thinking about pregnant tommy is rewiring my brain. thinking about him isolating himself and feeling guilty and horrible while desperately clinging to the fact that at least he still has part of evan with him.
Five months after they break up, Buck gets the courage to ask the guy from Air Ops supporting their hillside extraction if Tommy is the one flying the chopper. It doesn't hurt to be nice. The guy looks him up and down twice, eyes only, and says, "Buckley? No, man, he's been with the rehab unit for a month," before securing their guy and then he's going, going, gone.
Buck texts Lucy afterwards about it, curious. She doesn't respond.
"You hear Tommy's working rehab unit?" He asks Eddie when they're dressing down into their civvies later. "Did he get injured or something?"
"No clue, that guy stopped responding to my texts a few weeks after you two broke up," Eddie replies.
Buck's fingers slip buttoning up his own shirt. "What? Why didn't you tell me?"
Eddie shrugs. "You guys broke up. Tommy's cool and all, but I would get why he needs space. If he's been working rehab though, I wonder if something happened." Pauses, looks at Buck. "I'll text him for you."
He doesn't bring it up again. If Eddie texts, Buck never knows the response.
Two years after Tommy breaks up with him, Bobby pushes him out of the nest. Buck's spent the time leaning into Bobby's mentorship and when it becomes available, Bobby submits him as a candidate with full confidence for battalion chief up in Mendocino.
His career grows from there. He's not thrilled with working rural, but he learns to love his new team, and continues the traditions of his first house. He learns how to earn their respect.
There are a number of hook ups, men and women. It's a two hour drive to the bay, but that's not an impossible ask for him when he wants a little something more with no recognition.
His job is his love first.
"I saw your panel, uh," Buck says, starts, fumbles, "on Helitack. Sounds like you've really changed that program."
It's been almost a decade, but Buck could still recognize the slope of Tommy's broad shoulders, the tired, smile-driven drive of his cheek up to his eyes, the cliff-side cut of his chin, anywhere. Even with grays at Tommy's temples. It's a lifetime later, it feels like, but considering both of their ambition it would be a shock they wouldn't rub shoulders at the annual CFCA.
"Buck," Tommy says. He traces the rim of his shot glass with two fingers, and he doesn't look unhappy when he shifts up. He smiles, even. "Hey."
"Is uh, this seat taken?" Buck asks. Ten years erased. Tongue-tied and twisted guts all over again.
Tommy does pause for a second. But then he nods at the stool next to him at the hotel bar. "All yours, if you want it."
They catch up, a little. It's mostly Buck telling Tommy about working in rural NorCal, his team, and the strange, strange reality of operating in weed country.
"Who's that?" He asks, when Tommy's phone face-side up gets a text, then another. "Niece? Nephew?"
"Well," Tommy says, and he's quick with his phone but not quick enough for Buck not to notice the little girl posing with him on his lock screen photo, them jumping on a beach together-- his background looks like another picture with the girl, this time on a beach. "Daughter, actually."
A tumor borne of desire, of never being enough, gains weight in Buck's gut. After all this time, and yet. Tommy hadn't really seemed open to any kind of future with him, but this girl looks, she's old enough to be, probably right after--
"Cute," he says, softly. She looks ten years old. Her hair curls wispy and wild out of her braids and bangs, and Buck swallows back the bait instead of spitting it out. Maybe. "Takes after her dad."
Tommy nods. His smile has grown tight. "Actually, Evan."