a fic for @crash-that-helicopter-week <3 ; rating: t, words: 11k
read on ao3
“Yeah, just a sec,” Buck said, not looking away from Lucy, taking in her red-rimmed eyes and the bags under them, the way her hair was escaping from her ponytail. “What’s going on Luce?”
Lucy scoffed. “Oh sure, play dumb, that’s cute.”
“I’m not — I don’t know what you think I know, but —”
“Buck.” Chimney was using his captain voice.
“One second,” Buck snapped. “Lucy, come on, tell me.”
Lucy made a wounded noise. “You really don’t know?”
“Know what?” Buck asked desperately, his blood freezing in his veins like ice even as he hoped he was wrong.
“You didn’t tell him?” Lucy rounded on Chimney. “You’ve been sending people to our station and you didn’t tell him?”
“Cap, Buck, did you two get lost?” Eddie appeared Chim. “Oh. Lucy.”
“Don’t 'oh Lucy’ me, jackass.”
“Lucy,” Buck pleaded. “Tell me.”
Lucy stepped closer, hands out like she was going to steady him. “Buck, Tommy’s been in a coma for almost two weeks.”
note: this is 118/firefam critical - do not leave me comments about how much you hate a character, i will delete them!! i love the characters I’m just frustrated with how they’ve been written lately.
the number you have dialed is no longer in service
bucktommy, 4k, t. buck is definitely not fixating.
this is a very late entry for crash that helicopter week, and it is — well, it's a very lighthearted take on it. while this is NOT a part of my existing 911/leverage crossover, i am enamoured by tommy kinard's best friend eliot spencer and the leverage crew does feature heavily in this.
"This is Thomson, tail number N536FG — we've hit turbulence and are experiencing some engine trouble. We flew over the east side of Topanga about five minutes ago—"
The call cut off with a crackle and Buck startled, leaning forward and staring at his phone. He recognized that static. Hell, he recognized that absolutely terrible Southern accent.
"Bobby! Bobby, that's Tommy," Buck exclaimed, gesturing wildly at the radio. "Tommy's in trouble."
Bobby frowned, glancing up from the roast he was preparing. "Buck," he said gently. "That was a pilot named Thomson. I know it sounds similar to Tommy, but—"
"Bobby, you don't understand. He did the fake mouth static. The same one he did when we were flying out to the cruise ship, and he — okay, I know there's an accent, but Tommy told me he has this friend who does stage plays and every time she needs to learn an accent she drags him into practicing with him—"
"Buck, radios fail all the time when there's engine trouble." Bobby wiped his hands clean, staring at Buck. "I'll reach out to Harbor, okay? Find out if he's on shift."
"Thank you," Buck sighed.
"I really think you need to stop listening to that," Bobby nodded towards the phone and the air traffic app that Buck had running. "Some people would say that you're fixating."
"It's not fixating. I checked."
"Checked with who?"
"—Can you please call Harbor now?" Buck asked, leaning across the island. "Please. I'll finish dinner."
Bobby opened his mouth and then paused, looking Buck up and down. "…Don't let it burn. And don't start calling around just yet."
"I'm sorry, you want me to what?" Tommy repeated, looking between them in disbelief.
"We've done it before with the Spruce Goose," Parker assured him.
"Well," Eliot cut in. "Technically, the Goose never actually took off—"
"Eliot, stop scaring the man. Everything is possible — and safe — because of these fun little robots Breanna and I rigged up. I call 'em Parker Three and Four—"
"I voted for Hardison Two and Eliot One."
"They are called Bosley and Q! Hardison, you can't just go renaming robots that I built, there's got to be a law against that. A sibling bro code."
"I never signed any code," Alec protested.
Breanna bared her teeth at him. "I will delete your WoW save files."
"Bosley and Q, men in the chair, big fan."
"It's simple, Tommy. Parker will dose the mark before he gets into the helicopter, and when he starts to nod off, you start faking an emergency. You'll land in this clearing, and then Eliot and Breanna will dress the scene to make it look like a crash happened."
"And I'm doing this because…" Tommy shook his head. "Wait. Back up. You crashed the Spruce Goose? Howard Hughes' plane? You know that's a piece of aviation history. If we're talking fixed wing it goes Wright, Hughes, the Avro Arrow…"
"Relax. We only pretended to crash it," Eliot slapped Tommy on the back, grinning widely. "That means you're in, right?"
"Okay, but no one has told me why we're faking a helicopter crash in the first place."
"Ah," Harry grinned. "First we crash the helicopter, and then—"
"This is Thomson, tail number N536FG — we've hit turbulence and are experiencing some engine trouble. We flew over the east side of Topanga about five minutes ago—" Tommy cut himself off and bzzted into the radio, dragging it out for a minute before muting the radio.
"I should never have let you take one of Sophie's acting classes," Eliot sighed, pushing his sunglasses lower down on his nose.
"Pork rind, Spence?" Tommy offered, holding the bag out. He patted a hand against the cooler he was sitting on. "I brought enough for everyone."
"Hey!" Breanna yelled, waving her hands. "We could use a little help over here!"
"Sorry!" Tommy called back. "I gotta be here to make the call!"
"I have to watch him and make sure he doesn't embellish!"
"You were the one who was supposed to be doing this in the first place, Eliot! Tommy, being out of breath from carrying something heavy would help sell it," Alec added, bracing his hands against his knees.
Eliot and Tommy exchanged a glance. "Nah, we're good."
"Good god, there's two of them," Alec muttered.
"We can always swap jobs and you can be the one to get punched in the face," Eliot offered.
"…You know, you're right, lugging helicopter parts is more my speed. Parker!"
"What?!" Parker demanded, appearing at his elbow.
"Woman, don't sneak up on me like that, you know I have a weak—"
"—Thomson, do you copy?"
"Radio's going in and out," Tommy drawled, his breath hitching. "I think I see fire down by the tail. I'm going to have to set her down."
"What are your coordinates?"
"Instruments are on the fritz. Last known are," Tommy checked his notes and rattled the coordinates off, quirking an eyebrow at Eliot. Eliot crossed his arms.
"Tower, do you— I can't hear anyone— oh god. That was the fuel tank."
"Thomson? Do you copy? Evacuate to a safe distance. Thomson? Are you still there?"
Tommy clicked off the receiver.
"Hurry up!" Eliot hollered across the field. "We're on the clock. Need to be on the road in ten!"
"Eliot, Mister Wilson and Parker are already with our poor injured executive. Hardison and Breanna and I will go back with Mister Kinard." Sophie dropped a set of keys in Eliot's hand. "I know this comes with its own siren, but please try not to speed too much."
"Aw, Soph. It's not like I'm Parker." Eliot grinned and saluted Sophie as she shuddered, turning to the field. "Hurry up slowpokes, or she'll leave you here!"
"Hurry up, he says, after not helping at all," Alec huffed, slinging his backpack onto his shoulder. "Breanna!"
"Hold your horses, geez, I was just giving it a little artistic flair," Breanna called back, pushing her way out of the bushes. "Let's blow this popstand. Hey, Tommy, have you ever played Spirit's Ruse before?"
"Thomas, would you be a dear and carry that cooler back to the truck?"
"Sure thing, Miz Devereaux." Tommy winked at her, hefting the cooler up and walking besides Breanna. "I played Pokémon, but I'm pretty sure that's not the same thing."
"Yes and no. Okay, so the cool thing about Spirit's Ruse is that you can—"
"Nu-uh, come on, we haven't had time to do a raid together in ages! The Horde comes first."
"I've got another week of vacation, I think we can find time to do both," Tommy promised, laughing. "We're not letting Sophie drive us back, are we?"
"You learn how to drive from a cabbie one time and people never let you live it down!" Sophie complained, ducking into the back. "Ooh, Eliot made sandwiches. One for Tommy, one for Breanna, one for me… and a note saying that Hardison can have the rest of Tommy's snacks. Oh dear."
"That was ten years ago," Alec groaned, sliding into the driver's seat. "Man can hold a grudge like nobody's business."
"You have met him, right?" Tommy settled into the passenger seat, checking the sandwich bag Sophie passed to him. "I'll split with you if you let me and Breanna try the card game before we do a raid."
"Hey, Nash. No one out on a call right now. Nope, not even in the air," Melton's voice crackled over the line. "Shit, and they said VOiP was supposed to make everything sound crisper. What a crock."
"And what about anyone not on shift today?"
"Not on— Nash. Did Buckley put you up to checking in on Kinard?"
"He heard something on the radio that concerned him," Bobby said slowly, gently spinning his chair away from the door. "I just… wanted to make sure."
"Talk about a mess," Melton sighed. "He's on vacation. Portland. No — hang on, where's that paperwork — New Orleans. Whoever Buckley heard on the radio wasn't any of my guys."
"Thanks, Melton. I appreciate it."
"Now you owe me one. And I'm gonna come calling for something big. Like you cooking for one of my family reunions."
Bobby laughed. "We'll see what we can do about that."
"Yeah, well. If Kinard tells me Buckley tracked him down in Louisiana, the price goes up. Gotta go before we get a call. Stay sharp out there."
Bobby hung up the phone when Melton disconnected and stared at the wall. Okay. So that was… that was good, that it wasn't Tommy. But Buck obviously was fixating, at least a little bit. And that part wasn't so good.
"Hey, hon," he said to Athena's voicemail. "I'm going to bring Buck over after our shift; I think he could use a little time out of his place. I'll stop for groceries on the way, we'll make some food together and… I dunno. Kid's hurting. He should have a safe place to hunker down if he needs it. Okay. Love you. Home safe."
He tucked his phone away and checked to make sure he didn't have any urgent emails before heading back out to the kitchen. "…Buck, I'm pretty sure those potatoes were chunks before I went to the office."
"Yeah, uh — roasts go great with mashed potatoes, though, right?"
Bobby huffed softly, shaking his head. "You kept listening to the radio, didn't you?"
"Just before the radio cut out, the gas tank caught fire," Buck told him, bracing his hands against the counter. Bobby watched as they shook. "They're sending out the 147."
"Tommy's in New Orleans right now."
"Wh-what?"
"He took vacation time. He's been gone for a few days," Bobby reassured him. "Whoever you heard on the radio wasn't Tommy."
"Uh… dispatch? This is Officer Williams. We found the crash site."
"And?"
"Well. There's a helicopter but uh… it's parked. No sign of a pilot or passengers anywhere. No sign of any damage. It's just… sitting here."
"Better start calling around to all the air fields and find out who's missing a bird, Officer Williams."
"See?" Bobby flipped the radio off. "Nothing to worry about. Pranksters."
"Sure," Buck frowned, reaching out to turn the radio back on before he caught the look Bobby was giving him, turning the movement into shoving his hands in his pockets.
"We've still got to make the salad," Bobby reminded him, purposefully ignoring the look on his face. "You can cut up the toppings."
"You got it, Cap."
They'd talk about the definitely not fixating once they were done their shift. That was a conversation best left for when they were off the clock.
"Hey!" Tommy glanced over his shoulder as Breanna took her turn, narrowing his eyes at Alec. "Hasn't anyone ever told you not to mess with other people's stuff? You don't even have my passcode."
"Aw," Breanna cooed, resting her chin on her hands. "Hardison, he's adorable. He thinks you need to know his passcode."
"I know. He says that every time," Alec grinned. "It's cute."
"There's two of you." Tommy sighed. "What are you doing to my phone?"
"Upgrading security, deleting your biometrics from the corporate servers but keeping them enabled locally — for security — oooh, teaching you how to make private photo albums, because this is not meant for public consumption, what even is this—"
"Ooh, ooh, I wanna see." Breanna winced theatrically the second Alec turned the phone towards her. "Tommy, my man, you can pull off a lot but not paisley. Hide that photo and shred that shirt." She paused. "Actually, a photo of you in that shirt after it's shredded would do spectacularly online."
"I'm not doing online dating," Tommy sighed. "Do you know how many catfish are out there?"
"I can retask one of my bots to de-catfish your account," Breanna offered. "By the way, you just died."
Tommy glanced down at the card mat. "I think you're not explaining the rules properly."
"Hello, thief. Of course I cheated."
"You're a terrible influence on your sister, Alec."
"Hey, she got in trouble with the Feds before she ever started working for us."
"For? For?! You mean with!"
"Now you've done it," Sophie murmured, slipping into the chair beside Tommy. She slid him a beer, shaking her head as Alec and Breanna kept arguing. "They'll be at that all day."
"Parker and Eliot?"
"Eliot is menacing while Parker and Harry are playing fixer. They should be wrapped up by the end of the day."
"Hmm. It was fun while it lasted. Til the next caper," Tommy clinked his beer against her glass of whiskey.
"Oh, you have to stay for dinner. Eliot loves to cook when his friends are visiting." Sophie patted his arm, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "Besides, it's been a while since we've had a moment to sit and talk. I don't think I've had a chance to tell you about Astrid."
"Okay. I can stay for one more day."
"The number you have dialed is out of service."
Buck blinked at his phone before hanging up. He tapped Tommy's contact again.
"The number you have dialed is out of service."
Buck scowled, turning away from the stove and digging through the drawer under his coffee maker. He pulled out the scrap of paper he was looking for with a triumphant cry, eyeing Hen's handwriting as he carefully entered the phone number one digit at a time.
"The number you have dialed is out of service."
"Bullshit," Buck hissed, his phone clattering against the counter. "You're not out of service!"
Something was going on, and Buck was going to figure it out. And no, Bobby, he definitely wasn't fixating. That was ridiculous. Not even Athena's story about some big shot coming in and screaming that he needed protection because he was about to be murdered by his business partner had been enough to distract him.
He couldn't blame Bobby for not quite believing that it had been Tommy on the radio; he hadn't been the one who'd spent two weeks listening as Tommy practiced lines with his friend. But Buck knew that terrible Southern accent. The mysterious helicopter in a field wasn't just a couple pranksters. He just couldn't figure out what Tommy had to do with it.
Buck scrolled idly through his phone book as he thought about what he was going to do next. He could — oh, he could try Tommy's landline.
"The number you have dialed is out of service."
"It's a landline," he said to himself in disbelief. Buck grimaced, scrolling higher. He was really hoping that he wouldn't have to —
"Yello. What can I do for ya?"
"Hey, Lucy."
"…Nope." The call disconnected.
"I should have expected that," Buck sighed, dialling again.
"You have ten seconds to hang up before I drive over there and shove your phone where the sun don't shine."
"Wait, I just — I have a bad feeling. Have you talked to Tommy? Since after lunch?"
"Why would I tell you that?"
"I think he's in trouble?" Buck winced, dropping his head into his hand. That probably wasn't going to get Lucy to cave and tell him anything.
"He's having what looks like incredible Cajun food and I'm mad I'm not there with him, so… if that was all, I'm hanging up now. Call me back again at your own risk."
"Thank you, Lucy."
"Later, jackass."
He should feel better about that. If Tommy had told Melton he was going to New Orleans, and he'd sent Lucy a photo of Cajun food, then he had to be in Louisiana. But — but the pit in his stomach wasn't going away.
If Tommy really had been in an accident, even if he'd been using a fake name for whatever reason, someone would know that he was in trouble, and he would have heard about it through the grapevine. Yeah. Everything was fine.
…Fuck.
"No, what you need to do is — here, if you do that combo, then — never mind, I'm just gonna take this away from you."
Tommy snorted when Eliot grabbed the controller out of his hands, rolling his eyes. He shifted to the middle of the couch as Eliot jumped over the back, landing beside him. "I thought you were against WoW on a… philosophical basis? Isn't that what you called it?"
Eliot elbowed him in the ribs on the way to smacking Alec in the back of the head. "So I like being able to piledrive a guy to death, sue me. Hardison, eyes up, didn't you see that guy behind you? I'm not gonna save your ass every time."
"No one invited you to play," Alec muttered, throwing a pillow at him.
"And you're regretting it now, aren't you?"
"This is just another one of those 'I'm never going to learn Klingon' moments, isn't it Spence?" Tommy asked
"Hey, Hardison bet me I couldn't do it because he thinks I'm bad at languages, so. I had to take his money."
"He bought into that down home bullshit?" Tommy looked over at Alec, pursing his lips. "And you call yourself a con man, Alec."
"Like you wouldn't have believed his aw shucks routine," Alec volleyed back, swearing when his character got surrounded.
"I was in his unit," Tommy protested.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You were more like the unit's mascot with that baby face of yours, but okay," Eliot smirked as the character he was fighting collapsed on screen. "Need a hand there, buddy?"
"It means that I knew Spence knew at least six languages fluently by the time I was back stateside at twenty one, so you should know that after knowing him for so long," Tommy continued, dodging Alec's elbow.
"The government just keeps giving people PTSD at younger and younger ages, doesn't it? That's depressing."
"Don't join the army, Breanna," Tommy and Eliot said at the same time.
"Only for a con, never for a career," Breanna agreed. Tommy shot her a look. "What? Talk to Tara about that one."
"Hey," Parker popped up in the space between Alec and Tommy, poking his shoulder. "Come with me if you want to live."
"You two are up to Terminator, huh?" Tommy asked, waiting for a break in the action to worm his way off the couch. Spence and Alec didn't even blink. "What are we doing?"
"Dessert," Parker hummed, turning on her heel and heading for the front door.
"No chocolate!"
Tommy looked sideways at her, raising an eyebrow. "I won't tell if you don't."
"Deal. You're driving." Parker slugged him in the shoulder.
"And paying, I assume?"
She laughed. "You catch on quick. No wonder Eliot keeps you around."
No way. No way. Buck sped up, dodging through people on the street to catch up to Tommy.
Tommy, who shouldn't even be in the city, let alone the state. He'd pressed Bobby to look at Tommy's vacation request. Bobby had given him a look but he'd done it anyway, and Tommy was supposed to be gone for another five days. But here he was, in the flesh, in the middle of Los Angeles.
This explained the gnawing feeling in his stomach that hadn't gone away after everyone assured him that Tommy hadn't had anything to do with the helicopter in the field, that it had been some sort of a prank and he was fine. Well. He was obviously fine, he was walking down the street beside a guy with long hair and with a frozen yogurt in his hand.
"Tommy!"
Tommy and his — boyfriend? — weren't the only ones who paused. There was a trio walking in front of them who also slowed down and turned to look, and… oh, geez, he was with a group. Buck took a deep breath and steeled himself. They were going to have this out and Buck didn't care if it made him look crazy in front of Tommy's friends. Buck already looked crazy to everyone else he knew — might as well go for a perfect score.
"What are you doing here?"
"Uh," Tommy's eyebrows drew together the way they always did before he was about to say something cutting and bitchy that would make Buck laugh, "Eating frozen yogurt?"
He wasn't going to laugh. He wasn't.
"You're not hurt?"
"Why would I be hurt?"
"Uh, gee, let me think. This is Thomson, tail number N536FG and some tragically terrible mouth static?" Buck demanded, gesturing wildly.
The youngest woman with Tommy rescued his frozen yogurt just before Buck's hand made contact with it, and Buck caught her muffling a snort into her hand.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Tommy said slowly.
"And a really terrible Southern accent, I mean, I heard you practicing that with your friend Sophie last year—"
"…oh, this is him," the blonde murmured to the man she was standing with.
Buck bristled. "If you didn't want to get caught, maybe you shouldn't practice on an open emergency line!"
"Wait. Were you listening to the air traffic control channel?" Tommy asked, blinking.
"And another thing!" Buck steamrolled over the question, because the answer wasn't flattering to him and he still (maybe, sort of) had the upper hand in this encounter. "Does this look like New Orleans to you?"
"I mean…" Frozen Yogurt trailed off when they all looked over at her. "Depends which television shows film around here?"
"What the hell, Tommy! I thought you were dead! I tried to call you and it said your number was no longer in service."
Tommy shot a venomous look at his not-boyfriend. "You were just messing around with my phone, huh?"
"This is why you never let Hardison near your tech," Long Hair whistled under his breath, holding up his hands when Tommy turned his glare on him. "I think we'll let the two of you sort this out and we'll see you at dinner."
Tommy pinched the bridge of his nose. "This is why we don't hang out more, Spence."
Spence laughed. "No, we don't hang out more because it's always classified." He clapped Buck on the shoulder. "Don't get too mad at the guy. When the Army calls, you have to answer. That's kind of the gig."
Buck waited until the other four had left before saying anything else. "Spence might be in the Army but—"
"—Eliot. Spence is a nickname," Tommy interjected.
"—but the other three definitely aren't," Buck finished, giving Tommy the stink eye at the interruption.
"Okay. Why do you think that?" The corner of Tommy's mouth ticked up in a brief smile and he nodded his head, conceding the point to Buck.
"I went through SEAL training. Army guys are… very distinctive."
Tommy snorted, his smile widening. "Sorry. Normally it's Spence saying that."
Buck shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at Tommy, trying to memorize the faint wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. They only showed up when he smiled. Buck had almost forgotten what they looked like.
Tommy seemed content to wait him out, looking back at him. Buck twitched when someone brushed past them, startling out the staring contest they'd accidentally found themselves in.
"Sorry your friend ran off with your frozen yogurt. Can I buy you a new one?"
"…Depends," Tommy said mock hesitantly. Buck would have been worried that Tommy was going to say no, but he was still smiling. "How many times are you going to tell me you thought I was dead?"
"At least five more times." Buck paused, poking Tommy in the middle of his chest. "I thought I was losing it."
Tommy took a step closer to Buck, their shoulders brushing when he turned back the way they'd come. "Sure. I'd love a new yogurt, but you're not allowed to make fun of the flavour."
bucktommy | 5.1k | rated t
crash that helicopter! based on real events
Tommy wishes he could say he’s surprised when his helicopter is suddenly completely engulfed by balloons as he’s flying over the hills near the Hollywood Sign. It’s certainly not what he expected when Harbor got a call about a hiker who needed to be transported to the hospital. This was supposed to be a fairly run-of-the-mill flight, as far as things go in this job. Tommy thought it would be a good, safe training exercise for his new probie.
The balloons are bizarre, to be sure, but full immersion in a sea of latex isn’t the most bewildering thing that Tommy has ever seen. After all, he saw active combat. He worked during the beenado. He dated a man who, in Tommy’s more honest moments, he can admit got cursed with boils by the vengeful ghost of a dead cowboy. Tommy has seen enough outlandish and frankly baffling things in his life that a wave of balloons with someone’s face on them fully blocking his vision at 10,000 feet doesn’t throw him nearly as badly as it does his probie in the back.
“What the fuck?” Garcia asks, voice full of fear. The kid is so green that Tommy is almost jealous.
“That,” Tommy says carefully, evenly, “is a good question.”
Every turn of the rotors pops the balloons around them. Pop. Pop pop pop. It’s loud even over the sounds of the machine. They can hear the bursts through their headsets. Pop pop pop.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Fandom: 9-1-1 (TV)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley/Tommy Kinard
Characters: Evan "Buck" Buckley, Tommy Kinard, Sal Deluca (9-1-1 TV)
Additional Tags: Crash That Helicopter Week 2026 (9-1-1 TV), Getting Back Together, Fire Captain Sal Deluca (9-1-1 TV)
for @crash-that-helicopter-week
There is a man leaning against his truck.
Buck wants a baseball bat.
"Sal?" Hen says from behind Buck.
"Hey, Hen," the man says.
"What brings you to the 118?"
"I came to bother some people," Sal says. "Unfortunately, not you. This time, anyway."
"Okay," she says with a shrug.
"You know him?" Buck asks.
"Yeah, he left the 118 before Tommy did."
"Oh." Buck approaches less cautiously. "Can I help you, uh, Sal?"
"Sal Deluca." He holds out his hand. Buck shakes it. "Can I buy you dinner?"
"Oh." Buck flushes. "Um, I'm not sure, I mean, I haven't, I don't know if I'm really up for—"
"No, no. Uh, not that kind of dinner."
"Oh. Okay."
"Yeah, you're kind of off-limits, you know. And especially with what I want to talk about."
"Am I going to regret this?"
"It's just a chat, take it or leave it, dinner's on me either way."
Buck takes it.
"What did you mean I'm off-limits?" he asks over dinner.
"Don't worry about it. You've had a hell of a year, huh, kid."
"Says who?" Buck asks, eyeing the appetizer.
"Publicly available information. I'm not gonna go over it; I'm not a complete asshole. But uh, look. I'm not gonna say a word against your old captain. We had our differences, but he got me where I needed to be. Supported the hell out of people who needed it and didn't always seem like the people you wanted to help. And I was sorry as hell to hear what happened."
"Yeah. He was great."
"But I am gonna ask this. How in god's name did it get to the point you got pulled in for, sorry, lemme check my notes, oh yes, not stealing drugs?"
"I just…I had broken ribs. And." Buck digs his nails into the table. "I couldn't sleep."
"Nah, no. Uh-uh. I worked the 118, right? We weren't besties. No. But we did have a colleague abusing pills and we spotted him pretty fucking fast. Howie knows what that looks like."
"I was smarter, then."
"Okay. I buy that. I know you're smart. Smarter than people give you credit for sometimes, right? Here's what I don't buy: I read the damn article. I know what happened to you. Nothing you weren't sharing, but the basics and that was enough. Your captain—your brother-in-law, who just had his ass hauled in on way worse—"
"That wasn't his fault—"
"Sure, kid. Whatever. My point is, with or without your history, which might be the most upsetting file I have ever read, what you just survived? Your captain should have been watching. Something's not right there."
"It's fine. We're… It's been a year. We're working through it."
"Are you? Or are you crabs in a bucket? Or, hell, are you letting yourself be a punching bag? Is that what you're doing?"
"No," Buck says, no longer hungry.
"Give us a trial run at the 97. You'd be the most senior one there. We're the closest station to Harbor, if that's a sell. Support each other in the field as needed."
"Why are you asking me?"
"Because you're one of the best. Because you have a good reputation as a mentor. I'm not doing a favor for a friend, here. I want you on my team. I have an opening and I need someone for it. You have a tactical mind, you're a good teacher, and you're persistent."
"Favor for a friend? Are we friends?"
"We could be. Oh, and uh, our A-shift lines up with 217's, too."
"Wha—is this about Tommy?"
"This is me trying to poach you for your skills. Anything else I say is an attempt to manipulate you into doing it."
"How do you even know about me and Tommy?"
"He's my friend. But he has no idea I'm doing this, and I'm not getting involved."
"He probably wouldn't care."
Sal snorts. "Okay. Tommy's my friend, but if I were your captain, my involvement in all that would be zero. Date him, don't date him, break his tragic little heart again, not my problem, you don't get up in your subordinates' business like that."
"Why do you think I'm letting myself be a punching bag?"
Sal squeezes one eye shut and looks at the ceiling. "I…have…I used to be a union rep before I made captain. People talk."
"What do they say?"
"That when you were meeting with her before the hearing, multiple people on the team made digs that you laughed off and that you looked fuckin' miserable. If that's happening after you claw your way out of an oxy addiction, what the fuck is happening the rest of the time?"
"They're just teasing."
"Do you give it back to them? Does it feel like bonding?"
Buck glares at the table.
"I'm not trying to be a hero, Buckley. Buck? Evan? What do you like to be called?"
"Buck's fine. Either's fine."
"I am trying to steal you. I need you at the 97. I have mostly young people since Jill left, my paramedics are competent but with almost no confidence, the firefighters are brave but lost. I need backup. How about a month. Help me patch the place up, and if you like it, stick around, if you don't, no hard feelings. How about it?"
"I…I'll think about it." He rubs his thigh nervously. "Does Tommy still talk about me?"
"Oh, I…" Sal shrugs. "Like I said, I can't be involved," he says, nodding very dramatically up and down.
Break the Glass | BuckTommy | 2,990 words | AO3 | crash that helicopter for @crash-that-helicopter-week!
Buck crashes in a helicopter on a perfectly sunny day.
He has no idea this is coming when he arrives at the training ground near Harbor Station around 7 a.m. The morning air is unusually crisp; although the first rays of sunlight are slowly catching on the helicopter’s skids, Buck pulls up the collar of his jacket. His heart, however, warms at the sight that awaits him: Tommy is already there, leaning casually against the helicopter’s door.
Buck isn’t sure if that’s why his mouth suddenly feels so dry. The chopper suddenly seems so small, and the sky above them promises brilliant blue and endless expanse.
“Ready for your first flying lesson?”
First, thinks Buck. It’s been an eternity since he was interested in flying lessons. Just as long ago as Tommy’s offer to teach him Muay Thai. Neither of those things ever happened, for obvious reasons that are finally behind them. Until Tommy suggested that now would be a good time for the flying lessons he’d offered him back then. Theoretically, Buck definitely agrees: spending time together in a very confined space sounds good, and watching Tommy do something he’s extremely good at is more than sexy. From the start, Buck might have imagined those lessons happening on the ground more than in the air. But of course, he’s not going to back out now.
“Let’s go,” he says, and after a quick kiss, they board the helicopter.
Tommy walks him through the instrument panel, gives a brief overview of how and why helicopters fly in the first place, and then Buck gets to try the controls. What he likes most is that, with all the information coming at him, he can gaze at Tommy’s profile. Does the man even realize how beautiful he looks when the slowly rising sun bathes his face in golden light?
“Okay, which three controls do we need?”
Buck blinks. Then he answers, “Cyclic, collective, pedals.”
Tommy’s smile crunches his face, and it definitely makes it worth having done his homework.
They take off, and for now, Buck doesn’t have to do anything but pay attention. Which mostly means watching Tommy, and for that alone, this flying lesson proves to be a good decision.
“We’ll skip the hover—that’s boring,” Tommy says with a wink. “But don’t worry, we’ll just do a few laps, and you don’t have to do anything you don’t feel comfortable with.”
“That might turn my flying lesson into a sightseeing flight,” Buck points out.
Tommy glances at him. “Come on, Evan. You’re not really that big of a fan of flying, are you?”
It doesn’t really sound like a question—Tommy is perceptive. There’s no point in trying to fool him, and besides, they’ve agreed to make honesty the foundation of this new phase of their relationship.
“What gave me away?”
Tommy adjusts a setting on the instrument panel, then looks back at Buck.
“Your sister, to be honest. Apparently, you have an aversion to domestic flights.”
Buck raises an eyebrow. “First of all, that was a private conversation between me and my nephew. The baby monitor was supposed to be off. Second, I was referring to the obvious environmental consequences of flying, you know? And third… well, it might be true that I feel more comfortable on the ground. But if you knew all that, why did you invite me anyway?”
“Because I want to share this with you, Evan. Even if it’s just for a few hours.”
The sun has long since risen, but it seems as though it’s doing so all over again, just because of Tommy’s smile. His eyes seem brighter than the azure sky.
“Let’s gain some altitude, okay?” he says. “You can still do a little piloting later if you want. We’ll do a few laps, enjoy the view.”
“As long as air traffic control doesn’t think you’re hijacking a helicopter…”
“Another one? For you? I’ll think about it.”
———————————————————————————————————
Tommy spots the drone a split second too late.
By the time he realizes what it is he’s seeing, it’s already too late. He yanks the collective stick, and they plummet suddenly, as if they’d fallen into an air pocket. Reflexively, Buck grabs the cockpit ceiling as if it were actually possible to find a foothold there.
“What’s going on?”
That’s exactly why he doesn’t like flying. It feels as though the air up here isn’t just thinner, but simply unpredictable.
“Drone.” That’s all Tommy manages to get out before the helicopter is hit.
Buck is shaken to the core. He’s still too dazed to think straight; suddenly there’s a strange burning hole in his stomach. But a Buckley isn’t so easily distracted by fear, is he? He glances at Tommy.
Tommy grips the cyclic, and although the helicopter wobbles briefly, it looks as though the machine is regaining control. Then, seemingly without warning, the windshield shatters. Shards rain down on Buck, who reflexively holds an arm up to his eyes. Tommy lets out a choked, startled scream, and terror shoots through Buck’s entire body. The helicopter wobbles once more, but when Buck looks over, he notices that Tommy is clutching the controls so tightly that the muscles in his right hand are bulging.
The helicopter is relatively steady, but Buck is not. He realizes he’s trembling and takes a deep breath.
“Tommy?”
Only now does he notice that the pilot has only one hand on the controls, the other pressed firmly against his left eye. As if time has suddenly stopped, Buck notices the thin, red trickle of blood running down the back of Tommy’s hand between his fingers.
Buck has no way of knowing this, and it probably wouldn’t interest him at this moment anyway, but in eight months a man will stand trial whom the police have clearly identified as a drone pilot involved in an aviation incident.
The helicopter was still flying low at that point, and private drones have become a major risk. The guy should never have been so close to the airfield, and of course he shouldn’t have been flying a drone here. A gust of wind caused it to veer into the flight path. Despite the hasty evasive maneuver, the drone grazed the rotors and shattered. A shard smashed through the windshield. And it…
… is lodged in Tommy’s face. Very close to his eye, or even inside it; Buck has to breathe to fight off his panic.
“I can’t see anything,” Tommy says in a voice so astonishingly cool and clear, causing a chill of dread to grip Buck. “Pay close attention now. Radio air traffic control. Put your hand on the cyclic.”
Buck lets out a stifled gasp. It’s the only sound aside from the noise of the rotor blades and the engine. His world has now shrunk, contracted into a suddenly tiny space. There is no room here for anything but the task Tommy has given him. He places his hand on the control stick and watches as Tommy’s legs move almost automatically to press the pedals.
Three controls.
Tommy has only one hand free. Buck nervously taps the radio. It operates very much like the ones in their fire trucks, and the static is almost a relief.
“Mayday, Mayday, Mayday.” Buck hesitates briefly, then remembers radio protocol. “This is, uh… N7-194Z. Collision with a drone. Pilot is injured. We need to–”
“Position, N7-194Z?”
Buck’s gaze darts desperately across the instruments.
“Uh, wait…”
“1,050 feet altitude, about a mile east of the Harbor Station training range,” Tommy says slowly. He sounds strained, he must be in excruciating pain.
Buck repeats it, trying to keep his voice steady.
“Are you the student pilot?” crackles the radio.
“Sort of.”
More out of necessity, at least now, but he doesn’t say that.
“Listen, Evan,” Tommy says. Now he’s suddenly speaking faster, his face as white as a sheet. “Listen carefully to what—I think I—”
Whatever Tommy was about to say is lost—he rolls his eyes, slumping over.
———————————————————————————————————
“Tommy!”
Only the sudden lurch of the helicopter makes Buck realize that two of the three controls are currently unresponsive. Either way, the machine groans. Lights flash, a warning tone sounds.
“N7-194Z, do you copy?”
Buck is frozen in place. The beeping and flashing pierce his skull.
It’s a training helicopter, he thinks. Damn it, a training helicopter!
His hands dart forward, grabbing the controls. His feet feel for the pedals—the ones on his side. There are two fully equipped control units so that the more experienced pilot can intervene at any time. But right now, the student’s controls are Buck’s, whether he wants it or not.
“N7-194Z, do you copy?”
The voice from the radio sounds more urgent. Buck realizes the machine isn’t wobbling anymore. Whatever he’s doing—and he only understands half of it—is keeping it stable, at least for now.
“Yes,” he pants, reaching for the radio. “Yes. Pilot is incapacitated.”
He has no idea what the correct radio call for this is, but right now he doesn’t care. He looks at Tommy, who is slumped in his seat. When he lost consciousness, his hand fell down: his face is covered in blood, and Buck can’t quite tell if that sharp thing piercing his left eyebrow is actually in his eye or just barely above it. Either way, the sight is horrific, and fear tenses his every muscle.
“Hang in there,” he whispers, hoping that his words might reach Tommy.
The radio crackles. “Hey, N7-194Z.” It’s a new voice—a woman’s. “Buck, is that you?”
Buck blinks. “L-Lucy?”
The feeling that overwhelms him is almost relief. Almost, with a quick glance at Tommy. Still, he has the feeling that his chances may have just gone up by a fraction. They’re still in a temperamental helicopter that Buck is barely keeping in the air with more luck than sense, but a crash from 1,050 feet is fatal in any case. Yet somehow, air traffic control managed to summon Lucy Donato in no time—and she is, apart from Tommy of course, the best pilot at AirOps.
“Well, you’re in luck—I’m on duty today,” her voice comes over the radio.
That—and, as Buck will later learn, a quick-thinking air traffic controller who apparently knew that no regular training flight was scheduled and therefore called a pilot to guide Buck.
“Listen to me carefully.” Lucy’s voice is appropriately serious, and because she rarely sounds that way, it quickly brings Buck back down to earth. Unfortunately, not in the most literal sense. “Have you and Tommy gone over the emergency protocol?”
“I-it’s not a real training flight. No.”
“Spare me your weird quirks,” Lucy retorts; there’s a hint of amusement in her voice.
But Buck knows that tone. Some pros let their sarcastic side show when things look really, really grim.
“So, listen up,” her voice cuts in again. “Keep the chopper as steady as possible. You’ll probably overcorrect, okay?”
Nothing is okay, Buck thinks. “What does that mean?”
“You’ll oversteer. That’s normal, but it might cause the machine to suddenly dip a little. Just be prepared for it. Let’s go through it now.”
In short, concise words, Lucy describes to him which elements on the instrument panel he should focus on. Buck already knows some of this, but that doesn’t change his racing pulse. He glances at Tommy again. His breathing seems steady, but he’s still bleeding, and Buck just can’t tell exactly where that splinter is lodged. All he can think of is, he needs that eye. But it doesn’t help him, he needs to focus.
“You’re going to make a small turn now,” says Lucy. “Look west. The training field isn’t very far away, okay? You’ll land almost exactly where you took off from.”
If I’m lucky, thinks Buck. But anything is better than crashing now. Because the helicopter is hovering east of Harbor Station—right over the sea. He focuses on Lucy’s voice, even though the shattered glass before his eyes threatens to blur his vision.
Lucy calmly explains to him in simple terms what he needs to do. Pull the cyclic back. Increase power slightly. Push the cyclic to the left, press the left pedal. Buck follows her instructions methodically. The noise in the cockpit fades in his mind; his focus is now solely on coordinating all movements as smoothly as possible.
Lucy was right; for a moment, the helicopter drops, and though Buck grips the controls so tightly his knuckles turn white, his stomach churns. But he regains his composure, just like the helicopter regains control.
“Descent,” Lucy’s voice rings out, and the cheerfulness in it makes Buck’s blood run cold. This means the hard part is coming. Even harder?
Lower the collective slightly. Stay stable. Always keep an eye on the instrument panel. Buck has no idea how Tommy manages all this. It’s definitely not as easy as driving a car, and certainly not comparable to a video game.
“Don’t forget the pedals!”
Lucy’s voice comes just as the helicopter starts to wobble. Buck’s hands are shaking; he feels his grip on the controls slipping from sheer sweat. He bites his lower lip, digging his fingers into the control stick. I’m not letting go, Tommy. No way.
“Not bad for a beginner,” says Lucy. She sounds either surprised or appreciative. Buck decides on appreciative. He needs every bit of success he can get right now. “Look out the window, Buck.”
Buck looks out the window. He squints. How the hell did he do that? You’re flying, Evan, says Tommy’s voice in his head. The sea that was just beneath the machine a moment ago is now a good distance to the east. To the left, below the helicopter but still quite a ways off, is one of the training range’s helipads. And further ahead is Harbor Station. For the first time in the last few minutes, Buck believes they actually have a chance.
“You see the helipad? That’s our target. It’s okay if you miss it, don’t worry. It’s just for orientation, okay? Now start your descent again. Very good… and now move forward slowly. Slowly! Nose up a little…”
Buck is just reacting now. His hands do what Lucy tells him; one glance at Tommy is enough to make him focus more than he ever has before. The big, red H of the helipad is getting closer and closer. Wobbly, teetering—but the helicopter is descending. Is Buck actually going to manage a landing? The ground is now so close that he thinks he can already feel the skids touching down. Just under 17 feet above the concrete, Lucy dampens his expectations.
“Bring forward momentum to zero,” she says in a businesslike tone. Things are getting serious, Buck senses. “Increase power slightly.”
“But with that… we won’t sink any further,” says Buck.
“Right. That’s exactly what we want. You’re hovering, Buck.
Great job so far. And now carefully reduce power. If you–”
She falters, and Buck thinks he knows why. The landing is always the critical point. She doesn’t say that; she doesn’t need to. Because even now, something can still go wrong. For example, a pilot with sweaty hands might lose his grip on the controls. Then, the touchdown turns into a thud.
Or a crash.
———————————————————————————————————
17 feet. They’re so close to the ground; for a helicopter, that’s practically no height at all.
Except that’s not true. It’s almost two stories high. If a person falls from two stories—well, Buck knows the sight. But what if that person is sitting in a helicopter?
Buck’s hands slip on the control sticks, just half an inch, but that’s enough. The helicopter plummets like a stone thrown from a mountain by a vengeful god.
———————————————————————————————————
The crash is hard and brutal. Buck will only experience the actual impact later in his nightmares, and perhaps they come quite close to reality. As metal screeches against the asphalt and crumples, as the noise drills into his skull and the impact rips through him, Buck must have lost consciousness for a moment.
When he opens his eyes, tiny shards of glass float in a cloud of dust and dirt and then fall just as unsteadily as he did.
Next to him, Tommy is coughing.
Buck’s head jerks to the side. Pain shoots through his forehead, but it doesn’t matter. Somehow he’s still strapped into the helicopter—or what’s left of it—and still next to him is: Tommy.
Tommy, who opens his eyes at that very moment—or at least one of them—and blinks in confusion.
“Did we… did we crash?”
Buck can’t help it; he laughs. Tears stream down his face, and his chest feels like it’s on fire, but he laughs.
“We crashed,” he confirms. The cockpit’s windshield is shattered and warped, and he thinks he can smell smoke. But he can also make out a blurry movement further ahead, toward Harbor Station.
“We’re still alive,” Tommy says in amazement, as his left hand carefully feels for his injury.
In about five hours, it will be clear that his eye won’t suffer any permanent damage. But those five hours will be the slowest of Tommy’s life so far.
“We’re still alive,” Buck echoes.
“Where… where did we crash?”
Buck shrugs. “I think almost right above the helipad.”
“Right. Spot-on,” says Lucy, whose face suddenly appears right next to Buck’s, beside the half-torn-off door.
Buck laughs again. Tommy looks as if he’d like to join in, but only a muffled sound comes from his throat.
“This was supposed to be a special day,” he says.
“Well, it is,” Lucy replies, concentrating on prying the door open. There’s movement behind her. Help is near. “You survived a crash with Buck as the pilot.”
“Can’t imagine anything better,” mutters Tommy. Then he turns to Buck, gaze unsteady; still, a smile cracks his lips.
This was based on the last two paragraphs of an earlier post of mine: post
I wasn't exactly planning to do anything for @crash-that-helicopter-week (except read all the amazing fics that come out of it, obviously). But I had been wanting to draw this, and I finally felt inspired to a few days ago, so I figured, perfect timing.
Though, I will say, this one put me through the ringer. I just could not decide on an art style. I drew Buck, just to draw him again in a different art style. Then after I drew this whole thing in that art style, I wasn't sure if this art style fit the vibe. So then I tried to do a just lineart art style, but that didn't look quite right, I tried adding shading and cross hatching, but it still wasn't right. Then I finally combined the line art and the second art style together, and adjusted a couple things for them to work. Then I played around with the color grading for like forever. So basically, indecisiveness really kicked my butt with this project. But I have learned from this experience that I would be absolutely amazing at drawing children's books.
I might make a part two to this, maybe even a part three. I make no promises. But I do have ideas.
Yes, I'm writing for @crash-that-helicopter-week !
When I saw the event, I immediately knew I wanted to contribute. While brainstorming, I ended up going for a slightly different interpretation of the prompt, but I had so much fun writing one of my favorite things: Uncle Buck!
As always, I'd love to hear what you think!
Things That Break (And Things That Don’t)
Summary:
An ordinary afternoon of babysitting takes a turn when Nash's boundless energy leaves Jee heartbroken over a broken toy.
While Buck tries to comfort her, Jee's relentless, honest questions about the man who gave it to her force him to confront something he's been avoiding for far too long.
