Part 16
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.
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 - Part 15
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Sal hangs up his call, tossing the cell on the counter with a clatter. "The 118 Union Rep, is still Mulligan. Thank Christ. Grizzly bastard, but he'll have your back." He turns, catching Buck's blank stare. "What?"
Buck blinks and looks between Sal, Gina and Tommy. "What's a union rep?"
Sal freezes, then shoots Tommy a look, can you believe this lil shithead? Tommy hides a smirk behind his mug, but his free hand finds Buck's knee under the table, squeezing
“You’ve been with the 118 for six fuckin’ months and you don’t know your rep?” Sal shakes his head, smirking despite himself. “Christ, fuckin’ Nash, alright, Probie. Union rep’s your shield… handles bullshit like this so it doesn’t tank your career.”
Buck shifts, uncomfortable, rubbing his neck. “I don’t know, Sal. It was just a…”
Sal rounds on him, glare sharpening. “She put her hands down your pants and kissed you, Buck. You freaked out. Does that sound like consent?” He jabs a finger. “No. And she was your fuckin’ therapist… who held your job in her hands. Power imbalance, coercion, the works. You’re filing that report this morning. I've already texted Mulligan.”
Buck swallows, eyes dropping to the table. Tommy’s grip tightens, we’ve got you. Sal softens a fraction, clapping Buck’s shoulder. “Mulligan'll meet you at the precinct. Handle it, kid. Or I will. You don’t want me to.”
Gina reaches for Buck’s plate when he finally pushes the last bite of toast around more than he eats it.
“You’re gonna be fine,” she says, matter-of-fact, stacking his dish on top of Sal’s. “Mulligan eats captains alive for breakfast. One therapist doesn’t stand a chance.”
Sal snorts into his coffee. “Damn right.”
Buck huffs a quiet laugh, but it’s thin around the edges.
He gets up anyway, carrying his glass to the sink while Gina starts loading the dishwasher beside him. Water rushes hot over his hands. He stares at it for a second too long before shutting it off hard.
Keys.
Phone.
Wallet.
His fingers pat each pocket automatically.
Tommy watches from the table, coffee mug cradled in both hands. Like he’s been waiting for Buck’s brain to catch back up with the rest of him.
“You need to get moving,” Tommy says finally. “Traffic’s gonna suck.”
Buck grimaces. “Yeah. Right.”
“I’ll meet you later,” Tommy adds. “Gonna talk to the DeLucas for a bit before heading home.”
Home. The word settles somewhere under Buck’s ribs and warms him all the way up.
He grabs his jacket off the chair back and heads toward the door. Tommy catches his wrist before he can get far.
Buck turns.
Tommy tilts his head back slightly, expectant. Casual as breathing, but Buck catches the way his thumb brushes once over the back of Buck’s wrist like he’s steeling himself.
Buck hesitates, not because he doesn’t want to. Jesus, he always wants to. But Sal’s leaning against the counter three feet away and Gina’s very pointedly not looking at either of them while loading silverware into the dishwasher.
Tommy’s mouth twitches.
Buck rolls his eyes and leans down anyway, "Relax, Kinard," he murmurs, low enough only for Tommy's ears before pressing a quick kiss to Tommy’s mouth.
It lasts maybe two seconds, long enough for Tommy’s fingers to tighten around his wrist.
When he pulls back, Tommy’s eyes are a little wilder than usual, before he smooths into that crooked grin, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes Buck’s chest squeeze stupidly every single time. “Go on, baby,” he says quietly. “Before Sal starts crying.”
“Fuck you,” Sal fires back instantly.
Gina laughs outright this time.
Buck feels heat crawl up his neck, but Tommy’s still looking at him like he hung the goddamn moon, and the embarrassment doesn’t matter nearly as much.
He squeezes Tommy’s shoulder once on his way past and slips out the back door into the morning sun.
The drive downtown passes in a blur of brake lights and half-remembered songs from an old mixed CD. Buck’s fingers drum restlessly against the steering wheel at every red light, his mind skittering uselessly between fragments he can’t pin down: the therapist’s perfume, the feel of her mouth, Sal’s furious face, Tommy’s thumb brushing his wrist like a promise.
By the time he pulls into the precinct parking lot, his stomach’s a knot of caffeine and nerves. A broad, older man in a LAFD hoodie is already waiting near the entrance, arms crossed over his chest like he owns the damn sidewalk.
The guy spots Buck climbing out of his jeep and jerks his chin once. “Kinard?”
“Mulligan,” he greets, the older man grunts, already turning toward the doors. “C’mon, kid. Let’s go ruin somebody’s morning.”
Buck snorts despite himself and follows him inside. The precinct buzzes around them, phones ringing, officers weaving between desks, and Buck barely has time to get his bearings before Mulligan steers him toward the front counter.
A familiar voice cuts across the noise first.
“Well, this can’t be good.”
Buck looks up to find Sergeant Athena Grant standing behind the desk with a file tucked under one arm, one eyebrow already climbing toward her hairline as she takes in Mulligan beside him. “Kinard,” she says. “You alright?”
Buck huffs a breath. “That depends. Is he usually this cheerful?” He jerks a thumb toward Mulligan.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Athena says dryly.
Mulligan presses a hand dramatically to his chest. “See? This is why morale is dead in this city.”
Athena ignores him completely, eyes returning to Buck in a way that feels too perceptive. She’d always been good at reading people, and Buck suddenly has the uncomfortable feeling she can see through all his bullshit.
“So Probie, what happened?” she asks.
He glances at Mulligan, who gives a small nod, then back to her. “I… need to file a report." The words taste like ash.
Athena’s expression doesn’t change while Buck explains why he's there. She just listens, occasionally asking a question when she needs clarification while Mulligan leans back in his chair beside him, scribbling the occasional note, glaring at the situation more than Buck himself.
By the end of it, Buck feels wrung out and embarrassingly small. Like he’s a kid again, dragged into the principal’s office for something he should’ve just handled himself.
Athena sets her pen down with a soft click. “You did the right thing coming in, Kinard.”
Buck shrugs, the back of his neck burning. “Feels kinda stupid now that I’m here,” he mutters, eyes on the pen still rolling between his fingers.
Mulligan lets out a rough scoff from beside him. “Kid, you should’ve been here yesterday.”
Athena gathers the paperwork into a crisp stack, tapping the edges straight. “I’ll push this through on the legal side. Internal complaint will route through the department by end of day.” Her gaze slides to Mulligan, one eyebrow lifted. “Assuming someone doesn’t start breathing fire at people first.”
“No promises,” Mulligan mutters.
Buck shifts in his chair. “Wait…” His brow furrows slightly. “What happens now?”
“That depends on the investigation," Athena answers evenly. “At minimum? Her license gets reviewed. Department’ll determine whether criminal charges apply.”
Buck scrubs a hand over the back of his neck.
“Now for you?” Mulligan says. “Now you get a new therapist that isn’t a goddamn predator.”
Buck makes a face immediately. “I don’t really need one.”
Both Athena and Mulligan stare at him, and Athena raises her eyebrow at him.
Buck sighs. “I mean... look, I’m not gonna lie, my first loss on a scene fucked me up a little, sure, but I’m fine now.”
Mulligan’s expression softens as the irritation bleeds from his face as understanding fills his gaze, “Kid,” he scoffs fondly, leaning forward. “Your first loss, the way you lost that guy, the way it made national news, it would've rattled anyone.” His eyes narrow slightly. “And I read over your file before coming down here, you were military before LAFD.”
Buck nodded, rubbing his hands down his pants. “Navy.”
Mulligan nods like that answers something for him. “Then that’s even more reason.”
Buck frowns, head tilting slightly.
“You people are real fuckin’ good at pretending you’re fine until you drive yourself into the ground,” Mulligan states bluntly. “I’ll send you a rep who knows the VA system and firefighter resources both. Somebody decent this time.”
Buck opens his mouth automatically, ready with another I’m fine.
Athena cuts him off before he can get there. “Take the help, Kinard.”
Tommy’s garage door is open when Buck pulls into the driveway.
Classic rock hums low from speakers hung in the corners, nearly drowned out by the metallic clink of tools. The late afternoon sun cuts through the open space, catching dust motes and chrome. Tommy’s got the old Chevelle up on the lift again, his broad shoulders visible under it, sleeves rolled high, grease streaking his forearms.
Buck kills the engine and just sits there for a second, fingers still wrapped around the steering wheel. The sight of Tommy working loosens whatever’s gotten tight in his chest. He still isn’t entirely convinced he deserves this.
Then Tommy swears loudly from inside the garage.
Buck snorts despite himself, he grabs the small paper bag off the passenger seat before heading up the drive.
The garage smells like motor oil and the faint bite of cigarette smoke that’s probably soaked into the concrete from Eli hanging around out here too often. Tommy’s still mostly under the Chevelle, one boot braced against the creeper as he reaches up into the undercarriage with a wrench.
“You strip another bolt?” Buck can't help but call out.
There’s a dull clang. “Shut up.” Tommy rolls himself out from beneath the car a second later, hair a mess from dragging his hand through it, grease smudged across his jaw. His blue eyes land on Buck and soften in that way they have for months now, like Buck walking in is the best part of his day.
Buck steps further into the garage, the familiar scent of oil and warm metal wrapping around him. “You know,” he says, leaning a hip against the tool cart, “most people just buy a midlife crisis. They don’t rebuild one from scratch.”
Tommy pushes to his feet with a grunt, wiping his hands on a rag. “Says the twenty-five-year-old with a death trap of a Jeep, unresolved authority issues, and a tendency to stare at motorcycles every time we pass the dealership like he’s trying not to cheat on me.”
Buck’s mouth twitches into a tired grin. He tosses the small paper bag onto the rolling tool cart beside him.
Tommy’s eyes flick from Buck to the bag. “What’s that?” His eyebrows lift slightly as he reaches for the bag. The grease on his fingers darkens the paper while he peeks inside.
“Counterweight spring,” Buck murmurs as he moves closer. “You said yours was warped.”
“You went to a parts store after filing a sexual misconduct complaint?”
Buck shrugs, suddenly weirdly self-conscious under the look Tommy’s giving him. “I was already out.”
“Hm.” Tommy pulls the spring free, turning it over in his hands, inspecting the metal out of habit more than suspicion. “This is the right one.”
“Well yeah,” Buck rolls his eyes. “I’m pretty but I do know a thing or two.”
Tommy tosses the rag onto the workbench and steps closer, close enough that Buck can feel the heat rolling off him. His gaze sweeps over Buck’s face, cataloging the tension still sitting around his mouth, the exhaustion tugging at his shoulders.
“How bad was it?” Tommy finally asks.
Buck exhales through his nose. “Athena was cool. Mulligan a solid dude.” He leans back against Tommy's workbench. “Apparently I’m getting assigned a union rep who specializes in working with vets.”
Tommy hums softly. “Good.”
Buck picks at a loose thread on his sleeve. “He read my file, Mulligan, the Navy stuff,” Buck clarifies. “Said vets are really good at pretending they’re fine until they implode.”
“And what did you say to that?”
Buck snorts and looks up, catching Tommy's gaze. “Told him I was fine.” That earns him a long look. Buck drops his eyes to the concrete. “Okay, maybe you both have a point.”
Tommy reaches out then, fingers brushing Buck’s hip before settling there. “You eat anything besides Deluca toast today?”
Buck thinks about it. “Grabbed a hot-dog and white monster from the gas station?”
“Jesus Christ.” Tommy squeezes his side once before stepping away toward the old garage fridge tucked beside the workbench. He pops it open, tosses Buck a beer. "You're gonna help me make burgers tonight."
The cap hisses softly when Tommy flicks his off. He leans back against the Chevelle beside Buck, shoulder bumping shoulder.
For a while they just stand there listening to old 90's country through speakers while they watch cars pass by.
Buck watches a little boy pedal down the street, a sigh falls out then the words. “His name was Devon.”
Tommy pauses bottle halfway to his mouth as his gaze cuts to Buck's.
Buck swallows hard against the sudden knot in his throat. “The guy from the coaster.”
“I know,” Tommy says quietly.
Buck nods once, eyes fixed somewhere past the engine block now. “Everybody keeps calling him ‘the fatality.’” His face twists into something ugly. “Like that’s all he was.”
Buck huffs a humorless breath. “He kept asking about his friend. Chad. He knew something was wrong before any of us said it.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I had him, Tommy. I was right there.”
Tommy turns slightly toward him, waiting, letting Buck gather his thoughts.
“That’s the thing nobody gets. He didn’t slip.” His fingers tighten around the beer bottle. “He let go.” The low hum of music and distant traffic fills the quiet between them. Buck stares at the concrete. “In BUD/S they teach you how to keep people with you.” His voice goes quieter. “Drown-proofing, hypothermia, panic response, shock. You control your breathing first, then theirs. Keep them talking. Keep them listening to your voice because if they’re listening, they’re still fighting.”
Buck swallows down the bile in his throat. “And Devon just…” He shakes his head roughly. “Stopped listening.”
Tommy doesn't answer right away. His thumb finds the small of Buck's back, he rubs slow circles. "You kept him talking," he says finally. "Right up until he made his choice." He pauses, making sure he had Buck's gaze before continuing. "That's not nothing, Evan."
Buck's molars grind together, then ease. He turns and cups Tommy's jaw, and kisses him, slow, the kind that doesn't ask for anything back.
When he pulls back, Tommy is just watching him. "Sal knows." He states. "This morning, after you left, I told him and Gina."
"You told them?"
"Yeah?"
"About?"
"About us. About Vegas." Tommy glances over then, and there's something raw at the edges of his face, something Buck rarely sees. Not fear, exactly. But close. "I should've done it months ago. You deserved that."
Buck stares at him. "I'm the one who… I…"
"You had a panic attack and accidentally outed us to my best friend." Tommy's voice is flat, matter-of-fact. "That's not exactly a breach of confidence I'm gonna hold against you, ever. I've been hiding for a long time," he continues. "Not just you. Not just us. I've been hiding me. And then today when Sal was on the phone with Mulligan, Gina's making you toast, and I'm just sitting there thinking…" He shakes his head. "I don't want to hide anymore. Not from them. I knew they knew, but I had to say it."
"What'd they say?"
Tommy's eyes crinkle. "Sal said, and I quote, 'took you long enough, dipshit. Thought I was gonna have to spell it out for your thick head.'"
A laugh cracks out of Buck before he can stop it.
"Gina cried, and then she swatted Sal because he knew and didn't tell her, said it wasn't his to share." Tommy's smile was fond. "Then she made me more coffee and ordered me to eat the rest of your toast."
Buck stares at him. Something moves through his chest, too warm and wide to name, so he doesn't try. He pats his chest and steps back, jerking his chin toward the Chevelle. "You finish up out here." He states stepping back. "I'll make the burgers."
Tommy's mouth curves. "That an order, Kinard?"
Buck's already heading for the door. "Yeah," he says, not looking back. "It is."
