Part 15
Idea: After a chance meeting at a firefighter bar, Tommy Kinard a guarded Air Ops pilot and Buck, a restless academy recruit, fall into something neither of them saw coming.
Author's Note: Chapter 15 continues to follows the events of 9-1-1, 1x02 and includes heavy themes of grief, professional misconduct by a therapist.
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14
The kitchen light comes on.
Buck watches it through the garage window, a yellow rectangle cutting through the fading daylight. The sun is setting behind the Delucas' house, dragging long shadows across the yard, the last of it catching on the chrome bumper of Sal's truck. The sky is that bruised purple orange color that means the day is almost over.
Sal moves through the frame and pulls a glass from the cabinet, fills it at the sink, stands there with his back to the window. Giving Buck space. The way you give a spooked animal room to decide it's safe.
Buck's phone is already in his hand. He's been holding it so long his palm is sweating against the case. The screen keeps going dark. He keeps thumbing it awake, staring at Tommy's name, letting it go dark again.
Call him, Sal said. Like it was simple. Like Buck wasn't standing in the cold trying to find a version of this that doesn't start with I kissed my therapist and end with Tommy Kinard deciding the math no longer works.
He knows how that math goes. His parents ran it. Maddie ran it. The Navy ran it. Is he worth it? The answer always came back no. He's been doing the math himself for months. Counting the ways Tommy could decide this isn't worth it. The secrecy. The age difference. The scars. The nights Buck wakes up swinging.
The therapist was just the excuse he's been waiting for.
He dials before he can finish the thought.
It rings twice.
"Hey." Tommy's voice is warm. That particular register he gets when he's been reading in bed, hotel TV on mute, the whole day finally quiet. "How'd it go today?"
Buck opens his mouth. The words don't come out the way he practiced. They come out the way they've been living in his chest for the past two hours: flat, fast, damning.
"I kissed my therapist."
The warmth drops out of Tommy and the silence after has a shape to it. Buck feels it like a change in pressure. His ears ring.
One second. Two. Three.
"Say that again." Tommy's voice is flat. Buck has learned to recognize the lack of tone.
"I kissed…" Buck's cut off.
"When?"
"Today. After the session. I was leaving. I had my hand on the door. And she…"
"And you kissed her?"
The her lands like a blade. Buck hears Tommy recalibrating, slotting this into some framework that makes sense to him. And he's doing it wrong. Because the framework is wrong. Because Buck is saying it wrong, the way he always says the hard things, too fast and in the wrong order and making it sound worse than it was.
"No," Buck shakes his head as his voice cracks. "Tommy, no. She…I didn't."
"Then what happened." Not a question, but a cold command. The wall is going up. Buck can hear it in the register of Tommy's voice, the way it's flattening out.
He's heard this voice before. Not from Tommy. From his mother, behind a closed door. Then what happened. Explain yourself. Give me one reason I shouldn't leave you down here all summer…
His throat closes around the memories.
"Evan." Tommy's voice is still flat. "I asked you what happened."
"I'm telling you." The words come out too fast. "I'm trying to tell you. She… after the session, she came around her desk. And she put her hand on my arm. And she said, she said some stuff about being vulnerable, about letting people in. And I didn't… I didn't see it coming. I was already at the door."
He's talking too fast. He can hear it. The words are piling up, tripping over each other, because if he stops, the silence comes back, and the silence is the worst part. The silence is waiting to find out if anyone's coming back.
"And then she kissed me," Buck says. "And I, for a second I just stood there. I didn't move. I didn't…"
He stops to force himself to breathe. His lungs don't want to work right.
"And then I pushed her off. I don't remember. I was at the door. And then I was in my truck. And I drove to Sal's. And I told him."
The silence that follows is different from the first one. Longer. Deeper. It's the silence after you've told someone something they didn't want to hear. The silence where they decide if you're worth the trouble.
His hand tightens on the phone.
"Tommy."
Nothing.
"Please talk to me."
His voice breaks on the last word. He doesn't mean it to. He's spent years learning not to sound like this… small, scared, the kid in the basement listening to footsteps fade. But it comes out anyway, cracked open, the boy in the dark who never learned how to make people stay.
"Please." He's quieter now. "I can't… you went quiet. And I need you to say something. Anything. Please."
The word hangs there. Please. He can't remember the last time he said that to anyone. Can't remember the last time he let himself need something this badly.
"Evan." Tommy's voice has gone different. No longer flat, something in his voice Buck couldn't read over the phone. "Tell me exactly what happened. From the beginning. Don't leave anything out."
Buck wants to but he also wants to say it was nothing, I handled it, Sal's taking care of it, the way he's been trained to report. No further action required. All good here. He wants this to go away. He wants Tommy's voice to go warm at the sound of his voice.
"She asked about my support system," Buck explains, his words come out rough. "I told her about the 118. About Sal and Gina. I didn't… I didn't tell her about you. I never tell anyone about you. And she said." He chewed his lip. "She said it must be lonely. Carrying all that. With no one to share it with."
He hears Tommy exhale on the other end of the line.
"I told her I had people," Buck continues a little firmer. "I told her I was fine. And she kept pushing. Kept saying I seemed like I was carrying a lot. Kept saying it was okay to let people in. And I was already standing up. I had my hand on the door. I was leaving. I was leaving, Tommy."
His chest is too tight so he forces air in.
"And then she came around the desk. And she put her hand on me. And she said… she said sometimes the bravest thing is letting someone in."
His throat filled with acid as his stomach rolled.
"I didn't know what was happening," the words come out barely a whisper. "She was being nice. She was being so fucking nice. And I just… I stood there. I didn't move. I didn't push her away. I just stood there like a fucking idiot while she…"
His voice breaks, he shakes his head roughly when he can't finish.
"You pushed her off," Tommy said, Buck's words from earlier filling in the gaps he was now leaving out.
"Yeah." Buck's voice cracks. "After. When my brain caught up. I pushed her off. And I ran. I didn't even shut the door behind me. I just ran."
He presses the heel of his hand against his eyes. He's not crying. He's not. He's just, his face is wet.
"I told Sal," Buck scrubbed at his face. "When I got here. He saw my face and he asked what happened and I just, it came out. The whole thing. And he said he was going to call the union rep. And he told me to call you."
Tommy doesn't say anything for a moment. When he speaks, his voice is rough. "Good."
Buck blinks. "What?"
"Good that you told him. Good that he's calling the rep." Tommy's voice is gentler now, but there's something underneath it that Buck hasn't heard before. "You shouldn't have been alone after that."
"Tommy."
"You write down what happened tonight. All of it. Time, what she said, exactly what she did." A pause, and then the sound of something shifting, fabric, or a zipper, Buck can't tell. "You're going to have to give a statement and you want it fresh."
"Are you…" Buck straightens. "Are you coming home?"
Tommy doesn't answer that.
Buck hears the scrape of a drawer. Then the zipper, the main compartment of Tommy's bag, the one that sticks on one side. Buck has watched him pack that bag so many times. He knows the sound it makes.
"Tommy."
Buck hears the truck door open, the familiar creak of the hinges, the thud of it closing. The engine roaring to life.
"I'm getting on the 5," Tommy says. "Three hours."
"You're in Fresno. You've got training in the morning. You can't just…"
"I'll be there before midnight."
Buck presses his forehead against the cold wall of the garage. The concrete is rough against his skin. "You don't have to drive all the way back just because…"
"Evan." Tommy cuts him off. "I do, I do have to drive all the way back, because someone hurt my husband. And I'm going to be there when he falls apart so he doesn't have to do it alone."
Buck can't answer that but he flushes with the sudden need of it.
"You want to stay on the line?" Tommy asks after a moment.
"Yeah."
Buck can hear Tommy's truck in the background, the hum of the engine, the occasional sweep of the wipers, the soft static of the connection. Tommy doesn't fill the silence. He's just there.
Buck slides down the wall until he's sitting on the concrete. His legs gave out sometime in the last thirty seconds. His back is against the siding, the phone pressed to his ear, the last light of the sunset bleeding out behind the Delucas' house.
They don't talk for a while. Buck listens to the road. The sound of Tommy's talk radio is the only thing filling their silence.
"I used to count," Buck's voice is hoarse when he finally speaks again, when the silence gets to be too much.
"Count what?"
"The floorboards. In the basement." He doesn't know why he's saying this. He's never told anyone this. Not the Navy psychs, not the VA, not Tommy. But the words are coming out anyway. "When they locked me in. I'd count the floorboards for something to do. I'd count how many times the sun set and rose. In the summer when the sprinkler was running, I'd count the drops of water from a faulty pipe."
Tommy's voice is thick with barely concealed anger. "What's the longest stint?"
Buck chewed on the side of his thumb. "The summer I turned thirteen. I spent the whole summer locked in our basement. I broke one of my mom's vases. Except it wasn't a vase. It was an urn." The memory flashes behind his eyelids. "That's how I found out I had a brother. His name was Daniel." The name scrapes coming out. He hasn't said it out loud in years, fuck he wasn't even supposed to know it.
"He died shortly after I was born. Leukemia. They designed me in a lab but I was too late to save him."
He hears Tommy's breath catch.
"So… three months. My mom would slide food through twice a day. My dad came down once, at the beginning, to tell me I was lucky he didn't beat me black and blue. And then they just… forgot about me."
The line is quiet and Buck listens to Tommy breathe. Listens to the road.
"I'm here," Tommy says finally, his voice rough in a way Buck has rarely heard it. "I'm not going anywhere, Evan. I know you don't believe me yet. I know that's going to take time. But I'm not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not ever. That's the math."
Buck nods even though he knows Tommy can't see him.
"Tell me about work," Tommy says after Buck's breathing evens out, using the only weapon he has at his disposal, distraction. "How's the 118 treating you?"
Buck huffs something that was close to a laugh. "Chimney's on my ass about the engine checks. Says I'm too slow."
"You're not slow."
"Tell him that. Man's got a stopwatch. Times me every shift. Said if I can't beat his record I have to buy lunch for a month."
Tommy makes a sound that might be amusement. "What's his record?"
"Eighty-five seconds."
"That's fast."
"Yeah well..." Buck shrugs. "He says he earned the right to be insufferable."
Tommy is quiet for a moment. "Yeah. He has."
Something in his voice makes Buck pause. "What do you mean?"
"I mean he earned it." Tommy's voice has gone softer, not the way it gets when he's tired. "You know how he got the name? Chimney?"
Buck frowns. "He never told me. Said probies don't get the origin story."
"Yeah, that sounds like him." Tommy's laugh is quiet, almost fond. "He was a probie at the 118 when I was there. First year. Green as hell. But he showed up every shift, worked harder than anyone, never complained. Our captain was a dick back then."
Buck waits as Tommy decides on how much to say.
"There was a call. Mall fire. Gas leak we didn't know about. Sal and I were on lead, trying to clear the smoke so search and rescue could get in. And I made a mistake, got turned around, lost. I went in too deep without checking my air. Got disoriented. Passed out about fifty feet from the exit."
Buck's chest tightens. "Tommy."
"Chimney found me and dragged me out. I owe him a life debt."
Buck's throat tightens, he thinks about Chimney timing his engine checks with a stopwatch, riding him about being faster, pushing him to be better. "That's why you want me to go easy on him?"
"I want you to go easy on him because he's a good man," Tommy explains gently. "And because he doesn't have anyone. Sal's got Gina, Mickey's got his crew. Chimney's got the job. That's it. He shows up every shift and he works and he doesn't complain. You want to know why he's on your ass about the engine checks? Because he sees something in you. He wants you to be faster, better, sharper. He wants you to survive. He went through the academy with his best friend, the man he'd call a brother, the Lee family buried their son before he finished his probationary year."
Buck presses his forehead against his knees. "He doesn't even know me."
"He knows enough. He knows you showed up on your first day with your gear spotless and your head on straight. He knows you went into a burning building with Nash and didn't freeze. He knows you got a good heart after that baby." Tommy pauses. "He knows you're worth his time."
Buck doesn't know what to say and his chest is too full.
"So when you go back to work," Tommy says, "and he's on your ass about the engine checks, or the hose rolls, or whatever else he decides you need to be better at, let him. Because he's not just teaching you how to do our job. He's teaching you how to come home."
The words settle somewhere deep and Buck smiles at them.
"I didn't know," he says finally.
"Now you do."
The road hums beneath Tommy's truck.
"I'm gonna be a dick to him Thursday," Buck says when the song changes. "I'm gonna beat his record and make him buy me lunch."
Tommy laughs. It's a real laugh, tired and rough but real. "Yeah. You do that."
"And I'm gonna tell him," Buck states quietly. "Someday, when you're ready. We're gonna tell him. He's family."
"Evan…" Tommy says his name in the way that Buck craves. His stomach clenches, afraid of the rejection. "Yeah, okay. I think I'd like that. We'll tell Howie."
They let the silence sit between them again, but it's different now. Lighter. Buck leans his head back against the wall. The concrete is cold through his shirt.
"Tommy?"
"Yeah."
"I'm glad Chimney pulled you out."
He can hear the smile in Tommy's voice when he answers. "Yeah. Me too, baby."
The headlights sweep across the garage door at 9:47 PM. Buck knows because he's been watching the clock on his phone, the minutes ticking down. He's still sitting on the concrete.
The truck idles for a moment, then cuts off. The door opens. Closes.
Tommy doesn't come through the garage door. He comes around the side, the way Buck came earlier, slipping past the fence and into the narrow space between the garage and the neighbor's hedge. He's wearing the same clothes from the hotel. Henley, jeans, jacket unzipped. His hair untamed and his eyes are red-rimmed in a way that has nothing to do with the drive.
He stops a few feet away. Looks at Buck on the ground, back against the wall, phone still pressed to his ear like he forgot to put it down.
"You're on the concrete," Tommy says.
Buck huffs something that might be a laugh. "Yeah."
"It's cold."
"Yeah."
Tommy crosses the space between them. Drops to one knee on the cold concrete. His hands come up to Buck's face, calloused palms, rough thumbs. He tilts Buck's head up.
Buck's hand come up and close around Tommy's wrist. "I didn't think you'd come," Buck stated a little wrecked. "When you went quiet, I mean, I thought… I thought I lost you."
"I know." Tommy's thumbs press along his jaw. "I know what you thought. I'm sorry I went quiet. I shouldn't have."
"You're here."
"I'm here."
Buck's breath hitches. Tommy leans forward, presses his forehead to Buck's.
"I told Sal about us," Buck confesses, because apparently this night is full of them. The words come out before he can stop them. "When I told him what happened. I was so fucking scared you were going to leave that I just, it came out."
Tommy doesn't pull back. "How did he take it."
"I don't know. He said…" Buck tries to remember. "He said he's known you were gay longer than you have."
Tommy's huff is full of annoyance. "Sounds about right."
"You're not mad?"
"I'm mad about a lot of things tonight." Tommy admits, but his eyes are soft. "That's not one of them."
Buck's eyes close.
Tommy pulls back just enough to look at him. "Can you stand?"
Buck considers this honestly. "Yeah."
He takes Tommy's offered hand. Tommy follows Buck up the narrow stairs, one hand at his back, the wood creaking under their combined weight. Buck's key sticks in the lock the way it always does. He lifts the knob, shoulders it, and the door swings open into the dark.
The studio is small. Tommy files it the way, notes that most of Buck's things take up space at his home. Buck doesn't bother with the overhead light. Just the lamp on the nightstand, clicked on low, washing everything amber.
Tommy's eyes move over the room and land on the nightstand and stay there. The post-it with it's edges curling, adhesive giving up. Eat. Hydrate. Breathe. Come home to me.
His eyes crinkle as he sits on the edge of the narrow bed and reaches for Buck's wrist, pulling him in, he opens his arms and Buck falls into them.
Part 16
