece of his world, a part of his own, since they were just dumb teenagers.
When Ilya could barely speak English and the sour look on his face was one that would follow him his whole career only because he couldn’t understand the ridiculous questions the press would demand of him.
Pushing his palms to his eyes, Shane stifles what tears he can, takes another sharp breath, and another. Tries to get back on track, to refocus on something he can contain himself inside. Guarantee he can make it through the next day in one piece.
Then he can fall apart.
Just one. Fucking. Day.
But the break is gone as quickly as it comes, and with his eyes closed to the world, another image of Ilya flashes through behind his lids. One of Ilya, curled into a ball while a crowd of grown men pummel him with their fists, with their feet. Ilya cries and shrivels into the shadows, the pool of blood beneath him growing with every demanding hit.
A shake of his head, a stuttering breath. Shane hears muttered Russian from pockets around the plane. A murmured whisper, a soft tumble of laughter, a strained irritation. He thinks about Ilya, if the words sound similar, if they’re shaped from the same friction, the same tight anguish.
He can’t re-focus, he just needs–
Ilya, knocking on doors, crawling along a stretch of open road, desperately crying out for someone to help, for someone to stop the bleeding, get him somewhere safe.
Ilya, pale and alone, nearly as blue as the sheets beneath him, stuck in a hospital bed with a ventilator breathing for him. Oxygen hissing as the pump presses air in and out rhythmically. His body unable to work even in the simple task of keeping his heart beating. It’s struggling to peak and valley on the monitor, dipping lower and lower until it flattens out.
Ilya, gray and covered on a metal table in the morgue. Ragged cuts and gashes scraped along his limp and lifeless body. No blood this time, just dark, twisted cavities. Narrow wounds where his life poured out. When he was left alone. Completely, fully alone. And Shane could only listen as he took his last breath.
The last image is overwhelming. Horrifying.
It’s so sudden, so real and sharp, that Shane tugs at his seatbelt with clumsy hands, stumbles toward the bathroom and fumbles with the collapsing door as he shoves it shut.
He barely makes it over the small toilet; one he doesn’t even want to think about being face to face with in an airplane over the middle of the fucking ocean. It rushes out, bile and the dregs of hotel coffee and what he ate for dinner before he got the call.
The thought pummels him again and he spits as more vomit is expelled from his body, the sick rising with the terror, the thoughts swelling with the tide of overwhelming fear.
If he didn’t think he cared about Ilya before, the evidence is abundantly clear now. And it takes another five or ten minutes – he can’t really be sure – before he can muster the energy to leave the bathroom. He’s a little unsteady as he winds back to his seat, and he takes another shuddering breath before asking for ginger ale and water from the same concerned flight attendant that checked on him before. She seems satisfied with him asking for something to drink and he tries to infuse her hope into his veins so it’ll work to inject him with the same confidence.
Popping a couple of Tylenol won’t do much for the nausea that still churns in his gut, the worry cycling through his mind like a battered and scratched C.D. replaying the same shitty song over and over. It’ll help the headache, at least, and he needs a clear head when he lands so he can focus on finding Ilya.
Svetlana hasn’t sent any more messages and Shane scrolls through his email and social media to make sure he hasn’t missed anything from anyone else. It’s silent.
Barely half the flight is done, but the panic hasn’t slowed, and the edge of worry has been officially ramped up to a tenant in the building holding mind hostage. He tries to listen to mindfulness meditation, tries to watch a show, listen to an audiobook, music, anything that will take his mind off the horrifying playlist of Ilya slides running rampant in his mind’s eye.
Contending with the worry is something he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy, and by the time they start their descent, he’s raw and exhausted from the emotional roller coaster he’s just endured. Being trapped in a tin can in the sky didn’t help and his muscles burn as he unravels from his seat and deboards.
He flips his phone back on and navigates his notifications.
His mom has sent an email with specifics detailing how Ilya might get home, what injuries might mean for his season, similar thoughts and links to specific articles related. She also forwarded a message from his coach acknowledging his understanding and that he hopes his family is okay. His mom doesn’t share what she told him, Shane’s just grateful for the relief.
Hayden and Marleau both sent messages that the team sends well-wishes and to text them once he knows more.
And somewhere between the start of their descent and now, Svetlana called him.
Following the pictures on the signs in the airport, Shane starts in a jog toward the exit, running toward where cars and cabs are lined up waiting for their next patron.
The voicemail that starts to play as soon as he shoves the door open is from her, and the only words she says in a shaky, low voice are “We found him. We’re at Moscow Central. I’ll send the address.”
Time breathes with Shane, stopping and starting as he rushes ahead. When he hops in the first cab he sees and says the name of the hospital, they’re off before he even has a chance to buckle his seatbelt.
" don't beat yourself up over this. be kind to yourself, it's not your fault. “ (breddie)
—💜 @nine-one-wanton
Father Brian/Eddie for you @nine-one-wanton.
cw: blood, injury, NDE
Eddie’s fingers drummed anxiously on his steering wheel while he stared at the red light in front of him.
He was late. He was never late.
He’d dropped Brian off at work earlier in the day, keeping Brian’s car at his place so he could change the oil for him. Brian wasn’t even supposed to be working but he’d taken a shift for his co-worker Nance because she had some big date she was excited about. Brian was a sweet and generous man, so of course he did.
The cafe closed at 9 and he’d told Eddie to pick him up at 9:30, since he’d have closing duties to complete. It was nearly 10 now. He hoped Brian was at least waiting inside and not sitting on the curb or something.
Eddie’s stomach twisted with guilt as he parked. He didn’t really have a reason for being late other than he’d just…forgotten. It was his day off and he changed the oil in his truck and Brian’s car, took care of a few other errands, then started watching some stupid show on Netflix. He was starting to doze off on the couch wondering when Brian would get home when he jolted awake with the realization he was supposed to pick him up. He’d sent Brian a few texts, apologizing, letting him know he was on the way, promising to make it up to him.
The street was fairly empty, most of the businesses closed and dark. There was a restaurant a few doors down that stayed open late but otherwise it was pretty deserted. Lucky for Eddie, it meant he’d been able to park close.
Eddie jogged up to the door, an apology already on his lips. The lights were off and the sign on the door was flipped to closed, but he didn’t see Brian anywhere. He tried pushing on the door and it opened easily, completely unlocked.
“Brian?” Eddie called out as he walked in. Maybe Brian was in the breakroom and just forgot to lock up. That wasn’t like him to do, but it also wasn’t like Eddie to be late so maybe it was just one of those days.
Eddie reached over and flipped on a light. The chairs weren’t up on the tables, the floor unswept and unmopped. The skin on the back of Eddie’s neck prickled and then he saw it - a red pool of liquid on the floor, seeping from a source somewhere behind the counter.
For half a second he let himself think it was juice or a smoothie but there was no combination of blended berries that made that color.
“BRI!” Eddie shouted as he raced forward, his muscles flooding with adrenaline that made him feel clumsy. He tripped over his own feet, costing him precious seconds before Brian came into view.
Pale. Too pale. His face and lips nearly the same ghostly color. He lay curled on his side, his shirt so saturated with the fresh blood that kept pouring out of him that it nearly looked black. His limp hands cradled the wound, too useless to apply pressure, but with an instinct to protect himself as much as he could.
“Eddie…” Brian rasped weakly, his eyes barely open. Somehow, a smile spread over his dry lips. “I knew you’d come.”
“I’m here. I’m here,” Eddie said, his hands shaking as his mind spun out of control.
He didn’t know what to do. Years of tending wounds that had been baked into his muscle memory just…gone.
He couldn’t breathe. He sucked in fast, shallow breaths while he reached for his phone and dialed 9-1-1 and put it on speaker before his shaking hands lost their grip and it clattered to the floor.
“9-1-1 what’s your emergency?”
“I’m…I’m at Sweet Blue Cafe downtown and…and it’s my…he’s…..he’s bleeding…please send help.” Eddie said between gasps.
“I’m sending someone to your location now. My name is Linda, can you tell me your name?”
Linda. The familiarity offered the smallest comfort. “It’s…Eddie..Eddie D-Diaz, 118.”
“Eddie,” Linda said, then the line went a little quiet, like she’d put him on mute. “Alright, what can you tell me?”
Eddie stared down at Brian who was looking up at him through hazy eyes.
“I’m here with Brian, my…my…”
“I remember. I met him at Maddie’s,” Linda said warmly. “Is he injured?”
“Yeah and I…I don’t know…he’s bleeding a lot. I think from his stomach?”
“Stabbed,” Brian rasped.
“Oh…oh god he was stabbed,” Eddie said, his voice rising in panic.
“Okay, Eddie, do you see any towels around or anything you can use to press against the wound and help slow the bleeding?”
Eddie blinked away the spots floating through his vision. Fuck. He knew that. There was a stack of towels right there and he grabbed a few, then he eased Brian onto his back and pressed against the wound hard enough that Brian cried out.
“I know…I’m sorry baby.”
“S’ok,” Brian said. He reached out with his hand and Eddie risked taking one hand off the towels to hold Brian’s. It was sticky with blood and colder than it should be.
Eddie squeezed his eyes shut as his chest tightened uncomfortably, the room tilting to the side. “Linda, I…I think I’m…I’m not okay.”
“Panic attack,” Brian said, trying to give Eddie’s hand a squeeze.
“Eddie, have you had a panic attack before?”
Eddie took a harsh, tight breath. “Yeah.”
“Okay I want you to breathe with me, okay? Can you do that and keep pressure on Brian’s wound?”
Patiently, Linda counted him through a box breathing exercise, Brian murmuring along, encouraging.
Eddie caught his breath, hot tears streaming down his face as he looked at Brian.
“I’m supposed to be helping you,” he said weakly. “I’m sorry, Bri. This is all my fault. I should have been here on time. I…”
Brian’s eyes drifted closed for a second and Eddie squeezed his hand insistently. “Stay awake, baby, stay awake.”
“Don't beat yourself up over this,” Brian whispered hoarsely. “Be kind to yourself, it's not your fault.”
Eddie shook his head, leaving his disagreement unvoiced, but sitting heavy in his chest.
“RA unit is about 3 minutes out, Eddie, help is almost there. You’re doing great,” Linda said.
“I love you so much,” Brian said weakly, his eyes dull as he stared up at Eddie. “You’re the best thing that’s ever…”
“I love you too,” Eddie said quickly, tears pouring down his cheeks, soaking his neck and the collar of his shirt. “I love you too and you have to stay with me, okay? We have so many things left to do.”
“Tell Chris I…love him too okay?” Brian said, a tear escaping the outer corner of his eye.
“Bri…no…”
“Not your fault,” Brian said as his eyes fell closed, head falling limply to the side.
“BRIAN!” Eddie screamed.
Suddenly he was surrounded by people in uniform, quick exchanges of words between each other as they assessed Brian. Someone pulled Eddie away with firm arms.
“Give them room to work,” Captain Mehta said.
Everything blurred as Eddie struggled to breathe again, watching in horror as they loaded Brian onto the gurney, visions of Shannon flashing through his mind.
“Come on, son, you can ride with him,” Mehta said. He put Eddie’s phone into his hand, then guided him out to the ambulance where they were loading Brian in.
Eddie flashed again to another ambulance on another day. “Is he…?”
“He’s lost a lot of blood, they’re waiting for him over at First Pres. He’ll be in good hands.”
Then they arrived, Brian was rushed into surgery quickly and Eddie stood, unsure of what to do. Captain Mehta led him to a chair and sat him down, gave him something to drink.
“I called your captain. He’s on the way,” Mehta said gently, squeezing Eddie’s shoulder.
Sometime later the weight of Mehta’s hand on his shoulder was replaced by Buck’s, Hen on the other side, Chim kneeling in front of him. Eddie put his face in his hands and broke down now that he was safe to do so, and several pairs of arms wrapped around him.
It was hours of waiting before Eddie could see Brian.
Buck went to Eddie’s house. He woke up Chris and took him to Pepa’s, then came back with clothes for both him and Brian, phone chargers, everything he needed. Hen pushed a sandwich into Eddie’s hands. Chim tried to keep the mood as light as it could be until Eddie was allowed to go back.
The surgery had been successful, internal bleeding stopped, injuries cleaned and stitched. Eddie couldn’t find it in him to offer thanks to a God that would let any of this happen in the first place, but he was relieved to say the least.
Eddie planted himself in the chair by Brian’s bedside, memorizing the now-healthy color of his cheeks and the pink of his lips, watching the rise and fall of every breath.
After some time, Brian stirred and Eddie gripped his hand.
“Hey,” Eddie said gently. “I’m here. You’re okay.”
Brian’s brow furrowed as he came out of his sleep, eyes heavy, sluggish from the drugs.
“Eddie…” he whispered.
“Yeah, I’m here,” Eddie brought his hand up mouth and kissed his knuckles. “Are you in any pain?”
“No,” Brian said, then finally opened his eyes. He looked at Eddie and gave him a tired smile. “Hi handsome.”
“Hi,” Eddie said, brushing his fingertips over Brian’s cheek.
It was a while before Brian was fully awake and upright. A nurse came and checked on him, gave him some juice to drink if he was feeling up for it. She also let him know a detective had come by and left his card.
He thanked her, polite and sweet as always.
When she was gone, Brian took a tentative sip of cranberry juice while Eddie watched.
“What happened, Bri?” Eddie asked, holding Brian’s free hand. He’d been dying to know, agonizing over what happened, needing to know if getting there on time would have made the difference.
Brian paused, giving himself the time to take another drink of cranberry juice before he set aside and spoke. “A man came up to the door right after I’d locked it. He looked really desperate and said his pregnant wife was craving the mango pineapple smoothie. So I unlocked the door and let him in. Next thing I know he’s holding up a knife and telling me to empty the register.”
“Jesus,” Eddie muttered under his breath.
“I told him I could but I…I don’t know I felt like giving him a chance, you know? So I told him he could have all the money in my wallet instead. It wasn’t nearly as much but I told him he could just have it, a gift, instead of committing a crime.”
Eddie sighed, because of course Brian tried to do the kindest thing he could think of.
“He um, he came closer and said I was moving too slow and that if I was working at a place like that I wouldn’t have the money he needed anyway,” Brian said, then swallowed hard, clearly affected by the memory. “I moved out of the way but he just…he was angry or something and then he…”
“Okay,” Eddie said gently, stopping him from having to tell the rest. “That’s okay. I’m sorry.”
“I knew you’d be coming, though,” Brian said with tears in his eyes, looking down at where Eddie held his hand. “And I knew you’d save me but…I was so afraid that maybe you couldn’t and it was too late and I just…” Brian brushed a few tears off his own cheeks. “I didn’t want you to have to go through it all again.”
Eddie shushed him gently, brushing Brian’s tears away while his own filled his eyes. “You’re okay and so am I.”
“Are you?” Brian asked candidly.
Eddie shook his head. “Bri, I don’t know. I…I choked. I panicked. I never do that.”
“I imagine it’s hard when it’s someone you care about.”
Eddie nodded with a heavy sigh. “And if I had just picked you up on time-”
“What?” Brian challenged. “You could have been hurt too. You would have tried to fight him and it could have been so much worse. I thank God that you weren’t there when it happened. You came at the right time.”
Eddie shook his head, wiping a few of his own tears away. He didn’t see it that way, but he still admired Brian’s faith, even when he disagreed with it. “I’m sorry, Brian. I’m sorry I wasn’t there and I’m sorry I panicked.”
Brian shook his head. “I won’t accept your apology, Eddie. It’s not needed.”
Eddie dropped his head, pressed his forehead against Brian’s hand, and started to cry.
“Come here,” Brian said gently. “Let me hold you.”
“Y-your stomach-”
“But my chest is fine,” Brian said, holding his arms out to Eddie.
Eddie moved to sit on the edge of the bed, then folded forward into Brian’s arms. Brian held him against his chest, as much of his weight as Eddie was willing to give, and Brian rubbed his back and stroked his hair, then kissed his forehead.
“I love you, Eddie Diaz. I thank God for you every day.”
Eddie let out a shuddering breath, then sat up enough to look into Brian’s eyes. “I love you too,” Eddie said, then gave him one kiss and then another.
Eddie lay his head on Brian’s chest again and listened to his heartbeat while Brian gently stroked Eddie’s hair. Eventually his hand stilled and Brian’s breaths evened out with sleep.
The guilt wasn’t gone. It never would be. Eddie didn’t know if he’d ever learn to let go of any of the guilt he carried. But Brian made everything feel lighter and bearable. He made Eddie’s life feel like it was worth living. He couldn’t bring himself to thank God for it, but he was endlessly grateful to still have Brian in his life.
Some emotional hurt/comfort EVal just for you my dear @sunnywithachanceofbi
“I just need a hug” with Eddie and Val Salazar
Eddie stared with unfocused eyes at the paperwork spread over his kitchen table. The sound of fingers flying over a keyboard and the click of a mouse turned into white noise.
Chris needed another surgery.
He’d always known it would be a possibility, even after all the surgeries he had when he was young. He would grow, tendons and muscles and bones would change and impact his ability to move. He knew it would have to happen. And now it was.
They were going to go in and correct several issues in one surgery. There would be recovery time and months of physical therapy.
Chris had taken it all in stride. It was just his reality. Eddie had offered to order pizza and do a guy’s night just the two of them, but Chris already had plans with a friend.
Chris was tough. He was resilient.
Eddie wished he didn’t have to be.
“I think Dr. Thompson would be best for this. He doesn’t usually operate on pediatric patients but he’s the best orthopedic surgeon in Los Angeles,” Val said from beside him, staring at Eddie’s laptop behind a pair of oversized glasses.
Val had come over after work and launched right into problem solving mode. Eddie told her exactly what they’d been told at Chris’s appointment and let her read all the printed paperwork they’d been given.
Eddie felt tired, fuzzy, and just sort of numb. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, his stomach twisted into a tight knot that wouldn’t budge.
"I'll talk to him,” Val concluded, clicking around some more. “Now let’s look at some outpatient facilities. I hear Belmont is the best-“
Eddie let out a heavy sigh. “Can we take a break?”
“Definitely none of the Chase facilities they’re terrible,” Val continued as if she hadn’t heard him.
“Valerie!” Eddie snapped.
It did the trick and pulled her attention. She looked at him and it felt like the first time she’d really noticed him since she got there. Irritation prickled the back of his neck.
Val tipped her glasses back so they sat on top of her head in front of the messy bun she’d thrown her hair into.
“What, Edmundo?” she responded, giving him a challenging look.
“I said I need a break,” Eddie repeated, frustrated.
“Then take a break,” she said, slipping her glasses back into place before she reached for the laptop again.
Eddie closed the laptop lid before she had a chance. “We both need a break.”
Val took her glasses off again and tossed them onto the table. “I’m just trying to help.”
“I get that. I do,” Eddie said, pushing up from the table, ignoring the lightheadedness the movement brought on. “But you’ve been in problem solving mode since the second you walked in here and I just need…”
“Need what?”
“I need you, not Dr. Salazar, head of Cardiology.” Eddie folded his arms around himself to keep from trembling too much. “I’m scared for my son. I hate that he has to go through this. I feel completely…powerless…to protect him.”
Val’s expression shifted to something softer, apologetic. She approached him slowly and put her hands on his upper arms, her warm fingers curving around the backs of his arms.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes locked on his. “I jumped right in and I thought I was helping.”
“I know, and I appreciate it. It’s just not what I need right now.”
“What do you need?” she asked with a slight tilt to her head.
“I just…” Eddie’s voice wavered, his throat going tight. “I just need a hug.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Val said, drawing him into her arms. She kept one arm around his back, her other hand on the back of his neck, firm and grounding.
Eddie let himself sink into her, let her be the one to keep him upright while he broke down. He pressed his face into her shoulder and cried while she rubbed his back and stroked his hair to soothe him.
“I’m scared for him,” Eddie admitted shakily. “If anything happens to him I…I can’t lose him.”
“You won’t,” Val stated with such firm confidence he felt like he had no other choice but to believe her.
“Okay,” Eddie said weakly, then stood upright and wiped his eyes with a shaking hand.
“When did you eat last?” she asked, brushing her fingers over his damp cheeks.
“Breakfast,” Eddie admitted.
Val gave him a chiding look. “Sit back down. I’ll make you something.”
Eddie started to move and do as she said, but she kept a hold on him and gave him a kiss. Then she let him go.
Eddie collapsed back into his chair. While Val moved around the kitchen, as familiar to her now as her own, Eddie stacked up the papers and set them aside. He could do that much.
Val set a glass of water in front of Eddie with a silent instruction to drink, then squeezed his shoulder and got back to it.
“You need groceries,” she called out to him while she rummaged around in the fridge.
“I know,” Eddie said. He took a drink and felt the cool water slide down his throat and land in his empty stomach.
“We can go tomorrow,” Val said, unbothered.
Eddie sat for the next few minutes and closed his eyes, listening to the comforting sound of Val moving around his kitchen. Soon she emerged with two plates. She set one in front of Eddie and kept one for herself.
A peanut butter and jelly sandwich next to a sliced apple practically smiled up at him from the plate. It was the kind of meal you could tell was made with love.
They ate in comfortable silence. As soon as Eddie had a bite, the hunger hit full force and he inhaled the food. His body settled, the exhaustion deepening as he started to relax.
Val brushed her fingers through his hair and he closed his eyes.
“Why don’t you go take a hot shower,” she said gently. “I’ll clean up out here then I can join you in bed?”
That was a really good idea. And a relief to have someone else just make that decision for him.
Eddie went back to the bathroom and stripped out of his clothes. The hot water felt good, soap and shampoo washing away the stress of the day. When he was done, he found a pair of sleep shorts and shirt folded on the counter for him. He hasn’t even heard Val come in but he appreciated it.
When he got back to the bedroom, Val was in bed, wearing one of Eddie’s tee shirts she liked to sleep in. Her glasses were on again and she was scrolling on her phone with a look of concentration, brow adorably furrowed.
“Researching again?” Eddie asked as he lifted the covers and slid into bed beside her.
“Sorry, I can’t help it,” she said sheepishly, then set her phone aside.
“No, I appreciate it,” Eddie said, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “It’s just overwhelming right now.”
“I understand."
She watched him tentatively, like she was trying to decide what he needed next. She wasn’t one to hesitate. She faced things head on and moved through everything with confidence Eddie both envied and admired.
In an emergency, they made an incredible team but this was something new. They hadn’t faced something big like this with enough time to do more than react.
The air buzzed with the strangeness of the situation and Val chewed her lower lip.
“You want to keep researching, don’t you,” Eddie said gently.
“It’s what I do. And it’s what I have the power to do right now. If I can make this easier for you and if I can get Chris the absolute best care, that’s what I’m going to do. I want to fully digest the next steps, read the latest research…It’s not my field but I want to do everything I can.”
Tears filled Eddie’s eyes again and he smiled at her. “I love you, Val.”
Her expression softened and she smiled back at him, pressing her warm palm against his cheek. “And what about Dr. Salazar?”
“I love her too,” Eddie said, then leaned in and gave her a kiss. “And her big beautiful brain and generous heart,” he said, then kissed her again.
Val rolled her eyes, like she always did when things got too sentimental, but her cheeks turned a pleased shade of pink.
“I love you too, Eddie. And I love Christopher. And we’re going to get through this, okay? I will bully every medical professional in the state if I have to.”
“Oh, I know you will,” Eddie said fondly.
Val stroked her thumb against his cheekbone and Eddie closed his eyes to it.
“Why don’t you get some sleep,” Val said. “Do you mind if I stay up a while and do some more research?”
Eddie nodded. He shifted around and she guided his head into her lap. She turned off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness disrupted only by her phone screen.
Val ran her fingers through Eddie’s hair, her short nails scratching pleasantly against his scalp. “Good night,” she whispered.
Eddie mumbled his goodnight, already giving in to the strong pull of sleep. He let himself give into it with the knowledge that he wasn’t going to face this alone and that he and his son would be held in capable, loving hands.
bucktommy; this is loose with timelines, reality, etc. so just enjoy the ride! it's all love, no hurt today, friends.
[wc: 3890; below or on ao3]
Buck hasn’t been a probie for a while, Eddie coming in and replacing him as the greenest and most inexperienced member – outside of all his Army stuff, Buck guesses – since he started at the 118.
He’d come in on the heels of another firefighter that transferred out, something about wanting to get back to doing something he did before. For what it’s worth, Buck’s grateful to the guy but can’t imagine leaving the station behind. Not after he and the rest of the team went through Chim’s accident last year, Bobby’s relapse, and all the bullshit with his sister and the guy she calls a husband.
Or used to, anyway.
Now, every time he hops into the engine, sirens blaring over his head as he navigates the streets of Los Angeles, it runs a little more smoothly. Buck knows he doesn’t have much for second chances – well third or fourth, but who’s counting – and he desperately loves this job, so he sticks to what he knows best.
Heaving equipment and hauling ass, using muscle and his voice and the adrenaline he finds like a heat-seeking missile, it’s starting to become a second skin. Muscle memory, natural – it’s not just the physical push the job gives him every day, it’s the community too.
Buck’s family, if he can really call them that, weren’t always the most reliable. Using the cold shoulder and avoidance as practicing elitists, his parents didn’t spread joy and love to his family quite the same way they did in their classrooms. And Buck’s always felt like he missed out on something because of it.
So now, when he rolls into a call with the team at his side, he offers what he never got.
Compassion, patience, care, attention.
That paired with his standard badassery makes the job perfect for Buck and he doesn’t want that to change any time soon.
The problem with that – all the caring and empathy and soft-spoken support – is that it burns a little brighter every time a call doesn’t go the way it should. Each life lost, each tear shed, it digs deeper and carries an ache he hasn’t quite mastered the art of softening yet.
Maybe someday he’ll get better at it.
But today – during this call – he’s not any better than anyone else.
Thomas had been fine.
He’d been talking to Buck, wrapped in a blanket and broken-hearted at the loss of the love of his life, but his breathing was stable, he was carrying conversation normally. Nothing was out of place.
Until it was.
Until Thomas was bent over Mitchell, hands wrapped over where his heart used to beat, his own stopping right along with it.
Buck had stepped away, just for a moment – a brief fraction of time that was just the two of them, the only time Thomas had left – and he was distracted. He knew he was, glancing through photographs that pulled a raw sort of pain deep in Buck’s bones, hollowed out his chest and left it cold and empty.
They had a whole life together. Time shared in smiles and sadness, eyes locked on each other or the camera with the city, their home, their friends surrounding them.
Buck was the last person to talk to Thomas, and he can’t even remember what he’d said, just that he loved Mitchell dearly. And that they worked hard to get where they were – together.
He hopes a love like that finds him and lasts him a lifetime.
*
Tommy was born into a broken home – one without a mother and with an empty shell of a man where his father should be. His mom died in childbirth; a hemorrhage they caught too late that left her cold and limp on an operating room table.
Not for nothing he can tell his dad tried to give a shit about him, but by the time he was old enough to realize the resentment he held was the blame for Tommy’s mother being gone, he’s not so sure he can find much fault.
Usually, he’ll end the night with a passing thought it would’ve just been better for his mom to survive and for him to be gone, at least then he wouldn’t have to endure the sorrow-filled looks and anger-boiled tears that hide behind a tight-lipped face he barely knows. Every day he starts to look more like the man, but feels distance grow just as often.
Leaving for the military at the ripe age of 17 didn’t help boost his ego much, and the camaraderie of the army vanished once the bullets started raining and a member of his battalion was lost in the field.
It took a downed chopper and a broken femur for Tommy’s tour to end and after that, and every time he thought about getting in the air again he had a panic attack. He thought, with some heartache, that life would be best to leave behind.
The fire academy was both familiar and novel as he was pulled into the shuffle with the rest of the newbies. Old patterns of following orders, getting in line, structure and organization came easily to Tommy. Clockwork, routine, a costume he wore like his blood latched onto it.
The difference, though, was that they were on the opposing team. Saving, not destroying. Helping, not hurting.
When he graduated and got assigned to the 118, Tommy thought he could finally become something his father would be proud of, something he could wear like a badge of honor that didn’t come with the thrash of flashbacks and fears of fireworks.
Instead, he got Vincent Gerrard and the Good Ol’ Boys Club, familiar in a different kind of way. Bullying came easy after time spent with them, blending in so he didn’t stick out, trying to get along to get by.
Time trudged ahead and Tommy endured the daily grind, found pockets of light in the darkness, spoke up when he finally found the cajónes to do it right this time.
Hen and Howie saved him, and through their friendship he re-found himself. The parts of himself that he wanted to keep, at least.
Compassion. Empathy. A desperate, urgent need to help.
And longing to take to the sky again.
After time under Bobby’s command and the tutelage of people much smarter than him, Tommy took the leap. Re-certified and found a home at Harbor Station. One where he could be himself, where he could push against every effort his father, his commanding officer, his shitty old captains tried to use to keep him down.
He came out, built hobbies, made friends even when it was hard.
But there was still something missing. A piece that didn’t feel like it quite fit, an emptiness he usually chalked up to the loss of his mother.
Until today.
Something shifts when he walks into Harbor, the breeze in the morning sky floating through the hangar and dusting the back of his neck. Like fingertips tracing his hairline, teasing at his spine and into his ribs. It’s warm, comforting – a handmade quilt just freed from the dryer – and he closes his eyes briefly to take it in.
He’s not one for religion, doesn’t much believe in God, but the feeling is so all-consuming, so incredibly tender, that he feels the burn of tears pressing against his closed eyes, whispers a hello to his mom, and soaks in the heat.
When the feeling simmers, slowing to a current coasting along a river rather than the rapids of sun-soaked force, he blinks his eyes open. The world’s the same but altogether different. Pockets of color light up his gaze, things he’d never noticed before fresh in the bloom of newly lit senses.
“Yo, Kinard, you good?”
Tommy looks back, startled at the voice, and nods, lips tingling. It’s not disorienting – in fact, it’s the opposite. Like a sixth sense he hasn’t tapped into yet, one that’s as young as he was when he was shipped off to war.
“Yeah,” he calls back to Jenkins, medic with the 217. “I’m good.”
The world shifts slightly after that, like hands are steadying his own with each ascent and landing, like a protective layer shielding him from harm’s way.
It’s enticing, the call of taking risks for the sake of his patients, for the sake of life on the ground and in his cabin. He starts taking more risks, starts scraping seconds off last-ditch efforts, throws a Hail Mary more than once.
A blessing or a curse, it works, and he doesn’t question it. Takes an extra 3-pointer every game of pick-up basketball, stays under the hood of the Chevy a second longer when it starts to shake.
Melton – Tommy’s captain – takes notice, calling him into his office more than once. The talk is routine at this point, words droning with his badge glinting sunlight just between Tommy’s eyes. The risks are getting dangerous, he’s cutting things too close, asking for trouble in more ways than one.
Still, Tommy can’t seem to stop himself. The novelty’s worn off but the feeling persists, one of absence, pulsing just behind his ribs where his heart is nestled against his shuddering lungs. Howie calls in a favor more than once and what’s Tommy supposed to do, the guy saved his life.
Sure, inside of a strip mall, but in the loft of the station after sleepless nights, wound up in guilt and frustration and tears shed over one too many drinks after shifts.
This time, though, it’s different. Howie calls him in to fly a water tanker over a burning neighborhood in Doheny Park, begs him to help the 118 when the rest of the water runs dry and houses catch like kindling.
There are families, he says, ones with kids and fresh starts and everything Tommy never got to have.
He hops in the plane, flies it over the lot with a breath of relief, lands the bird and earns himself a reprimand, but it doesn’t bother him much after the father of the kiddo trapped inside the embers of a brand new family home stops by Harbor.
“E-Eddie Diaz with the 118 told us…they said you flew the plane over,” he says, hand outstretched, eyes bright with tears. When Tommy’s hand lands in his, that sense blooms between them, stitching their stories together with the press of a warm palm, the spark of gratitude. It ignites what’s dulled over the last few months, brightens the world again.
Tommy wonders if that’s the secret to all of this – helping people, earning back parts of himself he lost over years of pain and suffering. Maybe it earns his keep on the right side of something powerful.
So, he persists, learns the shape of the feeling like a second skin, flexes the muscles with practice and precision. Earns the right to wear the extra shield like a badge of honor.
He thinks it’s his to keep. Forever.
Until the day he meets Evan Buckley.
Waltzing into Harbor on the heels of Howie and that Diaz kid, bright and smiling like it’s first day on the job. Tommy knows better, knows his story better than most, has heard through the grapevine tales of the kid who refuses to die.
It suits him.
The piece that’s been so achingly absent starts to unfold, shivers and rattles and tumbles towards his chest. When Evan reaches his hand out in greeting and their skin collides, the piece assembles where it belongs.
The world grows brighter still, Harbor yawning at Evan’s back like it’s lighting the stage just for him.
“E-Evan – Buckley – Buck, I mean. Well, Ev-Evan is my…hi,” he says, stuttering, cheeks warming with a fresh blush, rosy and just as bright as his crooked smile.
“Tommy Kinard,” Tommy says, pushing confidence through his teeth like he has any right.
“I’ve…I heard about…” Evan mumbles before Howie cuts in.
“Listen, we don’t have much time before Hen–”
“Right,” Tommy says, coughing and shaking out his hands, leading them toward the helicopter.
The night unravels in a way he hasn’t experienced before, the guard, the guidance, his senses heightened at every turn – it’s like the helicopter is wrapped in a pocket of defense, storm and sour winds trapped at bay while they stay tucked inside the cabin.
Like Evan being there breathed new life into something stagnant and well-worn.
Bobby and Athena end up in a capsized cruise ship with a whole slew of others and if that isn’t God, Tommy isn’t quite sure what to call it, but when the day finally shifts from rescue to recovery, it loosens its grip entirely.
Exhaustion tugs him down, muscles weak and ragged, eyes drooping with each blink.
“Yo-You, uh, need a ride?” Evan’s at his side between one blink and the next and Tommy can barely feel the smile that tips up his face.
“If you don’ mind,” he mutters, his bird safely tucked into Harbor and Evan’s jeep just beyond the doors.
“You saved my captain’s life,” Evan shrugs, and Tommy feels the spark of something working at his ribs, trying to keep him upright, pushing against the pain.
Tommy doesn’t realize the world shifts from color to grays and deepens at the edges, darkness dragging him down, but when he collapses in the passenger seat, his eyes are closed before the car even moves.
*
Buck can’t explain the feeling he has around Tommy Kinard. Sure, he’s cool as hell – a helicopter pilot and a firefighter – and he looked every bit of badass he is with his hands wrapped around the cyclic, calling out instructions through the rescue and back to the station.
His jaw is sharp and his tongue is sharper, and every time Buck looks at his eyes, his own can’t stop shifting to the damn cleft in his chin.
He’s handsome, smart, funny. Not to mention brave. He fits right in with the 118 and it’s no wonder Chim’s stayed in touch with him all this time. Maybe he can get Tommy’s number from…
No.
What is he thinking? He’s just a guy. Got a good gym routine, carries himself like he knows what he’s doing, seems like a stand-up, salt of the earth kind of dude. Like he’d carry Buck’s bags for him or pay for dinner, maybe offer to –
Enough.
Tommy’s vulnerable, slumped in the passenger seat of Buck’s jeep, mouth slack as soft snores puff through his lips. His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks like his dream is too big for his mind.
At every stoplight, Buck glances over at him, makes sure his neck isn’t strained in a weird way, that he seems comfortable. He flicks off the air and adjusts to the heat when he sees Tommy shiver, turning the radio down to a dull hum.
There’s something, though. Something Buck can’t quite explain and isn’t entirely sure he wants to.
It buzzes beneath his skin, like an old friend that’s come to say hello after years in another country. Like a fresh bouquet, ruffling and bright in a vase at Grandma’s house. Like Maddie’s pot roast fresh out of the oven.
It slings him back to early memories of the 118, of calls he’s kept locked in his heart but unbothered all this time. Tucked away because they’re a little too painful to unwrap every day.
Wracking his brain, trying to solve the Rubik’s cube he’s somehow spun himself into, Buck realizes too late that Tommy never told him his address and realizes he’s driven back to the loft.
Well, shit.
Looking at Tommy again, Buck doesn’t want to disturb him, doesn’t want to disrupt the exhaustion he’s been carrying around since they landed. He looks so young in sleep, so peaceful.
Still, he’s massive. And Buck can’t carry him on his own. Well, he might be able to…
No, he can’t carry him on his own.
He exhales gently, leans in and presses his palm to Tommy’s shoulder.
“Tommy,” he says gently, squeezing against the broad stretch of muscle. The touch sparks something in his chest.
A memory, new life igniting something dulled over years of scar tissue.
A car slipping down a driveway, pinning a man against a wrought iron gate.
His husband, heartbroken and empty on the back of the ambulance next to Buck.
“He thought…with so little time left, we might as well live. Daring the clock. And me, I-I always followed along. All those foolish things we did. We only wanted to ever go together…that’s love.”
Tommy stirs awake, blinks against the bright fluorescent lights at the entryway to Buck’s building, confused, disoriented.
“Where are–”
“I-I realized I didn’t know your address and you…this is my place, do you want to just crash here? It’s, uh, it’s late,” Buck says, stuck on the memory, trapped between then and now.
Tommy’s eyes latch onto his and he nods tiredly.
“Sure,” Tommy mumbles, stretching his neck and reaching for the handle of the door.
They make their way up slowly, the elevator stopping on two floors before landing on Buck’s, and Tommy’s barely coherent enough to stumble inside to the couch. He lands, heavily, against the leather, shoes still laced around his feet, uniform still buttoned up to his neck.
Buck is careful with it, moves slowly so he doesn’t disturb Tommy, studies his features while he slowly unlaces each boot.
The feeling of familiarity is so strong it pulses behind his eyes, emotion knotting in his throat. It feels like something he’s known before but never in this life. It’s terrifying and dangerous, but so careful it’s fragility flutters like butterfly wings.
Buck gets Tommy’s shoes off, then his belt, undoes the top few buttons of his uniform to make him more comfortable. He reaches for a blanket to drape over his frame and freezes.
When he looks down at Tommy, it’s not him. Not entirely.
It’s someone more slender, younger, jaw still sharp, brow still furrowed like he’s deep in thought.
He’s curled up on the couch as a movie plays on screen, an old favorite, though Mitchell swears Thomas acts like it’s the first time every time.
The blanket softens over Thomas’ frame, the orange hue of the knit sparking against his skin and lighting up his cheeks like the first sunset they’d watched, sprawled on a picnic blanket together.
His breaths even out and he burrows deeper into the blanket, huffing out a puff of air as he snuggles into the pillow.
Mitchell doesn’t want to leave but can’t stay, doesn’t want to forget this moment but can’t bear to stick around. It’s too painful, too raw, a peaceful secret trying to escape the sacred space between them.
Buck blinks down at Tommy and a tear sinks down his cheek as he watches him.
He knows him. But knows nothing about him.
When he climbs the staircase and tucks himself into bed, the sound of Tommy’s even breathing sings him a lullaby he swears he memorized decades ago, one that’s as comforting as his mother’s embrace, his sister’s laughter, the 118’s trust.
*
Tommy wakes to the smell of coffee and bacon, eyes blinking open to the dawn of a new day, sunlight blistering through the windows and heating up a spot right in the middle of his chest. Arms outstretched, he tilts upwards, swaying before steadying himself, feet pressed against the floor, socks warm against the hardwood.
“G’Morning,” Evan says from across the room, voice light.
Tommy glances over and it’s an image he’s seen since he was barely old enough to buy liquor.
Mitchell always woke up first, always made the coffee, kept it warm and added a splash of milk because he claimed black coffee was bad luck. Says a psychic told him that his first week in L.A. and hasn’t questioned it since.
Neither has Thomas.
When he looks at the coffee table, there’s a steaming mug set on the coaster, just a shade lighter than black, just a splash of milk.
Tommy clears his throat and takes a sip, letting the warmth coat his throat as he inhales the scent of bitter grounds, listens to the bacon sizzling on the stove.
“Thanks for letting me stay,” he says as he stands, stretching out his limbs and winding over to the kitchen where two place settings are waiting.
“Sorry I didn’t catch your address before you crashed,” Evan says apologetically. “But I-I owe you, so I’m happy to, um, repay the favor.”
Tommy grins and accepts the offering of breakfast and a smile, nearly reaches for Evan to tug him in for a kiss before realizing how incredibly out of place that would be, and settles into the chair.
Evan sits right beside him, mouth wrapping around a big bite of eggs, eyes still shimmering with a look Tommy’s captivated by. They eat breakfast in comfortable quiet, occasionally asking questions about the other’s life, curious to know more but both vaguely aware this won’t be the last time they share a meal together.
Tommy can’t remember how it happens, exactly, just that they’re washing dishes together, shoulder to shoulder, stories weaving from one to the next, cross-stitching between past and present, skirted in laughter and longing Tommy can’t recall ever feeling before.
The words start to lose meaning, and the shared touch and blanket of warmth from the sun peeking through the window show Tommy everything he wants to see. He leans in without thought.
Evan doesn’t seem bothered by it, instead almost seems like he’s been expecting it all along. He tilts forward and closes the gap, meeting Tommy in the middle. Their lips press together and it feels like coming home.
Tommy can feel it – the added heat, the spark of something more than just the two of them, breath fluttering and body buzzing with an adoration he doesn’t quite understand.
It feels like it lasts forever, and by the time he pulls back, Evan’s lips are plump and injected with ruby, cheeks alight with the color trickling beyond where they connected. They stare into each other’s eyes, and Tommy can see a lifetime in Evan’s.
One with Mitchell, of protests and marriage and a home all their own.
One with Evan, a modern mirror of the same.
Evan blinks like he’s capitated in the same story, and a tear threatens to tumble down his cheek. Tommy brushes it away with the pad of his thumb before it gets too far, and leaves his fingers there. Tracing his cheek, his jaw, the curls of his bedhead, the outline of his birthmark.
Evan’s eyes dip closed and Tommy wants to keep this moment forever.
With a distant realization, Tommy breathes and realizes, suddenly, it’s gone.
That protection he’s grown so used to, the love that wraps around him and keeps him safe, shields him from the world when it matters most, bleeds warmth into every piece of the puzzle he’s built into a life.
He doesn’t feel an ache in its absence, though. Instead, Evan opens his eyes, smiles up at Tommy, and leans in for another kiss.
Even though this one is different, it’s still so much the same.
It might not have the added shimmer of a guardian angel, but Tommy’s found one regardless.
AU where Tommy Kinard is the owner of the Italian restaurant Nonno Tom's and Evan Buckley is a firefighter with the 118. They meet and romance blooms between them.
bucktommy; cw: blood; for @herrmannhalsteadproduction because she gave me an itty bitty prompt
[wc: 1235]
Okay, things have – yeah, they’ve gotten out of hand. Pretty quickly, if Tommy’s honest.
One minute he was cutting peppers for an omelette – he even took his time finding just the right shade of red and orange, they were crisp and firm and crunched when he popped a piece straight into his mouth from the cutting board.
He should’ve gotten extra for the fajitas he was planning to make this week. Now he’s gonna have to go back to the store, make an extra trip and…oh man, if Tag was working again, Tommy didn’t think he could handle the way he always stares an extra minute or two right at his crotch. He’s not even trying to be coy, and honestly, it’s getting a little creepy at this–
Focus.
Evan’s still in bed, soft snores tumbling out of the bedroom and rattling against each door, pinballing down the hall like they’re reaching out just for Tommy. It’s adorable, he thinks, not for the first time, the way Evan is so burly and tough when he’s in uniform but an absolute softie when he gets home.
Tommy wonders if he’s thrown the blanket free yet – if he should check on him again and make sure, see if he’s warm enough. Evan always complains about waking up cold but refuses to wear anything more than a tank top to bed.
When’s the last time Tommy went shopping? He could use a few new shirts, ones that have a little bit of personality. That’s another thing about Evan, he’s always pushing Tommy to tiptoe outside of the box he’s come to know so well. He even bought a pair of…
Was he doing something? Tommy glances down and sees red, a splash of deep cranberry, tacky and thick on the cutting board. That’s not from the peppers, he doesn’t think, but he can’t remember if he’d moved on to something else.
A pomegranate, maybe?
He was making breakfast, though, and Evan’s sleeping in the other room. Evan. He was going to get Evan because he…
The knife in his palm slips, his grip loosening from one blink to the next, and before he realizes, he’s stumbling backward, hip checking the table before he collapses into a chair.
The countertop is coated, raspberry tracing down the cabinets and onto the floor. The toaster is running, he thinks, the smell of toast wafting through the air alongside the crackling mist of bacon.
The stove, it’s…
There’s a lot happening all at once, but Tommy’s mind starts to falter, drift between flight checklists and scheduling appointments and the yardwork he has to do this weekend. The kitchen loses it’s edges, softens to buttery yellow and sparkling sunlight, smoky haze breathing between dust mites as the day carries it in through the window.
When his eyelids droop closed and darkness re-settles, Tommy’s reminded he needed Evan for something and murmurs his name through chattering teeth, hoping it’s louder than the rattling breath in his lungs that pushes it free.
*
If there’s one thing Tommy hates, it’s ice cold air blowing into his face, dry and unnatural, rattling in the vent like the damn fan is owed some kind of debt.
His lips are cracked, worn, and his throat scratches against the shaky breaths he takes as his mind resurfaces. Evan’s not usually one to turn the air down, but maybe he’s sick and needed to cool down – he wasn’t fighting a wildfire, was he?
“Tommy?”
Evan sounds fine, doesn’t seem like he’s coming down with anything. Though at this rate, Tommy wonders if he is. His mind is thick with the fog of sleep and something much heavier. His eyelids stick closed and the effort to free them sends sparks between his brow and into his brain.
A dull headache throbs behind his eyes and his chest hurts. One of his hands can feel the demanding pressure of the air conditioner, ice coating his fingers and creeping up his elbow. The other’s coated with a glove or something like it, though if he focuses too long on the feeling, it starts to throb like the ache in his head.
“Mmmh,” Tommy mumbles, and the effort sends him into a coughing fit. It rattles his ribs and sticks to his teeth, attacking his throat on the way out and leaving him shaking in the wake of the effort.
“A nurse is coming,” Evan says.
A nurse? Why would he need a nurse?
“Wha’?” He sounds like it’s his first day on planet earth, but Tommy can barely make the steps from his brain to his mouth let alone send words along the way.
“You’re in the hospital,” Evan says, wrapping his hand around Tommy’s cold one. Immediately, the warmth puts him at ease, the slow build of heat landing in his chest where the pain dulls considerably.
“Why?” Tommy blinks his eyes open and squints against the soft light in the room.
A hospital room. That explains the nurse thing.
Evan laughs but it’s sticky with tears, and when he sniffles Tommy’s brows tip down in shared pain. He wants to brush the tears away, but he can’t lift his hand enough to reach.
“You’re an idiot,” Evan says, and Tommy’s frown deepens. “You were making breakfast and sliced your hand open. N-Nice and, uh, nice and deep.”
“The cabinets,” Tommy’s mind flashes with an image of red dripping down the oak. Blood – his blood. Yikes.
“Yeah,” Evan sniffles again. “It kind of looked l-like a crime scene in there.”
Tommy grimaces and Evan leans in, pressing his fingertips to the edge of Tommy’s mouth.
“You were bleeding pretty good and passed out,” Evan continues. “A-And you, uh, had bacon on the stove. Fire alarm woke me up an-and I came out and…”
“Oh,” Tommy says.
Evan laughs that wet laugh again, and it almost tears Tommy clean in two. “Yeah. Oh.”
“’m sorry,” he mutters, “I wanted to check if you were cold.”
Evan furrows his brow in confusion and his mouth tilts into a frown.
“Think it was the blood loss,” Tommy says by way of excuse. Evan’s fingers linger in Tommy’s curls, his other hand pressing against his forearm, seeping heat into Tommy’s skin.
“You’re getting a transfusion, that should help you feel better. You also hit your head on the way down and have a-a minor concussion,” Evan says, leaning in to press a kiss to Tommy’s temple. He closes his eyes and soaks in the feeling of safety it always provides.
“Delightful,” Tommy says, already feeling the pull of exhaustion – a result of some kind of head-knocked, low-blood, painkiller cocktail they’ve got him on. He coughs again and frowns when his lungs finally settle.
“And the smoke inhalation,” Evan says.
“Is that all?” Tommy quips, settling deeper into his pillow.
Evan continues his idle trailblazing, fingertips tracing paths along his temple and his arm, down between each finger, pausing at every knuckle along the way.
“We’ll be able to go home soon,” Evan assures him. “Get some sleep.”
“I’ll make pancakes next time,” Tommy mutters as sleep finally captures him, ensnaring him and tugging him deeper.
“Sounds like a plan,” Evan chuckles as he drifts off. He knows Evan won’t let him near a knife for the foreseeable future, but he can’t blame him, knowing at the end of the day it only means he cares.
bucktommy; this is loose with timelines, reality, etc. so just enjoy the ride! it's all love, no hurt today, friends.
[wc: 3890; below or on ao3]
Buck hasn’t been a probie for a while, Eddie coming in and replacing him as the greenest and most inexperienced member – outside of all his Army stuff, Buck guesses – since he started at the 118.
He’d come in on the heels of another firefighter that transferred out, something about wanting to get back to doing something he did before. For what it’s worth, Buck’s grateful to the guy but can’t imagine leaving the station behind. Not after he and the rest of the team went through Chim’s accident last year, Bobby’s relapse, and all the bullshit with his sister and the guy she calls a husband.
Or used to, anyway.
Now, every time he hops into the engine, sirens blaring over his head as he navigates the streets of Los Angeles, it runs a little more smoothly. Buck knows he doesn’t have much for second chances – well third or fourth, but who’s counting – and he desperately loves this job, so he sticks to what he knows best.
Heaving equipment and hauling ass, using muscle and his voice and the adrenaline he finds like a heat-seeking missile, it’s starting to become a second skin. Muscle memory, natural – it’s not just the physical push the job gives him every day, it’s the community too.
Buck’s family, if he can really call them that, weren’t always the most reliable. Using the cold shoulder and avoidance as practicing elitists, his parents didn’t spread joy and love to his family quite the same way they did in their classrooms. And Buck’s always felt like he missed out on something because of it.
So now, when he rolls into a call with the team at his side, he offers what he never got.
Compassion, patience, care, attention.
That paired with his standard badassery makes the job perfect for Buck and he doesn’t want that to change any time soon.
The problem with that – all the caring and empathy and soft-spoken support – is that it burns a little brighter every time a call doesn’t go the way it should. Each life lost, each tear shed, it digs deeper and carries an ache he hasn’t quite mastered the art of softening yet.
Maybe someday he’ll get better at it.
But today – during this call – he’s not any better than anyone else.
Thomas had been fine.
He’d been talking to Buck, wrapped in a blanket and broken-hearted at the loss of the love of his life, but his breathing was stable, he was carrying conversation normally. Nothing was out of place.
Until it was.
Until Thomas was bent over Mitchell, hands wrapped over where his heart used to beat, his own stopping right along with it.
Buck had stepped away, just for a moment – a brief fraction of time that was just the two of them, the only time Thomas had left – and he was distracted. He knew he was, glancing through photographs that pulled a raw sort of pain deep in Buck’s bones, hollowed out his chest and left it cold and empty.
They had a whole life together. Time shared in smiles and sadness, eyes locked on each other or the camera with the city, their home, their friends surrounding them.
Buck was the last person to talk to Thomas, and he can’t even remember what he’d said, just that he loved Mitchell dearly. And that they worked hard to get where they were – together.
He hopes a love like that finds him and lasts him a lifetime.
*
Tommy was born into a broken home – one without a mother and with an empty shell of a man where his father should be. His mom died in childbirth; a hemorrhage they caught too late that left her cold and limp on an operating room table.
Not for nothing he can tell his dad tried to give a shit about him, but by the time he was old enough to realize the resentment he held was the blame for Tommy’s mother being gone, he’s not so sure he can find much fault.
Usually, he’ll end the night with a passing thought it would’ve just been better for his mom to survive and for him to be gone, at least then he wouldn’t have to endure the sorrow-filled looks and anger-boiled tears that hide behind a tight-lipped face he barely knows. Every day he starts to look more like the man, but feels distance grow just as often.
Leaving for the military at the ripe age of 17 didn’t help boost his ego much, and the camaraderie of the army vanished once the bullets started raining and a member of his battalion was lost in the field.
It took a downed chopper and a broken femur for Tommy’s tour to end and after that, and every time he thought about getting in the air again he had a panic attack. He thought, with some heartache, that life would be best to leave behind.
The fire academy was both familiar and novel as he was pulled into the shuffle with the rest of the newbies. Old patterns of following orders, getting in line, structure and organization came easily to Tommy. Clockwork, routine, a costume he wore like his blood latched onto it.
The difference, though, was that they were on the opposing team. Saving, not destroying. Helping, not hurting.
When he graduated and got assigned to the 118, Tommy thought he could finally become something his father would be proud of, something he could wear like a badge of honor that didn’t come with the thrash of flashbacks and fears of fireworks.
Instead, he got Vincent Gerrard and the Good Ol’ Boys Club, familiar in a different kind of way. Bullying came easy after time spent with them, blending in so he didn’t stick out, trying to get along to get by.
Time trudged ahead and Tommy endured the daily grind, found pockets of light in the darkness, spoke up when he finally found the cajónes to do it right this time.
Hen and Howie saved him, and through their friendship he re-found himself. The parts of himself that he wanted to keep, at least.
Compassion. Empathy. A desperate, urgent need to help.
And longing to take to the sky again.
After time under Bobby’s command and the tutelage of people much smarter than him, Tommy took the leap. Re-certified and found a home at Harbor Station. One where he could be himself, where he could push against every effort his father, his commanding officer, his shitty old captains tried to use to keep him down.
He came out, built hobbies, made friends even when it was hard.
But there was still something missing. A piece that didn’t feel like it quite fit, an emptiness he usually chalked up to the loss of his mother.
Until today.
Something shifts when he walks into Harbor, the breeze in the morning sky floating through the hangar and dusting the back of his neck. Like fingertips tracing his hairline, teasing at his spine and into his ribs. It’s warm, comforting – a handmade quilt just freed from the dryer – and he closes his eyes briefly to take it in.
He’s not one for religion, doesn’t much believe in God, but the feeling is so all-consuming, so incredibly tender, that he feels the burn of tears pressing against his closed eyes, whispers a hello to his mom, and soaks in the heat.
When the feeling simmers, slowing to a current coasting along a river rather than the rapids of sun-soaked force, he blinks his eyes open. The world’s the same but altogether different. Pockets of color light up his gaze, things he’d never noticed before fresh in the bloom of newly lit senses.
“Yo, Kinard, you good?”
Tommy looks back, startled at the voice, and nods, lips tingling. It’s not disorienting – in fact, it’s the opposite. Like a sixth sense he hasn’t tapped into yet, one that’s as young as he was when he was shipped off to war.
“Yeah,” he calls back to Jenkins, medic with the 217. “I’m good.”
The world shifts slightly after that, like hands are steadying his own with each ascent and landing, like a protective layer shielding him from harm’s way.
It’s enticing, the call of taking risks for the sake of his patients, for the sake of life on the ground and in his cabin. He starts taking more risks, starts scraping seconds off last-ditch efforts, throws a Hail Mary more than once.
A blessing or a curse, it works, and he doesn’t question it. Takes an extra 3-pointer every game of pick-up basketball, stays under the hood of the Chevy a second longer when it starts to shake.
Melton – Tommy’s captain – takes notice, calling him into his office more than once. The talk is routine at this point, words droning with his badge glinting sunlight just between Tommy’s eyes. The risks are getting dangerous, he’s cutting things too close, asking for trouble in more ways than one.
Still, Tommy can’t seem to stop himself. The novelty’s worn off but the feeling persists, one of absence, pulsing just behind his ribs where his heart is nestled against his shuddering lungs. Howie calls in a favor more than once and what’s Tommy supposed to do, the guy saved his life.
Sure, inside of a strip mall, but in the loft of the station after sleepless nights, wound up in guilt and frustration and tears shed over one too many drinks after shifts.
This time, though, it’s different. Howie calls him in to fly a water tanker over a burning neighborhood in Doheny Park, begs him to help the 118 when the rest of the water runs dry and houses catch like kindling.
There are families, he says, ones with kids and fresh starts and everything Tommy never got to have.
He hops in the plane, flies it over the lot with a breath of relief, lands the bird and earns himself a reprimand, but it doesn’t bother him much after the father of the kiddo trapped inside the embers of a brand new family home stops by Harbor.
“E-Eddie Diaz with the 118 told us…they said you flew the plane over,” he says, hand outstretched, eyes bright with tears. When Tommy’s hand lands in his, that sense blooms between them, stitching their stories together with the press of a warm palm, the spark of gratitude. It ignites what’s dulled over the last few months, brightens the world again.
Tommy wonders if that’s the secret to all of this – helping people, earning back parts of himself he lost over years of pain and suffering. Maybe it earns his keep on the right side of something powerful.
So, he persists, learns the shape of the feeling like a second skin, flexes the muscles with practice and precision. Earns the right to wear the extra shield like a badge of honor.
He thinks it’s his to keep. Forever.
Until the day he meets Evan Buckley.
Waltzing into Harbor on the heels of Howie and that Diaz kid, bright and smiling like it’s first day on the job. Tommy knows better, knows his story better than most, has heard through the grapevine tales of the kid who refuses to die.
It suits him.
The piece that’s been so achingly absent starts to unfold, shivers and rattles and tumbles towards his chest. When Evan reaches his hand out in greeting and their skin collides, the piece assembles where it belongs.
The world grows brighter still, Harbor yawning at Evan’s back like it’s lighting the stage just for him.
“E-Evan – Buckley – Buck, I mean. Well, Ev-Evan is my…hi,” he says, stuttering, cheeks warming with a fresh blush, rosy and just as bright as his crooked smile.
“Tommy Kinard,” Tommy says, pushing confidence through his teeth like he has any right.
“I’ve…I heard about…” Evan mumbles before Howie cuts in.
“Listen, we don’t have much time before Hen–”
“Right,” Tommy says, coughing and shaking out his hands, leading them toward the helicopter.
The night unravels in a way he hasn’t experienced before, the guard, the guidance, his senses heightened at every turn – it’s like the helicopter is wrapped in a pocket of defense, storm and sour winds trapped at bay while they stay tucked inside the cabin.
Like Evan being there breathed new life into something stagnant and well-worn.
Bobby and Athena end up in a capsized cruise ship with a whole slew of others and if that isn’t God, Tommy isn’t quite sure what to call it, but when the day finally shifts from rescue to recovery, it loosens its grip entirely.
Exhaustion tugs him down, muscles weak and ragged, eyes drooping with each blink.
“Yo-You, uh, need a ride?” Evan’s at his side between one blink and the next and Tommy can barely feel the smile that tips up his face.
“If you don’ mind,” he mutters, his bird safely tucked into Harbor and Evan’s jeep just beyond the doors.
“You saved my captain’s life,” Evan shrugs, and Tommy feels the spark of something working at his ribs, trying to keep him upright, pushing against the pain.
Tommy doesn’t realize the world shifts from color to grays and deepens at the edges, darkness dragging him down, but when he collapses in the passenger seat, his eyes are closed before the car even moves.
*
Buck can’t explain the feeling he has around Tommy Kinard. Sure, he’s cool as hell – a helicopter pilot and a firefighter – and he looked every bit of badass he is with his hands wrapped around the cyclic, calling out instructions through the rescue and back to the station.
His jaw is sharp and his tongue is sharper, and every time Buck looks at his eyes, his own can’t stop shifting to the damn cleft in his chin.
He’s handsome, smart, funny. Not to mention brave. He fits right in with the 118 and it’s no wonder Chim’s stayed in touch with him all this time. Maybe he can get Tommy’s number from…
No.
What is he thinking? He’s just a guy. Got a good gym routine, carries himself like he knows what he’s doing, seems like a stand-up, salt of the earth kind of dude. Like he’d carry Buck’s bags for him or pay for dinner, maybe offer to –
Enough.
Tommy’s vulnerable, slumped in the passenger seat of Buck’s jeep, mouth slack as soft snores puff through his lips. His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks like his dream is too big for his mind.
At every stoplight, Buck glances over at him, makes sure his neck isn’t strained in a weird way, that he seems comfortable. He flicks off the air and adjusts to the heat when he sees Tommy shiver, turning the radio down to a dull hum.
There’s something, though. Something Buck can’t quite explain and isn’t entirely sure he wants to.
It buzzes beneath his skin, like an old friend that’s come to say hello after years in another country. Like a fresh bouquet, ruffling and bright in a vase at Grandma’s house. Like Maddie’s pot roast fresh out of the oven.
It slings him back to early memories of the 118, of calls he’s kept locked in his heart but unbothered all this time. Tucked away because they’re a little too painful to unwrap every day.
Wracking his brain, trying to solve the Rubik’s cube he’s somehow spun himself into, Buck realizes too late that Tommy never told him his address and realizes he’s driven back to the loft.
Well, shit.
Looking at Tommy again, Buck doesn’t want to disturb him, doesn’t want to disrupt the exhaustion he’s been carrying around since they landed. He looks so young in sleep, so peaceful.
Still, he’s massive. And Buck can’t carry him on his own. Well, he might be able to…
No, he can’t carry him on his own.
He exhales gently, leans in and presses his palm to Tommy’s shoulder.
“Tommy,” he says gently, squeezing against the broad stretch of muscle. The touch sparks something in his chest.
A memory, new life igniting something dulled over years of scar tissue.
A car slipping down a driveway, pinning a man against a wrought iron gate.
His husband, heartbroken and empty on the back of the ambulance next to Buck.
“He thought…with so little time left, we might as well live. Daring the clock. And me, I-I always followed along. All those foolish things we did. We only wanted to ever go together…that’s love.”
Tommy stirs awake, blinks against the bright fluorescent lights at the entryway to Buck’s building, confused, disoriented.
“Where are–”
“I-I realized I didn’t know your address and you…this is my place, do you want to just crash here? It’s, uh, it’s late,” Buck says, stuck on the memory, trapped between then and now.
Tommy’s eyes latch onto his and he nods tiredly.
“Sure,” Tommy mumbles, stretching his neck and reaching for the handle of the door.
They make their way up slowly, the elevator stopping on two floors before landing on Buck’s, and Tommy’s barely coherent enough to stumble inside to the couch. He lands, heavily, against the leather, shoes still laced around his feet, uniform still buttoned up to his neck.
Buck is careful with it, moves slowly so he doesn’t disturb Tommy, studies his features while he slowly unlaces each boot.
The feeling of familiarity is so strong it pulses behind his eyes, emotion knotting in his throat. It feels like something he’s known before but never in this life. It’s terrifying and dangerous, but so careful it’s fragility flutters like butterfly wings.
Buck gets Tommy’s shoes off, then his belt, undoes the top few buttons of his uniform to make him more comfortable. He reaches for a blanket to drape over his frame and freezes.
When he looks down at Tommy, it’s not him. Not entirely.
It’s someone more slender, younger, jaw still sharp, brow still furrowed like he’s deep in thought.
He’s curled up on the couch as a movie plays on screen, an old favorite, though Mitchell swears Thomas acts like it’s the first time every time.
The blanket softens over Thomas’ frame, the orange hue of the knit sparking against his skin and lighting up his cheeks like the first sunset they’d watched, sprawled on a picnic blanket together.
His breaths even out and he burrows deeper into the blanket, huffing out a puff of air as he snuggles into the pillow.
Mitchell doesn’t want to leave but can’t stay, doesn’t want to forget this moment but can’t bear to stick around. It’s too painful, too raw, a peaceful secret trying to escape the sacred space between them.
Buck blinks down at Tommy and a tear sinks down his cheek as he watches him.
He knows him. But knows nothing about him.
When he climbs the staircase and tucks himself into bed, the sound of Tommy’s even breathing sings him a lullaby he swears he memorized decades ago, one that’s as comforting as his mother’s embrace, his sister’s laughter, the 118’s trust.
*
Tommy wakes to the smell of coffee and bacon, eyes blinking open to the dawn of a new day, sunlight blistering through the windows and heating up a spot right in the middle of his chest. Arms outstretched, he tilts upwards, swaying before steadying himself, feet pressed against the floor, socks warm against the hardwood.
“G’Morning,” Evan says from across the room, voice light.
Tommy glances over and it’s an image he’s seen since he was barely old enough to buy liquor.
Mitchell always woke up first, always made the coffee, kept it warm and added a splash of milk because he claimed black coffee was bad luck. Says a psychic told him that his first week in L.A. and hasn’t questioned it since.
Neither has Thomas.
When he looks at the coffee table, there’s a steaming mug set on the coaster, just a shade lighter than black, just a splash of milk.
Tommy clears his throat and takes a sip, letting the warmth coat his throat as he inhales the scent of bitter grounds, listens to the bacon sizzling on the stove.
“Thanks for letting me stay,” he says as he stands, stretching out his limbs and winding over to the kitchen where two place settings are waiting.
“Sorry I didn’t catch your address before you crashed,” Evan says apologetically. “But I-I owe you, so I’m happy to, um, repay the favor.”
Tommy grins and accepts the offering of breakfast and a smile, nearly reaches for Evan to tug him in for a kiss before realizing how incredibly out of place that would be, and settles into the chair.
Evan sits right beside him, mouth wrapping around a big bite of eggs, eyes still shimmering with a look Tommy’s captivated by. They eat breakfast in comfortable quiet, occasionally asking questions about the other’s life, curious to know more but both vaguely aware this won’t be the last time they share a meal together.
Tommy can’t remember how it happens, exactly, just that they’re washing dishes together, shoulder to shoulder, stories weaving from one to the next, cross-stitching between past and present, skirted in laughter and longing Tommy can’t recall ever feeling before.
The words start to lose meaning, and the shared touch and blanket of warmth from the sun peeking through the window show Tommy everything he wants to see. He leans in without thought.
Evan doesn’t seem bothered by it, instead almost seems like he’s been expecting it all along. He tilts forward and closes the gap, meeting Tommy in the middle. Their lips press together and it feels like coming home.
Tommy can feel it – the added heat, the spark of something more than just the two of them, breath fluttering and body buzzing with an adoration he doesn’t quite understand.
It feels like it lasts forever, and by the time he pulls back, Evan’s lips are plump and injected with ruby, cheeks alight with the color trickling beyond where they connected. They stare into each other’s eyes, and Tommy can see a lifetime in Evan’s.
One with Mitchell, of protests and marriage and a home all their own.
One with Evan, a modern mirror of the same.
Evan blinks like he’s capitated in the same story, and a tear threatens to tumble down his cheek. Tommy brushes it away with the pad of his thumb before it gets too far, and leaves his fingers there. Tracing his cheek, his jaw, the curls of his bedhead, the outline of his birthmark.
Evan’s eyes dip closed and Tommy wants to keep this moment forever.
With a distant realization, Tommy breathes and realizes, suddenly, it’s gone.
That protection he’s grown so used to, the love that wraps around him and keeps him safe, shields him from the world when it matters most, bleeds warmth into every piece of the puzzle he’s built into a life.
He doesn’t feel an ache in its absence, though. Instead, Evan opens his eyes, smiles up at Tommy, and leans in for another kiss.
Even though this one is different, it’s still so much the same.
It might not have the added shimmer of a guardian angel, but Tommy’s found one regardless.
part 1 here, part 2 here, part 3 here, part 4 here
David Hollander didn’t grow up expecting to be a husband or a father. In fact, he didn’t think much about the future, his parents always told him to live in the moment, experience life, stop stressing out about everything, David.
He spent years trying – to no avail – and somewhere between his fifth birthday and his first year of middle school, found the best place to do it. Sports.
Keeping a schedule became spiritual at times, his focus precise and exact when it came to hours spent on the field, time locked down on the ice. Team sports always felt like home to him, a group of friends that were built in, a support system that spoke the same language as him without the effort of small talk.
It consumed him, the breath of practice, the rigor of the game – he wore t-shirts branded with his team, his numbers embroidered on the back or the lapel, made a habit of checking statistics and news like he’d be quizzed on it every night.
Until he met Yuna.
Yuna was everything he didn’t know he was missing. She owned every room she walked into, demanded respect and didn’t stop there. If love was an art, Yuna was an editor, adjusting and deepening each word, each brush stroke, so that the piece landed whole.
David was timid in so many ways, soft-spoken, eager to please, gentle in the way he inhabited space. Yuna was the opposite, she was loud and unapologetic, brilliant and beautiful and so patient with him, it ached.
He got up the courage to request a date and her eyebrows lifted like she was surprised she’d been asked. The blush that crept up her cheeks when she smiled made her eyes shimmer just for him, and from that moment forward he pledged to earn that look every possible day she’d let him.
The balance they shared always felt right and still feels right today. Bringing Shane home, eyes bright with wonder as he blinked into the world, was natural, easy. He carried her legacy forward like he carried David’s name, and all the best parts of Yuna glowed in the heart of their son.
Powerful, but kind. Eager, but patient. Intense, but polite.
Sure, pieces of David peeked through – his worries, his rigidity in so many ways, his dedication to something he loves. But the consistency, the exponential growth, the rapid pace he learned. That was every bit of Yuna.
It’s close to midnight when his phone rings, and David’s heart skips a beat when the face fills the screen. It’s Shane, beaming on the lake, towel wrapped around his neck where Yuna leans in close. He’s resisting, just barely, a product of his age, and the small gap between them where the dipping sun peeks through haloes them in ethereal light. Every time David sees it, he smiles.
This time, though, something feels off. If Shane’s calling him this late instead of Yuna, it’s because he’s hurting, because he needs something Yuna will respond to with certainty and precision and if Shane’s anxiety is high, it might not be what he needs right away.
David slips out into the living room, trying not to disturb his sleeping wife, trying to manage whatever’s going on first before he sends her into a frenzy. Especially if Shane’s already well on his way.
“Shane?” David says, voice light.
“D-Dad?”
David’s heart breaks at the sound, the word cracks, a choked cry getting caught in Shane’s throat before the rest spills out.
“Yeah, buddy, what’s going on? Are you okay?” David’s already eyeing the bedroom door again, counting down the clock until he needs back-up, hoping it’s a panic attack over something like his play schedule or the cost of a last-minute flight.
He knows Shane. Knows the hurt in his voice and that it can’t possibly be something as trivial as that, but he can hold out hope until he hears more. He clings to it like a lifeline as shaky breaths shudder through the speaker.
“I think…someone needs help an-and I don’t know what to do, they’re…I can’t get to them, not fast anyway,” Shane’s rambling now. David hears the distant sound of heavy-footed steps, pacing. “Wh…I think I need your help, but I-I don’t know how to, where to start. I just need you to not…you can’t be mad.”
“Shane,” David takes a deep breath, hoping it will slow Shane’s spiral. It doesn’t seem to help, but he keeps it up regardless. “Whatever it is, we’ll get through it. Are you safe? Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine, no I’m not hurt, I mean…I’m not fine, I guess, but–”
“Okay, good,” David pauses, takes another breath. “Are you still at the hotel? Is Hayden with you?”
David knows he’s on a roadie, isn’t supposed to be back for another day, and he’s met Hayden enough times to know the guy would help with whatever has Shane this worked up. Unless something happened to Hayden…
“I’m leaving now. I have to…Hayden’s fine, I talked to him, but I have to help…” David can hear it now, the pounding footsteps are in an echoing stairwell, the sound of nylon sliding against Shane’s sweatshirt, duffel likely slung over his shoulder in a hurry.
“Okay, can you take a second, tell me what’s going on?” David asks calmly, glancing back at the bedroom. He’s closer to heading back in and gently nudging Yuna awake, worried now about Shane being so wrapped up in something he has to leave his team. Leave a hotel room in the middle of the night.
Shane pauses, taking a shaky breath, and David can picture him – scrubbing a hand down his face, eyes darting between the room he left behind and the exit, mind already stacked with to-dos and checklists, alarms blaring between breaths.
“O-Okay, I…” Shane takes another breath, and David’s heart is threatening to flutter free from his ribcage, shake itself out of the threat of fear and tumble headfirst into dread. “I don’t hate Ilya Rozanov.”
The confession startles David – shocks him into silence. Out of everything he was expecting to hear, this didn’t even come close to the top 100.
Ilya Rozanov and Shane have had a rivalry since his rookie season, on and off the ice, the pair at the top of their game, their teams enemies since long before they joined. It was innate, now, hating the guy.
Yuna used his name like an insult, told him to stop acting like Rozanov when he got too snippy cooking dinner, teased Shane when he would complain about his season openers, call him Rozanov for being afraid of a little competition.
David didn’t care much for the kid, but it was less about hockey and more about his attitude. Always seen around town with a girl on his arm, throwing insults at other players in interviews, a cocky attitude baked into his brand.
The confession from Shane nearly pulls laughter from David’s chest, the surprise of the statement equally as shocking as the nature of it.
“Okay…” he says, patient as ever. If Shane called him, it’s because he’s vulnerable, emotional – too emotional, Shane would say, before David reminded him it was pretty normal for people to experience a whole range of emotions. “That’s…that’s fine.”
Shane huffs and David doesn’t know what to do with that. He thought he had a handle on everything about Shane, thought he knew him like the back of his hand, but this…this isn’t anything he’s dealt with before.
“Like…that’s just…it’s just for media,” Shane continues. “We get along.”
“I’m sure he’s a good guy, Shane,” David says gently, knowing if Shane trusts him he must be. Shane doesn’t hand out loyalty like candy, he keeps it close to his heart, like a secret, one that only a select few are in on. “You felt the need to call me at,” he glances at his phone to check the time, mouth dropping in surprise, “11:48 p.m. to tell me that you get along with Ilya Rozanov?”
Shane groans and David hears the footsteps pick up speed again, hitting cement with purpose before metal slams into metal and the sound of a heavy door creaking open screeches through the phone.
“No,” Shane huffs. “I didn’t call you to tell you that. I called because he’s in trouble.”
“Shane, I’m sure if he’s in trouble his team or his coach can–”
Shane cuts him off. “He’s in Russia.”
That’s right – the announcers over Shane’s game had mentioned Ilya would be out for a couple of games after a death in the family. His father, David thinks.
The thought makes his heart ache in an entirely different way, the knowledge of their friendship now burrowing deeper into David’s chest and softening Rozanov, just a little.
Still, nobody deserves to lose a parent, let alone someone barely into adulthood and living across the world without any family nearby. Another thought softens the ache, one of Shane checking in on him, making sure he has support.
That’s their son, through and through. Always looking out for everybody else, eager to help where he can.
“Okay. He’s in Russia. What’s going on? What makes you think he’s in trouble?”
Gather all the facts, line up everything in order, make sense of it, bring it to Yuna. He’s done this with so many things, connected dots where they lose shape at times, soften the sharp pain of sorrow that comes with being a parent sometimes.
“I was on the phone with him,” Shane starts, his breathing uneven, picking up steadily. David keeps himself calm, tries to bleed it into the phone and pass it to Shane over the airwaves. “And we were just talking, I was asking him about his niece. He has a niece, she seems really sweet, he buys her anything she wants Dad, it’s a little ridiculous–”
“Shane,” David nudges him back to the point, unable to help the small smile that worms into his cheeks.
“Right, we-we were on the phone and he said he was on a walk. Hi-His dad just died and the funeral was today,” Shane’s voice cracks again, and David wishes more than anything he was there so he could offer a hug, wrap his arms around Shane, always his son first – his baby.
“I heard,” David says softly. “I’m sorry to hear.”
“Right, yeah,” Shane clears his throat, tumbles ahead. “And it didn’t sound like it went well – he was…his family isn’t great. But he was fine, I could tell his mood was a little better. Out of nowhere the phone – it sounded like it got thrown. An-and I heard–”
He falters again and David swears he can hear his heart thundering behind his ribs in the dim glow of the kitchen where he’s now hunched over the counter, still eyeing the bedroom door like Yuna’s waiting for him on the other side.
“I don’t know, Dad, they were speaking Russian, but it sounded like he was getting the shit kicked out of him,” Shane continues, failing to hide his emotion now, the spark of anger and fear seeping into every word. “I think he got knocked out or something. I heard a car drive away and then it was just…he didn’t sound good. A-And I lost the connection.”
“Okay,” David says, oozing confidence he doesn’t feel. This is the big secret of adulthood, he’s found – everyone’s just as scared shitless as the next guy, all clueless on how to get by without breaking down at every turn. “Do you know anyone that’s there with him?”
“No, no – that was my first thought too. I…I tried to call Cliff Marleau and he said another friend might be with him but we don’t have her number,” David can hear Shane hopping into a car and asking for a ride to the airport, hears the tapping of fingers to phone while Shane navigates across his screen. “I messaged her on Instagram but she hasn’t replied.”
“Okay. I’m gonna get your mom,” David says, knowing he needs his wife’s level head and command of a room now more than ever. If anyone can get to a kid in the middle of Russia without anything more than a name and phone number, it’s his wife. “She can help figure this out.”
“O-Okay,” Shane says, taking another shaky breath. “I’m gonna book a flight.”
“To Russia? Shane, I think that’s a little–”
“Dad, you didn’t hear him,” Shane says, desperate now.
Even though Shane started the call with the news he and Rozanov didn’t hate one another, David’s still trying to stumble his way ahead and catch up with that fact. Beyond that, though, Shane’s worry is more than it would be for just any hockey player, just any friend.
David doesn’t land on the thought too long before re-focusing his attention on his son, feet moving without thought, back toward the bedroom and his sleeping wife.
“Okay, Shane, just take a breath. I’m gonna get your mom,” David says as he opens the bedroom door, careful but not quiet.
Yuna’s tucked in just so, face mask slipped over her eyes, mouth slack with sleep. She looks so peaceful, David hates to disturb it, especially with something that hurts so much to hear. Still, this is Shane. She needs to know what’s going on and David knows more than anyone how much she can help.
He reaches out, tapping the mute button on the phone before latching onto her shoulder and shaking her gently.
Mumbling groggily, she reaches for the mask and squints up at him as he turns on the lamp. The room soaks in butter yellow, the peaceful calm so at odds with what’s on the other side of the phone – of the country – it makes his head spin.
“David?” She rasps. “What’s going on?”
He gestures to the phone as she starts to sit up. “Shane’s on the phone. Two things right away. Number one, he’s okay. And two, he doesn’t hate Ilya Rozanov.”
Yuna’s brows tilt down in confusion, her mouth opens, then shuts as she rubs the last dregs of sleep from her eyes.
“Okay,” she says, straightening up and bringing her feet to the floor, settling beside David. “What’s going on, David?”
“They were on the phone earlier and Shane thinks he heard him get attacked. He lost connection to the call and he’s on his way to the airport now. Hayden is aware, Cliff Marleau is aware.”
Give the facts. Keep it concise. The late hour and the panic bleeding from Shane require it.
Yuna tugs off the sleep mask completely, snaps her attention to his phone and presses the mute key to talk to Shane.
“Shane? It’s Mom,” she says with the confidence of a mother – of Shane Hollander, Hockey Star’s mother.
“Mom,” Shane exhales, “You need to help me. Did Dad tell you–”
“Okay, listen Shane, Dad told me what’s going on and I need you to tell me a couple of things,” she says as she takes the phone and heads for the closet. She’s already packing her own bag, tossing clothes and electronics onto the bed. David, always at the ready, grabs the bag and starts to tuck everything inside, getting his own and doing the same. He’s already drafting an e-mail to Shane’s coach, working on an explanation as Yuna inquires about Ilya’s health, whether or not Shane could hear him breathing, if he has family around, friends.
David doesn’t hear every detail, doesn’t need to, instead focusing on the home, on what he knows. Yuna brings a battle axe to every unknown, latches tools to her belt to be prepared for anything at any given moment.
David’s always in her corner, waiting with ol’ reliable, keeping everything steady while she trudges ahead. He can worry about what they know, she can focus on Shane.
And Ilya, he supposes.
By the time he’s gone through the bathroom and the kitchen, left the last portable charger plugged in to build up the most power possible, Yuna’s dressed like she’s prepared for a press conference. She’s latching on her earrings, grabbing her shoes and bag without question.
David collects everything else and follows her out, knows anything they missed he can outsource, can find elsewhere. They’ve got each other, their passports and wallets, phones and keys, and between that and Shane, it’s everything David could ever think of needing.
Yuna connects the phone to Bluetooth as soon as they hop in the car and Shane’s voice echoes in the speakers.
“And if he’s…wait, hold on, someone’s calling me,” Shane says suddenly as his breathing grows distant. “I-It’s Ilya, I’m gonna answer.”
He hangs up before they can respond and they sit in quiet purgatory, waiting for word from Shane, too scared to spook the silence with a taunt about luck.
The night around them breathes with an edge of fear, quiet but not calm, and David can only hope whatever’s on the end of that call won’t destroy his son completely.
“ well , hello sleeping beauty . you fell asleep on me . ”
SalEddie please!
Bonus it’s pre-relationship and Sals got Eddie all flustered and awkward!
Some pre-relationship Sal/Eddie for you @fairytalegonewronga03!
Eddie sat on Sal’s couch, arms tight around himself while they watched The Mummy. Sal sat next to him on his right. On his left was Buck, then next to Buck was Tommy. The two of them were cozied up to each other and taking up plenty of each other’s space, but it wasn’t the biggest couch and Eddie felt like he was having to tense every muscle in his body to keep from touching Sal.
After nearly two hours, his body was starting to ache.
“I still can’t believe you’d never seen this, Evan” Tommy said when the credits began to roll.
“Yeah Brendan Fraser and Rachel Weisz definitely had me figuring some shit out,” Sal grinned. “That Imhotep guy was hot too. And face tattoo guy.”
“I was 7 when it came out,” Buck said in his own defense. “But yeah it was pretty good. Did you know they used to mummify animals too? Like, millions of cats. A-and crocodiles.”
“Fascinating,” Eddie said flatly, getting an elbow in the ribs from Buck. This knocked him out of his careful balance and his shoulder bumped into Sal’s. Eddie’s entire body went hot at the contact, his face burning.
Sal was unaffected, as usual.
Eddie pushed up off the couch and walked across Sal’s living room, giving himself space to stretch while he looked at some of the stuff on Sal’s shelves. Pictures of him with family and friends, books stacked every which way, knick-knacks that were a little dusty, which Eddie found oddly comforting.
Buck and Tommy had wanted to hang out more with Eddie and Sal, and what easier way than forcing them all together. They’d started hanging out more, meeting up for drinks or having game nights. They’d all met at Sal’s tonight for dinner (Sal made meatballs that he was very proud of) then decided to watch a movie.
“So we gonna watch the next one?” Sal asked while he clicked the remote, navigating to where the next one was on the screen.
Eddie stretched again and rolled his shoulders. He was tired, but it wasn’t even 9 p.m. yet and Chris was at a sleepover. He wanted to make the most of his free time.
Truth be told, wanted to spend a little more time with Sal if he had the chance to. He liked Sal. Yeah, he had a big mouth and could be pretty crass, but he was fun and funny. He liked Sal too. He was charming and unexpectedly sweet sometimes.
And hot. Really hot.
And strong.
And he smelled good.
And Eddie had no idea what to do about all of that because it made him feel awkward and flustered a lot of the time. He’d never been the smoothest guy when it came to people he was attracted to. Put him in front of a compound fracture and he knew exactly what to do. Put him in front of a pair of sharp blue eyes and a crooked smile? He’d forget how to talk and trip over his own ballroom-dance-award-winning feet.
“I’m in,” Eddie said, going back over to the couch.
Buck and Tommy looked at each other, some kind of silent communication between them.
“I think we’re gonna head out,” Tommy said.
Eddie’s shoulders sagged in disappointment. He wasn’t ready for the night to be over.
“Y-you guys enjoy the movie though, alright?” Buck said as he got up and followed Tommy to the door.
Oh. It hadn’t really occurred to Eddie that he had the option to stay. With Sal. Alone.
“Hey, you want another beer or anything?” Sal asked, walking into his kitchen once Buck and Tommy had left.
Eddie had only had one beer and it was before the movie, but he was still feeling a little fuzzy, so he didn’t think another was a good idea. “No, I’m good, thanks,” Eddie replied as he sank back down onto the couch.
Sal came back with a beer for himself and a glass of water that he set on the coffee table in front of Eddie. Then Sal sat back down on the couch right next to Eddie, even though the rest of the couch was wide open. He was even closer than he’d been before, the outside of his thigh up against Eddie’s.
Eddie’s entire body felt hot, especially his face. He liked being this close to Sal. He liked it a lot. He was so solid beside him and smelled like beer and garlic and rosemary and whatever cool, ocean-y scented cologne he wore.
Moving away would send the wrong message and probably make things more awkward than staying where he was.
“Alright, Mummy Returns?” Sal asked, picking up the remote, his arm brushing Eddie’s as he did, making his skin tingle.
“Let’s do it,” Eddie said, offering Sal a smile that was hopefully more confident than he was feeling.
As the movie got going, the ache in Eddie’s neck and shoulders spread up to his head. He tried stretching out his neck a few times to see if that would help.
“You good?” Sal asked, slinging his arm casually along the back of the couch behind Eddie.
“Yeah, neck’s just a little sore.”
Eddie felt Sal’s hand move to the back of his neck and flinched at the suddenness of it. Sal cupped his warm hand around the back of Eddie’s neck for a moment, then pressed with his finger and thumb at the base of Eddie’s skull, massaging firmly in small circles.
“This okay?” Sal asked in a low voice.
“Yeah,” Eddie said, closing his eyes for a moment. His face burned hot and a shiver ran down his spine as Sal’s strong hand eased some of the tension, the warmth pushing away the ache.
Eddie wanted to lean into the touch like a cat, begging for more, begging to be touched everywhere. He felt hot and cold all over, exhausted and restless. His scalp prickled with awareness, almost painfully.
Eddie kept his eyes closed while Sal touched him, until his eyelids became so heavy he couldn’t open them anymore and he started to drift.
*****
Sal watched as Eddie’s head tipped forward in sleep, then he’d catch himself awake, again and again. He’d seemed exhausted and Sal had been pretty surprised the guy had stayed. Or maybe not so surprised because he knew Eddie had a thing for him.
Which was really fucking convenient because Sal had a thing for him too. But it was like dealing with a scared animal - you had to move slowly. You move too fast and they’d get spooked and run away. And if Eddie ran, Sal wasn’t so sure he’d come back.
Sal had wondered for a while now if Tommy and his guy had been trying to set them up and that’s why they’d been wanting to get together - all under the guise of wanting to spend more time with their best friends and hey, why not do that together. Those two idiots weren’t as smooth as they thought they were.
There was a 50/50 chance they’d either bailed early tonight to let Eddie and Sal be alone together or to get home and fuck. Probably both. Everyone wins.
Sal was happy for them. Buck brought out Tommy’s goofy (but still dry as hell) side that other guys he’d dated really hadn’t. The kid wasn’t too annoying to be around and he came with a sidekick whose ass Sal hadn’t stopped thinking about since the day he met him. And, bonus, that ass came with a pretty great personality and a really nice smile.
As Eddie’s head started to tip forward again, Sal gently guided Eddie’s head toward the front of his shoulder. Eddie didn’t fight it, he just tucked himself against Sal’s side like he was meant to be there.
His cheek felt warm through Sal’s tee shirt. Too warm. His breathing was a little congested. Sal frowned to himself and brushed his fingers through Eddie’s hair gently. He must be coming down with something, had probably already been feeling like crap. Sal felt just a small pang of guilt that Eddie had stayed. More so, he was relieved that Eddie had stayed so he could take care of him a while.
Eddie shivered and snuggled in closer to Sal. Without jostling him too much, he grabbed a throw blanket off the back of the couch and spread it over Eddie the best he could. Then, because he just couldn’t fucking help himself, he turned and pressed his nose into Eddie’s hair, breathing in the scent of whatever stuff he washed and styled it with and his natural warm scent underneath.
Sal let the movie play, not wanting to disturb whatever combination of factors was helping Eddie sleep.
It felt good to have Eddie close like this, his face relaxed with sleep. He always seemed on guard around Sal. Not in a way like he didn’t trust Sal, more like he didn’t trust himself not to make a mistake of some kind.
He wished Eddie would let go of all that and just…live.
Sal brushed the backs of his fingers against Eddie’s cheek. His skin was hot, feverish. Eddie stirred in his sleep. His next breath cut short and his body curled in on itself as he coughed himself awake. Sal frowned, but pushed himself into a smile as Eddie’s eyelids fluttered open.
Eddie groaned and turned his face to press it against Sal’s chest. When he finally woke all the way and realized what he was doing, he weakly pushed himself upright.
“Well, hello sleeping beauty,” Sal said gently.
Eddie blinked at him, confused. “Wha-”
“You fell asleep on me,” Sal explained. He couldn’t help himself, he reached out and touched Eddie’s bright red cheek. “I think you’ve got a fever.”
“Yeah I don’t feel great,” Eddie said hoarsely, then turned away from Sal and coughed.
Sal grabbed the glass of water off the table and handed it to Eddie. Eddie took a few sips then sighed.
“I should get going,” Eddie said. He pushed up from the couch then wobbled. Sal got up quickly to steady him.
“You should just stay here tonight,” Sal insisted, though he could see the stubborn set of Eddie’s brow.
Eddie leaned his weight onto Sal. “I need to get home. Chris will be back tomorrow.”
“Let’s worry about that tomorrow,” Sal said, guiding an uncharacteristically pliant Eddie back toward his bedroom. “Right now, I want to get your fever down.”
Sal deposited Eddie at the foot of his bed, then grabbed a glass of water and a couple acetaminophen tablets. Eddie took them without fuss and Sal watched him swallow them down, then urged him to drink the entire glass of water before he took it back.
“Alright let’s get these pants off,” Sal said once he’d set the empty glass on top of his dresser.
Eddie looked at him with hazy eyes and a pink cheeked smile. “Buy a guy a drink first.”
Sal couldn’t help his laugh at that. The reason was shitty, but having Eddie tired and unguarded was nice. He turned away and grabbed a pair of sweatpants and held them up as Eddie unbuttoned his own jeans.
“Maybe I could owe you one when you’re feeling better,” Sal said, helping Eddie stand and tug the jeans down over his ass. Eddie sat back down on the bed and let Sal take his pants off the rest of the way without argument.
Eddie cleared his throat roughly. “Like a…”
“A date, yeah,” Sal said, working the waistband of the sweatpants up Eddie’s thighs. He knew now wasn’t the appropriate time and was trying to keep things kind of clinical, but Eddie had really nice thighs.
He helped Eddie up to get the sweatpants on all the way, then maneuvered him into bed.
“You’d wanna do that?” Eddie asked, sounding more congested by the second.
Sal pulled the blankets up to Eddie’s chest while he settled against the pillows, then sat on the edge of the bed and rolled his eyes. “I’ll let it slide because you’re sick, but you’re not that stupid, Eddie.”
The corners of Eddie’s mouth twitched into a smile that had Sal smiling back.
“Whatever,” Sal muttered. He pressed the back of his hand to Eddie’s cheek then his forehead. He already felt a little cooler than before, but still plenty warm. “I’ll be in the living room, but I’ll come check on you okay?”
“Why? Stay here.”
Sal’s brows rose in surprise. “Really?”
Eddie swallowed hard, wincing like it was painful before he smiled again. “You’re not that stupid, Sal.”
It might not be the smartest idea. Eddie could wake up clear-headed and freak out and that would be the end of it. But then Eddie shivered and, well, Sal never claimed to be a smart man.
“Alright,” Sal agreed.
Sal slipped out of his clothes, fully aware of Eddie’s tired eyes on him, then pulled on a pair of shorts to sleep in. By the time he came out of the bathroom, teeth thoroughly brushed and contacts out, Eddie was curled on his side with the blankets tucked up under his chin.
Sal got into bed carefully, listening to Eddie’s congested breathing in the dark. He could feel Eddie’s body heat like an oven and was going to give him some space, but he shivered again. Sal moved in close behind him and curled his body around Eddie’s, then put an arm around him and pulled him close to his chest. Eddie tensed for just a moment before his body relaxed.
“This okay?” Sal whispered in the dark.
Eddie just let out a soft hum that set off a coughing fit. Sal rubbed his arm until it was done and Eddie settled back down.
“S’nice,” Eddie said, hoarse and exhausted.
“Just don’t freak out when you wake up in the morning with my boner stabbing you in the ass.”
Eddie scooted his ass back like a challenge.
“Knock it off,” Sal grumbled fondly.
After a few moments of settled silence, Sal leaned in and pressed a kiss to the back of Eddie’s head. “Wake me up if you need anything, okay?”
“I will,” Eddie said, then sniffed. It was disgusting and congested sounding and yet all Sal wanted to do was pull him closer. “Good night.”
“Good night,” Sal echoed.
He stayed awake until Eddie was soundly asleep and snoring. He wondered if Eddie always snored like this.
Well, if everything went how he hoped it would, he’d find out sooner than later.
bucktommy; this is loose with timelines, reality, etc. so just enjoy the ride! it's all love, no hurt today, friends.
[wc: 3890; below or on ao3]
Buck hasn’t been a probie for a while, Eddie coming in and replacing him as the greenest and most inexperienced member – outside of all his Army stuff, Buck guesses – since he started at the 118.
He’d come in on the heels of another firefighter that transferred out, something about wanting to get back to doing something he did before. For what it’s worth, Buck’s grateful to the guy but can’t imagine leaving the station behind. Not after he and the rest of the team went through Chim’s accident last year, Bobby’s relapse, and all the bullshit with his sister and the guy she calls a husband.
Or used to, anyway.
Now, every time he hops into the engine, sirens blaring over his head as he navigates the streets of Los Angeles, it runs a little more smoothly. Buck knows he doesn’t have much for second chances – well third or fourth, but who’s counting – and he desperately loves this job, so he sticks to what he knows best.
Heaving equipment and hauling ass, using muscle and his voice and the adrenaline he finds like a heat-seeking missile, it’s starting to become a second skin. Muscle memory, natural – it’s not just the physical push the job gives him every day, it’s the community too.
Buck’s family, if he can really call them that, weren’t always the most reliable. Using the cold shoulder and avoidance as practicing elitists, his parents didn’t spread joy and love to his family quite the same way they did in their classrooms. And Buck’s always felt like he missed out on something because of it.
So now, when he rolls into a call with the team at his side, he offers what he never got.
Compassion, patience, care, attention.
That paired with his standard badassery makes the job perfect for Buck and he doesn’t want that to change any time soon.
The problem with that – all the caring and empathy and soft-spoken support – is that it burns a little brighter every time a call doesn’t go the way it should. Each life lost, each tear shed, it digs deeper and carries an ache he hasn’t quite mastered the art of softening yet.
Maybe someday he’ll get better at it.
But today – during this call – he’s not any better than anyone else.
Thomas had been fine.
He’d been talking to Buck, wrapped in a blanket and broken-hearted at the loss of the love of his life, but his breathing was stable, he was carrying conversation normally. Nothing was out of place.
Until it was.
Until Thomas was bent over Mitchell, hands wrapped over where his heart used to beat, his own stopping right along with it.
Buck had stepped away, just for a moment – a brief fraction of time that was just the two of them, the only time Thomas had left – and he was distracted. He knew he was, glancing through photographs that pulled a raw sort of pain deep in Buck’s bones, hollowed out his chest and left it cold and empty.
They had a whole life together. Time shared in smiles and sadness, eyes locked on each other or the camera with the city, their home, their friends surrounding them.
Buck was the last person to talk to Thomas, and he can’t even remember what he’d said, just that he loved Mitchell dearly. And that they worked hard to get where they were – together.
He hopes a love like that finds him and lasts him a lifetime.
*
Tommy was born into a broken home – one without a mother and with an empty shell of a man where his father should be. His mom died in childbirth; a hemorrhage they caught too late that left her cold and limp on an operating room table.
Not for nothing he can tell his dad tried to give a shit about him, but by the time he was old enough to realize the resentment he held was the blame for Tommy’s mother being gone, he’s not so sure he can find much fault.
Usually, he’ll end the night with a passing thought it would’ve just been better for his mom to survive and for him to be gone, at least then he wouldn’t have to endure the sorrow-filled looks and anger-boiled tears that hide behind a tight-lipped face he barely knows. Every day he starts to look more like the man, but feels distance grow just as often.
Leaving for the military at the ripe age of 17 didn’t help boost his ego much, and the camaraderie of the army vanished once the bullets started raining and a member of his battalion was lost in the field.
It took a downed chopper and a broken femur for Tommy’s tour to end and after that, and every time he thought about getting in the air again he had a panic attack. He thought, with some heartache, that life would be best to leave behind.
The fire academy was both familiar and novel as he was pulled into the shuffle with the rest of the newbies. Old patterns of following orders, getting in line, structure and organization came easily to Tommy. Clockwork, routine, a costume he wore like his blood latched onto it.
The difference, though, was that they were on the opposing team. Saving, not destroying. Helping, not hurting.
When he graduated and got assigned to the 118, Tommy thought he could finally become something his father would be proud of, something he could wear like a badge of honor that didn’t come with the thrash of flashbacks and fears of fireworks.
Instead, he got Vincent Gerrard and the Good Ol’ Boys Club, familiar in a different kind of way. Bullying came easy after time spent with them, blending in so he didn’t stick out, trying to get along to get by.
Time trudged ahead and Tommy endured the daily grind, found pockets of light in the darkness, spoke up when he finally found the cajónes to do it right this time.
Hen and Howie saved him, and through their friendship he re-found himself. The parts of himself that he wanted to keep, at least.
Compassion. Empathy. A desperate, urgent need to help.
And longing to take to the sky again.
After time under Bobby’s command and the tutelage of people much smarter than him, Tommy took the leap. Re-certified and found a home at Harbor Station. One where he could be himself, where he could push against every effort his father, his commanding officer, his shitty old captains tried to use to keep him down.
He came out, built hobbies, made friends even when it was hard.
But there was still something missing. A piece that didn’t feel like it quite fit, an emptiness he usually chalked up to the loss of his mother.
Until today.
Something shifts when he walks into Harbor, the breeze in the morning sky floating through the hangar and dusting the back of his neck. Like fingertips tracing his hairline, teasing at his spine and into his ribs. It’s warm, comforting – a handmade quilt just freed from the dryer – and he closes his eyes briefly to take it in.
He’s not one for religion, doesn’t much believe in God, but the feeling is so all-consuming, so incredibly tender, that he feels the burn of tears pressing against his closed eyes, whispers a hello to his mom, and soaks in the heat.
When the feeling simmers, slowing to a current coasting along a river rather than the rapids of sun-soaked force, he blinks his eyes open. The world’s the same but altogether different. Pockets of color light up his gaze, things he’d never noticed before fresh in the bloom of newly lit senses.
“Yo, Kinard, you good?”
Tommy looks back, startled at the voice, and nods, lips tingling. It’s not disorienting – in fact, it’s the opposite. Like a sixth sense he hasn’t tapped into yet, one that’s as young as he was when he was shipped off to war.
“Yeah,” he calls back to Jenkins, medic with the 217. “I’m good.”
The world shifts slightly after that, like hands are steadying his own with each ascent and landing, like a protective layer shielding him from harm’s way.
It’s enticing, the call of taking risks for the sake of his patients, for the sake of life on the ground and in his cabin. He starts taking more risks, starts scraping seconds off last-ditch efforts, throws a Hail Mary more than once.
A blessing or a curse, it works, and he doesn’t question it. Takes an extra 3-pointer every game of pick-up basketball, stays under the hood of the Chevy a second longer when it starts to shake.
Melton – Tommy’s captain – takes notice, calling him into his office more than once. The talk is routine at this point, words droning with his badge glinting sunlight just between Tommy’s eyes. The risks are getting dangerous, he’s cutting things too close, asking for trouble in more ways than one.
Still, Tommy can’t seem to stop himself. The novelty’s worn off but the feeling persists, one of absence, pulsing just behind his ribs where his heart is nestled against his shuddering lungs. Howie calls in a favor more than once and what’s Tommy supposed to do, the guy saved his life.
Sure, inside of a strip mall, but in the loft of the station after sleepless nights, wound up in guilt and frustration and tears shed over one too many drinks after shifts.
This time, though, it’s different. Howie calls him in to fly a water tanker over a burning neighborhood in Doheny Park, begs him to help the 118 when the rest of the water runs dry and houses catch like kindling.
There are families, he says, ones with kids and fresh starts and everything Tommy never got to have.
He hops in the plane, flies it over the lot with a breath of relief, lands the bird and earns himself a reprimand, but it doesn’t bother him much after the father of the kiddo trapped inside the embers of a brand new family home stops by Harbor.
“E-Eddie Diaz with the 118 told us…they said you flew the plane over,” he says, hand outstretched, eyes bright with tears. When Tommy’s hand lands in his, that sense blooms between them, stitching their stories together with the press of a warm palm, the spark of gratitude. It ignites what’s dulled over the last few months, brightens the world again.
Tommy wonders if that’s the secret to all of this – helping people, earning back parts of himself he lost over years of pain and suffering. Maybe it earns his keep on the right side of something powerful.
So, he persists, learns the shape of the feeling like a second skin, flexes the muscles with practice and precision. Earns the right to wear the extra shield like a badge of honor.
He thinks it’s his to keep. Forever.
Until the day he meets Evan Buckley.
Waltzing into Harbor on the heels of Howie and that Diaz kid, bright and smiling like it’s first day on the job. Tommy knows better, knows his story better than most, has heard through the grapevine tales of the kid who refuses to die.
It suits him.
The piece that’s been so achingly absent starts to unfold, shivers and rattles and tumbles towards his chest. When Evan reaches his hand out in greeting and their skin collides, the piece assembles where it belongs.
The world grows brighter still, Harbor yawning at Evan’s back like it’s lighting the stage just for him.
“E-Evan – Buckley – Buck, I mean. Well, Ev-Evan is my…hi,” he says, stuttering, cheeks warming with a fresh blush, rosy and just as bright as his crooked smile.
“Tommy Kinard,” Tommy says, pushing confidence through his teeth like he has any right.
“I’ve…I heard about…” Evan mumbles before Howie cuts in.
“Listen, we don’t have much time before Hen–”
“Right,” Tommy says, coughing and shaking out his hands, leading them toward the helicopter.
The night unravels in a way he hasn’t experienced before, the guard, the guidance, his senses heightened at every turn – it’s like the helicopter is wrapped in a pocket of defense, storm and sour winds trapped at bay while they stay tucked inside the cabin.
Like Evan being there breathed new life into something stagnant and well-worn.
Bobby and Athena end up in a capsized cruise ship with a whole slew of others and if that isn’t God, Tommy isn’t quite sure what to call it, but when the day finally shifts from rescue to recovery, it loosens its grip entirely.
Exhaustion tugs him down, muscles weak and ragged, eyes drooping with each blink.
“Yo-You, uh, need a ride?” Evan’s at his side between one blink and the next and Tommy can barely feel the smile that tips up his face.
“If you don’ mind,” he mutters, his bird safely tucked into Harbor and Evan’s jeep just beyond the doors.
“You saved my captain’s life,” Evan shrugs, and Tommy feels the spark of something working at his ribs, trying to keep him upright, pushing against the pain.
Tommy doesn’t realize the world shifts from color to grays and deepens at the edges, darkness dragging him down, but when he collapses in the passenger seat, his eyes are closed before the car even moves.
*
Buck can’t explain the feeling he has around Tommy Kinard. Sure, he’s cool as hell – a helicopter pilot and a firefighter – and he looked every bit of badass he is with his hands wrapped around the cyclic, calling out instructions through the rescue and back to the station.
His jaw is sharp and his tongue is sharper, and every time Buck looks at his eyes, his own can’t stop shifting to the damn cleft in his chin.
He’s handsome, smart, funny. Not to mention brave. He fits right in with the 118 and it’s no wonder Chim’s stayed in touch with him all this time. Maybe he can get Tommy’s number from…
No.
What is he thinking? He’s just a guy. Got a good gym routine, carries himself like he knows what he’s doing, seems like a stand-up, salt of the earth kind of dude. Like he’d carry Buck’s bags for him or pay for dinner, maybe offer to –
Enough.
Tommy’s vulnerable, slumped in the passenger seat of Buck’s jeep, mouth slack as soft snores puff through his lips. His eyelashes flutter against his cheeks like his dream is too big for his mind.
At every stoplight, Buck glances over at him, makes sure his neck isn’t strained in a weird way, that he seems comfortable. He flicks off the air and adjusts to the heat when he sees Tommy shiver, turning the radio down to a dull hum.
There’s something, though. Something Buck can’t quite explain and isn’t entirely sure he wants to.
It buzzes beneath his skin, like an old friend that’s come to say hello after years in another country. Like a fresh bouquet, ruffling and bright in a vase at Grandma’s house. Like Maddie’s pot roast fresh out of the oven.
It slings him back to early memories of the 118, of calls he’s kept locked in his heart but unbothered all this time. Tucked away because they’re a little too painful to unwrap every day.
Wracking his brain, trying to solve the Rubik’s cube he’s somehow spun himself into, Buck realizes too late that Tommy never told him his address and realizes he’s driven back to the loft.
Well, shit.
Looking at Tommy again, Buck doesn’t want to disturb him, doesn’t want to disrupt the exhaustion he’s been carrying around since they landed. He looks so young in sleep, so peaceful.
Still, he’s massive. And Buck can’t carry him on his own. Well, he might be able to…
No, he can’t carry him on his own.
He exhales gently, leans in and presses his palm to Tommy’s shoulder.
“Tommy,” he says gently, squeezing against the broad stretch of muscle. The touch sparks something in his chest.
A memory, new life igniting something dulled over years of scar tissue.
A car slipping down a driveway, pinning a man against a wrought iron gate.
His husband, heartbroken and empty on the back of the ambulance next to Buck.
“He thought…with so little time left, we might as well live. Daring the clock. And me, I-I always followed along. All those foolish things we did. We only wanted to ever go together…that’s love.”
Tommy stirs awake, blinks against the bright fluorescent lights at the entryway to Buck’s building, confused, disoriented.
“Where are–”
“I-I realized I didn’t know your address and you…this is my place, do you want to just crash here? It’s, uh, it’s late,” Buck says, stuck on the memory, trapped between then and now.
Tommy’s eyes latch onto his and he nods tiredly.
“Sure,” Tommy mumbles, stretching his neck and reaching for the handle of the door.
They make their way up slowly, the elevator stopping on two floors before landing on Buck’s, and Tommy’s barely coherent enough to stumble inside to the couch. He lands, heavily, against the leather, shoes still laced around his feet, uniform still buttoned up to his neck.
Buck is careful with it, moves slowly so he doesn’t disturb Tommy, studies his features while he slowly unlaces each boot.
The feeling of familiarity is so strong it pulses behind his eyes, emotion knotting in his throat. It feels like something he’s known before but never in this life. It’s terrifying and dangerous, but so careful it’s fragility flutters like butterfly wings.
Buck gets Tommy’s shoes off, then his belt, undoes the top few buttons of his uniform to make him more comfortable. He reaches for a blanket to drape over his frame and freezes.
When he looks down at Tommy, it’s not him. Not entirely.
It’s someone more slender, younger, jaw still sharp, brow still furrowed like he’s deep in thought.
He’s curled up on the couch as a movie plays on screen, an old favorite, though Mitchell swears Thomas acts like it’s the first time every time.
The blanket softens over Thomas’ frame, the orange hue of the knit sparking against his skin and lighting up his cheeks like the first sunset they’d watched, sprawled on a picnic blanket together.
His breaths even out and he burrows deeper into the blanket, huffing out a puff of air as he snuggles into the pillow.
Mitchell doesn’t want to leave but can’t stay, doesn’t want to forget this moment but can’t bear to stick around. It’s too painful, too raw, a peaceful secret trying to escape the sacred space between them.
Buck blinks down at Tommy and a tear sinks down his cheek as he watches him.
He knows him. But knows nothing about him.
When he climbs the staircase and tucks himself into bed, the sound of Tommy’s even breathing sings him a lullaby he swears he memorized decades ago, one that’s as comforting as his mother’s embrace, his sister’s laughter, the 118’s trust.
*
Tommy wakes to the smell of coffee and bacon, eyes blinking open to the dawn of a new day, sunlight blistering through the windows and heating up a spot right in the middle of his chest. Arms outstretched, he tilts upwards, swaying before steadying himself, feet pressed against the floor, socks warm against the hardwood.
“G’Morning,” Evan says from across the room, voice light.
Tommy glances over and it’s an image he’s seen since he was barely old enough to buy liquor.
Mitchell always woke up first, always made the coffee, kept it warm and added a splash of milk because he claimed black coffee was bad luck. Says a psychic told him that his first week in L.A. and hasn’t questioned it since.
Neither has Thomas.
When he looks at the coffee table, there’s a steaming mug set on the coaster, just a shade lighter than black, just a splash of milk.
Tommy clears his throat and takes a sip, letting the warmth coat his throat as he inhales the scent of bitter grounds, listens to the bacon sizzling on the stove.
“Thanks for letting me stay,” he says as he stands, stretching out his limbs and winding over to the kitchen where two place settings are waiting.
“Sorry I didn’t catch your address before you crashed,” Evan says apologetically. “But I-I owe you, so I’m happy to, um, repay the favor.”
Tommy grins and accepts the offering of breakfast and a smile, nearly reaches for Evan to tug him in for a kiss before realizing how incredibly out of place that would be, and settles into the chair.
Evan sits right beside him, mouth wrapping around a big bite of eggs, eyes still shimmering with a look Tommy’s captivated by. They eat breakfast in comfortable quiet, occasionally asking questions about the other’s life, curious to know more but both vaguely aware this won’t be the last time they share a meal together.
Tommy can’t remember how it happens, exactly, just that they’re washing dishes together, shoulder to shoulder, stories weaving from one to the next, cross-stitching between past and present, skirted in laughter and longing Tommy can’t recall ever feeling before.
The words start to lose meaning, and the shared touch and blanket of warmth from the sun peeking through the window show Tommy everything he wants to see. He leans in without thought.
Evan doesn’t seem bothered by it, instead almost seems like he’s been expecting it all along. He tilts forward and closes the gap, meeting Tommy in the middle. Their lips press together and it feels like coming home.
Tommy can feel it – the added heat, the spark of something more than just the two of them, breath fluttering and body buzzing with an adoration he doesn’t quite understand.
It feels like it lasts forever, and by the time he pulls back, Evan’s lips are plump and injected with ruby, cheeks alight with the color trickling beyond where they connected. They stare into each other’s eyes, and Tommy can see a lifetime in Evan’s.
One with Mitchell, of protests and marriage and a home all their own.
One with Evan, a modern mirror of the same.
Evan blinks like he’s capitated in the same story, and a tear threatens to tumble down his cheek. Tommy brushes it away with the pad of his thumb before it gets too far, and leaves his fingers there. Tracing his cheek, his jaw, the curls of his bedhead, the outline of his birthmark.
Evan’s eyes dip closed and Tommy wants to keep this moment forever.
With a distant realization, Tommy breathes and realizes, suddenly, it’s gone.
That protection he’s grown so used to, the love that wraps around him and keeps him safe, shields him from the world when it matters most, bleeds warmth into every piece of the puzzle he’s built into a life.
He doesn’t feel an ache in its absence, though. Instead, Evan opens his eyes, smiles up at Tommy, and leans in for another kiss.
Even though this one is different, it’s still so much the same.
It might not have the added shimmer of a guardian angel, but Tommy’s found one regardless.
Buck and Eddie had five beautiful years together, but when Eddie dies, Buck processes his grief in his growing friendship with Tommy.
[i love all of these characters so much, no bashing! this story is an emotional journey for buck and he loves both eddie and falls for tommy, if that is not for you, that's ok! check the next one.
this takes place within the timeline of meeting tommy (s7) but buck and eddie are married/established at the beginning, unlike in the show.]
[wc: 6,271]; below or on ao3
It’s been two days.
Two days since the love of his life, the person at his side day in, day out – through calls and heartbreak and joy and everything in between – was lost.
Two days of the world stopping its movement, the tide ceasing, the air stilling without the stiff blow of a heated breeze.
Life, as Evan Buckley knew it, will never be the same again.
It all started somewhere in the first six months of the guy joining the 118, the first time Buck’s eyes landed on his shifting hips – tracing abs and biceps up to strong shoulders as a t-shirt settled into place – doing leaps more for Buck’s thundering heart than anyone had before him.
Eddie Diaz waltzed into the station, all confidence and control, and Buck thought he’d lose everything. The time he spent building up his name, gaining skill and respect and something that looked like home – all of it suddenly shifting the minute Eddie came to the team.
Buck, with such fierce jealousy and envy at the ease with which he carried himself through the world, lashed out with anger. Frustration carried him through calls at Eddie’s side in the only way Buck knew how to keep love – through rebellion.
Eddie didn’t bite, though. He didn’t push back, didn’t take what Buck did to heart. He softened, promised he’d be there, that he could be trusted, reliable, a partner.
It didn’t take long after that to fall into friendship. Secrets shared over meals, lives nearly lost on calls that broke them down, heartache and suffering sewn into shifts so deeply they could never be erased.
When Eddie lost Shannon, Buck felt it deep in his bones – like the loss was his own, like the memories shared were something branded into his own skin. Eddie’s pain became his, his loss something Buck tried like hell to help him through.
A reliable, steady presence, at his side through the worst of it.
But a ladder truck and months of recovery brought suffering Buck hadn’t ever experienced before, the physical pain nothing compared to the ache of being apart from his team.
When he nearly lost Chris in the tsunami, fought like hell to make it home to people who proved they mattered time and time again, something shifted.
Eddie showed up one night, tears burning in his eyes, brow furrowed in pain or agony, Buck wasn’t quite sure which. He didn’t question it, didn’t want to be a barrier to anything that could help Eddie be happy – somehow – again. Instead, he opened his arms and Eddie fell right in.
After that, something beyond friendship grew so rapidly, it felt inevitable. So powerful, loving, captivating in every way, Buck didn’t question it – couldn’t for fear of losing something he’d been searching his whole life to find.
They got married soon after, celebrating five years of wedded bliss just barely a month before everything changed.
Chris still calls him Buck, despite him earning the title of stepdad, and Eddie calls him baby. The quiet, candlelit dinner on the anniversary of their wedding day softened into a shared night together, so intense and loving Buck could only thank his lucky stars he’d fallen into something so perfect.
The 118 got a call, a few weeks back, of a wildfire they finally leveled after endless days of battling against the smoke and ash. They’d partnered with the 122 and the 217 to battle to the bitter end.
Tommy Kinard, a pilot with the 217 and veteran of the old 118 under Gerrard’s heyday and Bobby’s beginning, shot the shit with them during breaks, making a quick connection with Eddie and falling into a fast friendship.
He’d spent a couple nights at the Buckley and Diaz home, Christopher hounding him with questions about flight and Eddie ragging on his latest car project, calling him a quitter for giving up when the transmission cut out too soon.
Buck liked the camaraderie, liked finding someone that sparked so much joy in Eddie over hobbies he had little interest in pursuing. He’d clicked with Tommy too, found it easy to talk to the guy about his Nonna’s recipes and favorite contestants on The Bachelor before he’d call it a night.
It feels like everything is falling into place, bricks stacking and building a house Buck plans to call his forever, one of love and protection and care, built from friendship and family and something that stretches beyond both.
The morning it happens, they’re up at the same time, Buck cooking breakfast and Eddie pestering Chris to get dressed.
“School drop-off in fifteen minutes, Christopher. If I don’t see you out here in five, I’ll make you walk,” Buck hears him say. He smiles, shaking his head knowing the threat is empty, hearing it every other day all the same.
Arms wrap around his waist, warm and strong, the familiar press of palms against his ribs exhaling a sigh as he leans back against his husband.
“Any luck?” Buck murmurs as he plates eggs and flips off the burner.
“He was still in bed when I went in there,” Eddie grumbles, no real heat behind the words.
Buck hands him a plate and presses a kiss to his temple as he turns, nodding toward the table. “You, eat. I’ll pack his for the car.”
Eddie salutes playfully and sinks into a chair, shoveling eggs and toast into his mouth and chasing with coffee. Buck stacks Christopher’s egg into toast, wraps it up in parchment paper and tosses a few grapes in a Tupperware with it. He brings it to the front door, tucks it into the side of Chris’ backpack and stacks it with his and Eddie’s work duffels.
When he winds back to the kitchen, his boys are ready and waiting, Chris rubbing at his eyes grumpily and scanning the kitchen counter.
“Breakfast in your bag, kid,” Buck says, tugging Eddie in for another kiss. “You guys ready?”
They leave the house and make it to school with a few minutes to spare, Chris slamming the door shut with a murmured “Later.”
Eddie shakes his head and pulls out of the lot, smile still tugging at his lips. “I can’t believe he’s already a teenager.”
“I can’t believe you still believe he’ll be ready on time,” Buck laughs, turning up the radio.
The rest of the drive is filled with chit-chat, a reminder to pick up brown sugar on the next shopping trip for a cookie recipe Buck wants to try, and a save-the-date for a pick-up basketball buddy’s wedding sometime in the fall.
It’s the same as it always is, just as mundane as before, just as casual, no professions of love or intimacy that isn’t shared every day on the same drive.
The call comes through dispatch like always – house fire in Glendale, wife and husband likely trapped inside, and the 118 climbs into the engine. It’s muscle memory, slotting himself next to Eddie in the cab, Bobby’s voice carrying through the headset laying out details and directives.
The fire’s climbing, started on the first floor near the kitchen and took off like a rocket, slamming through the dining room, living room, and spreading across the first-floor bedroom.
The goal is to go in, get the victims out, put the fire down.
It’s the same as always.
It’s the fucking same. As. Always.
Buck’s replayed every second of the call in his mind since it happened, considers every alternative to every decision he made, every chance he could’ve changed something, somehow – desperately – make a different outcome.
But that’s not what happened.
Buck and Eddie went in, found the wife right away pinned behind a chair in the dining room, skin blistering from the heat, ash and smoke curled around her mouth where she lays in a helpless heap.
Eddie tells him to take her out and climbs up to the second floor where the husband must be.
Buck carries her out, transfers her quickly to Chim and Hen, placing an oxygen mask over her face as they get to work and assess her vitals.
Time stops, right then.
The moment clicks in Buck’s mind over and over and over.
An explosion, debris flying through the air and scattering across the road.
The house, nearly gone, splintered into dust and battered concrete, steel and molten metal. Furniture flung into the road burns bright, scarves and shirts fly in the wind like driftless birds.
And Buck is frozen.
The team runs around him, holds him in place when he tries to sprint into the molten memory of a home that was. Bobby’s shouting in his ear, telling him to stop, Chim’s screaming to back down, Ravi’s rushing over with his arms full, begging the team to help in some way.
But it’s gone.
Eddie, too.
Somewhere between the explosion and the station, Bobby found what was left, tells Buck he doesn’t want to see, wants to protect him from the pain.
But he can’t. Couldn’t possibly. Because the pain is all-encompassing, full-throated. Life-changing.
Buck’s heart feels like it’s pulled straight from his ribs, chewed apart and hastily sewn back together so it barely beats enough to survive. When he thought he was helping Eddie live without Shannon, he had no idea it felt like this.
Like he’s lost a limb, like he’s been left in the middle of the desert without water, like he’s stuck on Mars without air.
Telling Christopher is nothing short of torture, his heartbreak amplified, shattered again in the cries that come from his chest. Raw and ragged and torn from something so deep, Buck can’t begin to know how to mend any of it.
Lost a mother and soon after, a father. And Buck, nowhere close to being enough to fill the hole where his heart is lost.
Buck gets by doing something like living, breathes through the pain and drinks enough water to replenish tears he feels like won’t ever end. They aren’t alone, someone from the 118 stopping by to check on them, to bring food, to let Buck drift into the bedroom and close the door where he can shatter quietly.
Without Christopher’s determined eyes.
It’s Buck’s fault, really, and Chris deserves better.
So, two days go by and Buck still hasn’t changed the outcome, still hasn’t traded his life for Eddie’s, still wakes up in a world where he isn’t.
It hurts.
It’s horrible.
But somehow, he survives.
He makes it through another, and another, and five and ten and thirty more. The ache is the same, hasn’t changed shape or softened, hasn’t grown weaker as the sun shimmers into dusk each evening.
He keeps going, for Chris. It’s always for Chris.
He needs a family, needs a parent, and Buck’s the only one close to something like that left. Even if Chris deserves more, deserves better than what Buck thinks he’s worth, Chris has told him it’s him he wants to stay with.
Eddie’s family fought to take him back. Fought to take Eddie back, too.
Buck refused, thanks God he and Eddie had been in the field long enough to know better, shows the paperwork that proves he wants to be buried in Los Angeles with a plot beside him waiting for Buck. And another where long down the road Chris will meet them at the river, waiting to walk into peace together.
It’s not far, and Buck makes a point to go at least once a week, he and Chris stopping by Shannon’s grave while they’re there, sharing new recipes, flowers, school grades and picnics. Chris talks about the girls he wants to impress, teases Buck and asks Eddie to back him up.
Buck can’t be sure, but he swears he feels the breeze shift when Chris laughs, hopes like hell it’s Eddie laughing with them again.
At the six-month mark, Buck decides he wants to start going through some of Eddie’s things.
His side of the closet hasn’t been touched, closed off and sequestered to a world stuck when he was still alive. Buck hopes somehow the air feels different, that it’s laced with something bigger than the smell of Eddie’s sea-salt cologne, the distant smoke that’s tucked into so many of their clothes.
Chris is at a friend’s, likely three slices of pizza and two Mountain Dews deep, complaining about the next level of whatever video game they’re stuck on. Buck’s sitting on the bed, facing the closet, fists clenched tight, heart racing rapidly in his chest.
He’s seen inside the closet a million times before, knows exactly what’s sitting behind the doors.
Still, when he finally gets the courage to open it, he staggers back and loses feeling in his legs, collapsing heavily back on the bed where he started.
It smells like him.
When Buck closes his eyes, he can feel Eddie’s touch lingering on his cheek. Can feel the soft press of his lips at his temple, at his neck. Feels those warm arms wrap around his hips once again.
He chokes on a sob and feels his hands reach for his chest, like he can somehow pull the man back from the dead through a string tied right around his heart.
He can’t. He’s tried more than once.
Knows this song and dance like he knows the way Eddie’s lip tilted into a frown every time he read the instruction manual. Like the way he put his milk in before his cereal, so it didn’t get soggy too fast. Like the way he carried mints in his pocket since Buck would complain about his breath in the car, or tilt his head away from a kiss after they ate dinner.
“Now you never have an excuse,” he’d said with a smirk, cheeks rosy with delight smile soft with teasing fondness as he handed Buck a life saver. Shifted to spearmint when Buck complained about peppermint.
When the fog clears and his tears dry, Buck closes the closet doors, heads out the front door, and drives right to his favorite coffee shop.
He’s proud he opened the door, made it through the hardest part, dignity not intact but at least contained to his own bedroom. He’ll try again another day, ask for forgiveness when it turns into months, beg Chris to clean up his homework so they have more room in the dining room even when he could make more space in the bedroom.
But today, he orders some kind of chocolatey mocha – one he knows Eddie would give him shit for – and settles into a seat on the patio, keeps his red-rimmed eyes behind sunglasses, and takes a deep breath.
“Evan?” He hears his name from across the lot, sees a slew of cars tucked into spots and kids running with their parents close behind through a small park at the edge of the complex.
The voice sounded familiar, but he can’t quite place it, scans again for someone he knows.
“Evan, hey,” the voice grows louder and the bulky man behind it comes along for the ride, broad shoulders stretched against the sunlight. He’s standing in front of Buck now, stuck in a shadow when Buck squints up at his frame.
“Sorry,” he laughs, shifting to the chair across from Buck, settling into it and leaning on the table.
“Tommy Kinard,” Buck says, finally seeing his face, knowing it from their brief time together before…last year.
Tommy smiles and nods, gesturing toward the coffee shop at their backs. “I was just gonna grab a coffee, mind some company?”
Buck shakes his head and smiles – it feels like he hasn’t talked to many people outside of the 118 and his sister in the last six months.
The funeral, school, work – it’s all kept him busy enough that he’s lost touch with a few other friends in the fallout, doesn’t quite know how to pick back up again without sounding like a bummer.
“Not at all,” Buck adds. “P-Please.”
Tommy smiles and asks, “Need anything while I’m in there?”
Buck shakes his head and his drink, “I’ve got my coffee dessert, I-I’m good.”
He’s in and out in no time, and when he relaxes again across from Buck, something feels like it settles. A connection to Eddie he didn’t have before now, one he feels like he wants desperately to keep.
“So what concoction did you go for?” Tommy asks, and Buck exhales. Waiting for the question, the pity, the sad, dark look that comes with the loss – it hasn’t gotten easier over time. In fact, it gets harder with every encounter, the urge to scream and cry wrapped in the frustration of feeling like he can’t do more than say he’s getting by.
Tommy doesn’t look pitying, though, he looks light and genuine, tuned into Buck without being wrapped in sorrow.
“Some mocha special they have,” Buck shrugs. “I just wanted something that tasted more like a milkshake today.”
“Didn’t want to spring for an actual milkshake?”
Buck chuckles, something so foreign these days it feels like an act, like the edge of a performance despite it’s authenticity. “Don’t have Chris with me, so it felt like coffee was the more, uh, mature option.”
Tommy laughs and sips his own iced brew – dark and bitter – a far cry from Buck’s milky white blend. Eddie’s was somewhere in between, a cream and two sugars, one if he was eating it paired with a scone or muffin Buck baked.
He claimed it balanced out the flavor somehow, kissed Buck to shut him up when he argued the logic. Buck licks his lips and imagines he can taste Eddie’s favorite flavors when his tongue traces over them.
“Up to anything fun today?” Tommy asks, leaning back in his chair. He looks so at ease, so casual with his kindness, something about it reminds him of Eddie’s sincerity. The way his eyes latch onto Buck’s like he’s paying attention, like he’s listening. Eddie used to do the same.
Buck laughs, something hollower this time, and sips his drink for comfort.
“Well,” he sighs. “I opened Eddie’s closet today, so I thought I deserved something sweet. If I’m lucky, I’ll be able t-to cook dinner tonight without crying.”
The words spill out before he can stop them – he’s sick of pretending he’s not still fighting a barely-winning battle, each day somehow both better and worse than the previous one.
He huffs, scrubs his hand over his eyes and keeps them closed to avoid having to see that pitying stare on Tommy’s face.
“So-sorry,” Buck murmurs. “I didn’t mean to…no. No plans today.”
“Hey, I think that warrants something sweet,” Tommy says, and it sounds like he’s smiling.
When Buck opens his eyes, sure enough, Tommy’s still slouched in his chair, eyes still warm, cheeks tipped into a smile.
“M-Me too,” Buck says on an exhale, taking another sip of his mocha.
“If you want help with dinner, I can swing by with something – drop it off for you and Chris,” Tommy offers casually. “I’m grabbing groceries for some minestrone soup, I was gonna make extra to freeze anyway.”
Buck starts to decline, doesn’t want to be a burden, but the sudden thought of Eddie whispering in his ear, telling him to let someone else in, take help where he can – pushes him in the other direction.
“If you don’t mind…”
“I don’t mind,” Tommy says easily. “What time do you want me to drop it off?”
“You can eat with us, i-if you want,” Buck offers, knowing Chris is a fan of Tommy’s too, wanting to bring a piece of Eddie with him as an offering, even if it’s only in the form of Tommy Kinard.
Tommy squints at him and Buck worries he crossed some kind of line; doesn’t want to burn a bridge he just built so quickly. He rushes to apologize, to say he doesn’t need to worry about it after all, knows if he calls Bobby, he’ll drop off dinner instead.
“I didn’t–”
“On one condition,” Tommy says as he leans in closer. “You let me leave another meal. And do the dishes.”
“That sounds like two conditions,” Buck says, just to be defiant. Can see Eddie rolls his eyes in the way Tommy’s grin grows.
“Then on two conditions,” Tommy retorts.
Buck sticks out his hand and Tommy shakes it. “Deal.”
Tommy makes minestrone and brings it by at six, sits down at the dining room table with him and Chris, and Buck can’t help but smile at the questions Chris asks over spilled soup and homemade bread.
He begs to know more about rotor speed, elevation, ejection procedures – the whole gamut – and Tommy, happily, obliges every question. Chris mentions something they did together with Eddie and Buck swallows back the sudden jolt in his chest at the story. He laughs, smile tight, then offers to take dishes into the kitchen.
Tommy glances at him and watches him go but doesn’t stop Chris’ story, instead leans in with inside jokes and pulls up a picture of Chris from the day, strapped into a helicopter seat, smile wide and bright.
Buck can hear Chris ask for him to text the picture and Tommy tells him it’s already done, and their laughter fades as Buck battles to get back to solid ground. He takes a heaving breath, shudders as it shakes on the exhale, blinks back tears that threaten to fall with every blink.
He turns on the faucet and runs a bowl beneath the water, doesn’t add soap, just lets it collect and spills it out over and over again.
He thought somehow this would make things easier, would help to have someone around that wasn’t a co-worker, wasn’t so closely tied to who Eddie was, what he did every day.
But somehow, he’s still fighting through the grief, stuck in the pain, trapped in the turmoil.
He gets it together enough to go back to the dining room with coffee – decaf this time – and scones he baked the other day. Chris wanders off to his room at some point to call a friend and supposedly work on a school project. Buck somehow doubts it when he hears the telltale sound of his Xbox start up through the closed door.
It’s a battle he has no interest in fighting today.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up anything that would–”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” Buck rushes to say. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I-I just…you never know what’s gonna…you know?”
“Yeah,” Tommy says softly. “Anything I can do while I’m here?”
“No,” Buck says, “No, I, uh, you’ve done more than enough. I really appreciate dinner. A-And Chris…I’m glad he got to remember a fun day with his dad.”
Tommy nods and starts to head to the kitchen, “I hope you didn’t do the dishes.”
Buck salutes teasingly, “No sir.”
It’s stupid, something he would’ve done to Eddie, but Tommy laughs the same as Eddie would’ve and the warmth feels right somehow. It’s not quite like it – far from it – but it’s not out of place there, in their home.
That feeling, even the fleeting tenderness behind it, makes the night worth it, and Buck makes sure to thank Tommy when he bids him goodnight after dishes are washed and tucked away. Leftovers sit stacked in the fridge as promised, and a tiramisu somehow snuck in alongside it. There’s a note pinned on top in messy chicken-scratch.
‘I didn’t make it but thought it could be your next reward for being courageous. When you’re ready. – Tommy.’
Tommy comes over a few more times, offers to fix the back patio where a railing has been hanging on by a thread – says he wants to do it for Chris’ sake and Buck thanks him for the trouble.
He changes the oil in Buck’s truck – and Eddie’s while he’s at it even though Buck hasn’t done anything but let it sit in the garage. It’s sat, tucked beside a punching bag that swings, lightly caked with dust and traces of Eddie’s fists in the leather.
It’s the fifth time he makes his way over, hands covered in dirt with the grime he’s picked up fixing the hostas in the front yard – that Buck tries again.
He sits on the bed like he did the first time, faces the open closet and inhales the scent of Eddie’s cologne, traces of his sweat still somehow baked in the fabric.
This time Buck pulls out a few things, decides his socks are a good place to start, knows he’d yelled at Eddie for keeping a few long past their deterioration. He tosses out the first few pairs, doesn’t recognize them for more than a pair of white crew ones, a couple in faded black, a couple more of blue and red.
When he gets to the pair he’d gifted Eddie their second Christmas together – ones with cowboy hats and the Texas flag embroidered along the edge, he feels tears press against his eyes.
Tucking them to the side, he reaches for another – a pair of wool ones Eddie always begged Buck for before he’d given up and just handed them over, said he didn’t want them back. Eddie always wore them when he was sick, said they had some kind of healing property sewn into the thread.
There’s a few more he recognizes, ones littered with holes, ones he’d claimed Chris gave him for Father’s Day in some distant memory.
When he gets to the bottom of the drawer, where he thought his chest would feel just as empty, it’s not as all-consuming as he’d feared. Tears still trace trails down his cheeks, his ribs still shudder against his shaky breaths, but he feels like he made it through something profound.
Like he’d crossed the first hurdle of the race, one he’d been running for months – so much so he’s exhausted, ragged, body torn up with his mind, the slow crawl of movement hardly noticeable in the ever-stretching road ahead.
Buck steps out of the bedroom to take a break, drink some water and stand out in the sun for a minute, look up at the sky and hope Eddie’s proud of him for making it through his stupid sock drawer eight months after he died.
It’s then that he collides with Tommy, chests pressing together in an unceremonious tangle of limbs.
“Oof,” he grunts, stumbling back against the door.
“Shit, sorry,” Tommy says, reaching out for Buck and catching him before his head hits the frame.
Buck shakes himself out of his shock, brushes his shirt and stands upright again, only to see he’s covered in dirt.
“Oh, shit!” Tommy says, eyes wide, mouth agape. “I’m – ah, I was coming in to wash my…one second.”
He rushes into the bathroom and Buck hears the faucet, tries to brush away the grime without much success. Tommy comes back quickly, damp washcloth in hand, already reaching for Buck’s forearms, wiping away the mud.
“Don’t, uh, it’s fine,” Buck stutters, laughs to settle the air that felt too hot, too tight in the bedroom at his back. They’re close together, still stuck in the narrow hallway, and Buck feels his chest flutter at the proximity.
“I’ll just…” Tommy side steps, heads back into the bathroom to toss the rag in the hamper, and comes out clean.
Tommy offers to take the bag of tossed socks out with him and Buck accepts, grateful he can let them go without having to second-guess himself.
“Was there anything else you wanted help with?” Tommy asks as he steps out the front door, no annoyance in his tone. “Anything Eddie wanted you both to have he didn’t get to?”
It’s the first time Tommy’s said his name without Buck bringing him up first, and the feeling Buck thinks he should have – one of shock or anger or full-blown hopelessness – doesn’t come. The offer feels like a warm hug, like an offering laced with care and respect, one that recognizes the man that came before him and everything he hoped and wanted for his family.
Buck swallows and shakes his head, suddenly regretful he doesn’t have a reason for Tommy to return, can’t think of something else to keep him around.
“Well, you can always call,” Tommy offers with a smile. “Tell Chris to text me about the dance, I can’t wait to hear how Amber feels about the big promposal.”
Buck chuckles and nods, tucking his hands in his pockets. “I’m sure she’ll love it,” he says with a smile, still connected to the piece of Tommy that Eddie knew too. The piece nobody but him and Chris got to see.
“See you around,” Tommy says as he heads for his truck.
Buck walks toward him without thought, mouth working before his mind, “U-Unless you want to help me with some more…um…helping get rid of some of Eddie’s stuff? It, uh, it helped having someone else around.”
Tommy softens at the words, barely noticeable, but his eyes shimmer with understanding, “I’d be honored.”
Buck feels like he means it.
The next time Tommy comes, they sort through Eddie’s jeans. Buck talks about the pair he’d turned into cut-offs for a Halloween costume a few years back, and Tommy laughs until his cheeks burn rosy pink.
There’s mints in the pockets of them all, ones Buck gathers and collects, and Tommy offers to tuck them into a small glass bowl he’d found in the kitchen. Fitting, since it belonged to Eddie’s abuela.
Buck arranges the mints inside and sets them on the dresser, tucked in front of a framed photo from Chris’ school play, one where Eddie’s smiling so big his eyes disappeared. It’s a place to say good morning, to remember the taste of spearmint, inhale it through the packaging and close his eyes, tasting Eddie’s minty tongue on his lips.
They make it through the rest of the dresser with only one panic attack and Buck blames the notes tucked inside an envelope at the back of one of the drawers. Little reminders, love notes, business cards, receipts from dates long passed. It’s a diary of Buck, tethered to Eddie, and tracing each word feels like holding his hand again.
The next time Tommy comes, he brings a shadowbox and suggests folding the notes inside, hanging them somewhere he can see them each day, protect them from the grit of daily life.
It keeps happening that way, Tommy comes to help and Buck tells him everything he remembers, all the best parts of Eddie, all the annoying frustrations that come with loving someone so intensely.
Tommy listens, holds his things with reverence, adds insights from his own time in the military to stories that Buck’s known without context for years. He asks questions, laughs about goofy things they’d shared over pavement in a pick-up basketball game, drenched in motor oil after a mishap in the garage.
Being with Eddie was like a warm quilt, one stitched with softened memories and care, one built through years of hard-earned love. It wrapped Buck in the scent of memories, kept him warm on harrowing nights, kept him protected and safe in times of strife.
Sharing space with Tommy feels like a backyard bonfire. Warm in a different kind of way, unexpected and exciting in the most electrifying ways.
They’re not the same, but they’re not so distant, either.
Somewhere between the collision in the hall and the final corner of Eddie’s things, Buck realizes he started feeling something more than friendship with Tommy.
Overwhelming guilt consumed him when he’d first recognized it for what it was – feeling like he was cheating on Eddie or being unfaithful even in the confines of his mind. Maddie talked him off that ledge, reminded him it’s been almost a year, that Eddie would be glad for him feeling safe with someone new.
That helps, a little, but it’s not until he’s with Chris one night that things settle.
“Is Tommy coming over?” Chris asks over pizza, mouth full of marinara and pepperoni.
“Swallow your food,” Buck says with an eye roll. “Is Tommy coming over for what? Do you need help with something?”
“He told me if you were okay with it, we could get a car and rebuild it together,” Chris says between bites. “Like Dad wanted to.”
Buck startles, takes a bite of his own pizza to buy a few seconds.
“Y-You, uh, you want that?” Buck asks tentatively.
Chris nods thoughtfully.
“It makes me feel…like it still helps me remember Dad,” he explains.
Buck’s chest tightens and his eyes burn with tears, but he swallows the knot in his throat. It’s a little easier to do today than it was a year ago.
He agrees easily, promises to invite Tommy over soon to start looking. Sometimes Buck wonders how he got so lucky with that kid – resilient, kind-hearted, always eager in his optimism despite the hell he’s endured in his short life.
After they find a car, Buck asks Tommy to stay for a beer, and he smiles that easy smile, nods, adds “How can I resist an offer like that?”
Chris rushes off to tell his friends about the old Chevy they’d found for less than a couple grand, and Buck and Tommy settle into the couch.
“I really…thank you for doing that with Chris,” Buck says, picking at the label on his bottle, hands desperate for something to do.
“I love it too,” Tommy says easily. “And getting to teach him will make his Dads happy, so two-for-one deal sounds pretty good to me.”
“It’s more than that,” Buck says, eyes drifting up to find Tommy’s, heart heaving in his chest like a dangerous wildfire. “You’ve been…I really couldn’t have made it through this last year wi-without you.”
“I’m glad I could help even a little,” Tommy hedges, cheeks rosy, head tilting down like he’s embarrassed of the compliment.
Buck doesn’t fight the feeling anymore, can’t hang onto a love that won’t ever be the same. Instead, he gives in, tilting forward into Tommy’s space, and presses his lips to the pink, plush ones that face him.
Tommy freezes at first, then relaxes into the kiss, pushing back and wrapping a warm palm around Buck’s waist. He doesn’t pull, doesn’t force anything, instead just keeps himself steady.
Like he’s always been.
Just there.
When they part, Buck feels dizzy with a combination of relief and remorse, pushes back on the guilt and leans into the delight, and feels his cheeks heat.
“I-I hope that wasn’t–” Buck starts.
“It wasn’t,” Tommy cuts him off. His hand is still pressed to Buck’s side, his eyes are still tracking Buck’s, soft and open.
“I-I just wanted to see how it…what it….” He’s not quite sure what to say, feels stuck on the feeling of the kiss, on the way his mind swings rapidly between sorrow and giddiness, but he doesn’t feel like he made a mistake.
It felt right.
“And?” Tommy murmurs, so close Buck can smell his breath. The lingering scent of beer and…
“Do you chew bubblegum?” Buck asks suddenly, finally recognizing the flavor.
Tommy laughs and bows his head, raising his hand to hide his embarrassment. “It’s…I’ve always…” he heaves a sigh and squints through his fingers. “I don’t even have an excuse. Yeah. I do.”
“You’re so weird,” Buck says with a laugh, and the room feels like it exhales with them both.
But it’s nice. In a different kind of way.
They agree to a date after that. Then another, and another, until dinners become movies and they shift back to the house for time with Chris, falling into something more comfortable but still nothing like what they had before.
After three years without Eddie, Buck and Tommy sit in the living room, wrapped in one another as they watch Die Hard and Chris shouts incorrect trivia Eddie always spouted off claiming he’d read it on Pop-Up Video on VH1 some twenty-five years before.
Never mind that was for music videos and Buck doubted Eddie spent much time watching VH1 as a kid when he could barely name a band from the time.
Eddie’s notes still sit in a shadow box hanging in the dining room, his favorite pair of boots still sit in the front entryway next to a jacket Chris wears every day. Pictures of him and Shannon still sit on the mantle next to Abuela and Pepa, who visit often and share memories over warm tamales and Buck’s new cookie recipes.
But with the old memories are new ones, Tommy and Chris finally finished the body of the car and it sits shining in the garage with a fresh coat of cherry red paint, a brand new license plate with DIAZ inscribed courtesy of a friend of Tommy’s.
Pictures of Tommy, Buck, and Chris at the beach hang beside an engraved wood cutout of a helicopter Chris made in woodworking class, Harbor Station 217 etched into the rotor.
It’s not the same – it never will be – but this version of life, this peace he’s found to carry him through rising tides and careful currents, feels right. He knows Tommy will always love the piece of him that loves Eddie, will love the piece that lost him too.
But every morning when Buck smiles at Eddie, takes a spearmint, closes his eyes and inhales the scent of home, he exhales, opens them, and finds safe harbor in the lingering taste of bubblegum.
Tags: infidelity, exes, angst, not a happy ending, unhealthy
Summary: Buck gets a call in the middle of the night - a continuing cycle he can't seem to break free of.
Also available on AO3
The rhythmic buzzing of an incoming call pulled Buck from his sleep. He sighed, savoring the last few seconds he let himself stay wrapped around his girlfriend Ashley, who was so perfectly warm and comfortable, before he rolled away to silence the buzzing. The drowsy haze that had been clinging to him fell away quickly when he saw the name displayed on the screen.
Tommy
Ashley stirred beside him, breathing in deeply as she woke up.
“Everything okay?” she asked, face still half buried in her pillow.
“Y-yeah, it’s work,” he lied easily as he slipped out of bed. “Sorry.”
Ashley didn’t say anything, just rolled over to go back to sleep.
Buck left the room quickly, his stomach fluttering in a way that filled him with guilt, answering as soon as the bedroom door clicked shut.
“Hey,” he said quietly as he walked down the hall toward the living room. “Everything okay?”
“Hey,” Tommy said in a tone Buck recognized. He was drunk.
“What’s going on?” Buck asked, keeping his voice low as he curled up on a corner of the couch.
“What? I need a reason to call?”
“At 2 a.m. you do, yeah.”
“Sorry Evan.”
A shiver ran through Buck’s body at the sound of his name on Tommy’s lips. He hated himself for it. He wanted to tell Tommy he didn’t get to call him that anymore, but then he’d stop and Buck really didn’t want him to stop.
It was quiet for several long seconds and Buck closed his eyes, listening to the sound of Tommy breathing, wondering if Tommy was doing the same.
“Evan…” Tommy said again, softly.
In the years since they’d broken up they managed to stumble into each other’s orbit every so often. One or both of them would be with someone else and Buck knew it was wrong, but he was weak and so was Tommy.
Ashley knew he’d cheated on her once. It had been eating him up and he’d been honest about it. She’d gotten upset but inevitably they’d worked through it and decided to stay together. He’d agreed not to talk to Tommy anymore.
This wasn’t the first time he’d broken that promise. It probably wouldn’t be the last.
“I miss you,” Tommy said, inhaling a shaky breath before he let it out and sniffed.
“Tommy-”
“I know,” Tommy practically shouted, causing Buck to look down the hallway, as if Ashley might have heard. “Shit,” Tommy said quieter. “Shit…sorry…”
“Where are you right now?”
“I’m at home.”
Buck sighed in relief. At least he was somewhere safe. “And where’s Drew?”
“Dunno,” Tommy sniffed again. “We got into a fight.”
“Ah…” Buck said in understanding, rubbing at his forehead.
“What do you mean ‘ah’?” Tommy asked irritably.
“Exactly what you think I mean,” Buck hissed. “That it makes sense that you got into a fight with your boyfriend, got drunk, and called me. What are you hoping happens next?”
Tommy’s breath hitched. “I don’t know,” he said weakly.
“I think you do.”
“I miss you,” Tommy said again. “I miss you so much, Evan”
Buck’s heart crept up into his throat and he swallowed against the pressure.
“I miss you too,” Buck whispered, staring down the dark hallway. “But you have Drew now. And I’m still with Ashley.”
“Drew’s not you,” Tommy muttered.
Tears stung Buck’s eyes and he squeezed them shut.
Ashley’s not you either, Buck thought.
“You can’t say stuff like that,” he said instead.
“You feel it too. I know you do,” Tommy insisted, then Buck heard the clink of ice shifting in a glass before Tommy audibly swallowed.
A drink sounded good right about now, but Buck was long done with those kinds of vices. The only one he couldn’t seem to kick was his addiction to Tommy Kinard.
A couple tears slipped down Buck’s cheeks and he quickly brushed them away. “I do.”
Tommy sighed and the line went quiet, both sinking into their own thoughts.
“I’m going to ask Ashley to marry me,” Buck blurted out.
Buck bit his lip as Tommy said nothing.
“W-we’ve been together for a while now a--and she’s been clear that it’s what she wants. We…we looked at rings last week.”
More silence, followed by the clink of ice. A swallow.
“Tell me not to,” Buck begged, his voice breaking suddenly over his tears. “Tell me not to and I won’t. Tell me you’ll break up with Drew and I’ll break up with Ashley. Tell me we can make it work Tommy, tell me that you want me back!”
“What if it’s not what we think it’s gonna be,” Tommy said, his words slightly slurred. “I’ll fuck it up again. Or you’ll fuck it up. And then we’ll have nothing.”
“We could have each other. We could try,” Buck said, but he could feel it all slipping away.
“It never works,” Tommy said.
It was the same damn cycle. Last time Tommy had been the one to beg and Buck had walked away, leaving Tommy alone and naked in a hotel room. It had been Buck’s card on file for the room and wasn’t even mad when Tommy cleared out the minibar on his dime.
This had to be the last time. This had to be the end of it.
“This has to stop,” Buck said finally. “We have to stop doing this.”
“Yeah. We do,” Tommy agreed, his voice barely above a whisper.
Silence stretched out between them - one minute, two minutes…
“I really miss you, Evan,” Tommy said, voice full of tears.
“I miss you too,” Buck whispered before he ended the call.
Buck dried his face and got a drink of water before going back to bed. He slipped between the sheets, cooled from his absence. Ashley didn’t stir, just breathed softly, asleep.
Buck lay on his back and held his phone against his chest, as if he could hang on to the last pieces he had of Tommy.
