Chapter 1: The Crash that Led to Better
Chapter Text
Crystal-blue skies stretch across Tommy’s vision as he scans the city below. Up here, in the cockpit of a helicopter, he’s weightless. Floating cloud to cloud, the only sounds those the machine makes, steady as the breath in his lungs. Blades churn above, the engine hums in rhythm with his heartbeat.
It’s calming. Quiet. Closest to what he believes can be called holy.
When Tommy joined the Army, it was after a childhood of screams and slammed doors from a father that never loved him, and a bottle of Beam that earned more of Senior’s time than Tommy. He’d never cared to salvage the parts of his soul that went missing before kindergarten. Being a cog in the machinery of the military felt more like home to him than anywhere else.
Sergeants barking in his ear commanding respect, demanding perfection, calling out “Kinard” like a number in a line-up.
It’s all he ever thought he deserved.
But as he moved through the ranks, he finally earned enough respect to be considered for specialty training, and the lure of a pilot’s seat sang to him like a Siren. The first time he took a flight on his own was the first time he understood love. The open air, the vast sky – freedom without misery, safety in her wings.
He earned his license quickly, stacked promotions one on top of the other, until an injury discharged him two months early. He couldn’t heal fast enough. That was the first time temptation whispered from the bottom of a bottle and one night chasing his father’s ghost scared him sober.
He’d rather die than become the man his Senior was.
And he almost did.
After a brutal probation in one of L.A.’s coldest firehouses, Tommy finally earned a spot that felt closer to who he wanted – hoped – to be. Still, he was too far, always at arm’s length, the tunnel too dark to see out of on nights it felt hardest.
It wasn’t until he collapsed in a strip mall – confusion fogging his mind and clouding him with exhaustion, dragging him closer to the afterlife – that he realized what he was missing.
Howie Han saved his life that day, in more ways than he’ll ever know.
Growing in confidence and earning his keep collided with the desire for more, and when the sky called out to him once again, he couldn’t resist her melody.
He never could stay grounded for long.
Transferring to Harbor was the best decision of his life. He was happy there – settled, confident, assured. Surrounded by people who had his back, a life filled with friends that formed jigsaw pieces, fitting perfectly with one another.
It was enough. It would’ve been enough forever.
Until the crash.
The helicopter carrying him, his co-pilot, their medics, and a patient plummeted straight from the sky deep into a hell Tommy feared he’d never escape.
Now – floating across aquamarine skies, spotted with tufts of ivory white – he can relax. Breathe. He’s one with the machine he inhabits, so in sync the blades become an extension of his own body, movement so natural it’s like a second skin.
It’s picture-perfect. Serene.
Suddenly, the blare of alarms on the panel tear through his chest. Lights flash cherry-red, tangerine-orange between shrieks and shouted numbers. His headset fills with dispatch, his captain’s frantic shouts, his crew’s desperate prayers. The patient wails behind him, screams louder than the dying machine.
Tommy calculates, executes, reacts faster than thought – carrying out commands with muscle memory built through years of experience. He thinks of his deadbeat dad, frustrated he can’t tell him off to his face before he dies.
Thinks of his neighbor who won’t be able to reach her smoke detector to replace the battery without him. Thinks of next week’s pick-up basketball game, how Teddy won’t be there, how they’ll have to forfeit.
They were so close to winning it all this year.
Smoke thickens in the cabin, alarms sear straight into his brain, sharp and demanding. Screams fill the gaps between it all like horrifying kintsugi in surround sound. The ground rushes up faster than Tommy can pull them away.
Between one breath and the next, they collide with it, and the world goes black...
Tommy jolts awake to the sound of his alarm, shrill and insistent, a cold sweat beading across his brow. He’s used to it now, or should be, the worst day of his life projected in grainy reels each time his eyes close.
Heart pounding against his ribs, nausea curling in his gut, adrenaline spiking as he flees the nightmare – they’ve become as routine as brushing his teeth. Still, it wrecks him.
Sheets ensnare his legs as he drags himself free. His spine cracks, his knee twinges, pain lances into his hip. He drags his hand over his face and wipes away the lingering marks of a fitful sleep, willing his body to get it’s shit together.
It’s been six months.
Today he’s supposed to show up at the 217, shake hands with people who know exactly how he failed. Failed to save the lives of a patient and one of his medics. Failed to protect the very person he was supposed to save.
Engine failure. Rogue drone. Murmurs of ‘it’s not your fault’ spread beyond hospital walls and Internal Affairs. It doesn’t matter.
He may not have caused the crash, but he was at fault for the lives he lost in it. He was the one that woke up in a hospital bed days later when two others never did. He would trade his life for theirs in a heartbeat.
Some nights, he thinks about trying. Ending it on the altar of grief too heavy for anyone else to carry. Howie has pulled him back from that very ledge more than once. Figuratively. Literally.
Tommy’s not sure if he owes the guy a beer or a right hook, but he’s good for it either way.
Howie will be there today. Said he’ll bring his wife and daughter, that he’s proud of Tommy, even.
Tommy’s curled over the bathroom sink with a toothbrush in his mouth as the nausea crests and he barely makes it to the toilet, puking up what little remains of the toast he’d eaten for dinner last night.
He’s earned a medal for his failure. The thought makes him sick every time. He’s waffled more than once, certain he’d never show his face at this thing, but he’d promised Howie. Gave him his word he would at least try.
And Tommy’s nothing if not a man of his word.
*
*
The ceremony goes quickly but still too slow for Tommy’s liking. He ends up bolting out of his seat as the Chief makes his closing remarks. Out the side exit, against the sun-warmed brick, he fumbles a cigarette from a crumpled pack. His hands shake too much to light the damn thing, until finally it catches.
“You okay, man?” Howie’s voice startles him, reels him back into his body, wrapped in smoke that curls around his shoulders.
Tommy nods, forces a ghost of a smile, and takes another drag.
Howie holds the medal in his palm and when Tommy glances down, the sun glints on it in just the right angle, blinding him. That growing pit of sickness Tommy lives with expands and jolts, the sight of it nearly taking him out at the knees.
“You saved two lives, Tommy.”
“I lost two,” Tommy snaps back, angry at the suggestion that luck being on his pitiful soul’s side somehow warrants the thing.
Howie only shakes his head, leans against the wall and plucks Tommy’s cigarette free, taking a drag before handing it back. Tommy offers the open pack for Howie to take his own, but he refuses.
“I’ve got a kid and a wife to think about,” he says.
Tommy manages the smallest smile at the image of Jee giggling on his lap inside, Maddie sneaking him a piece of cake with a sparkle in her eye.
“You think you’ll come back?” Howie asks.
The answer is out before Tommy knows it with a shake of his head. A small tear dries in the sun before it can make landfall. It still burns.
“I don’t think…I can’t.”
Howie only nods, a tight smile winding up his mouth as he presses his palm to Tommy’s shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. “I get it.”
“Yeah.”
It’s quiet for a few beats, the distant echo of a car alarm dancing between buildings and fluttering birds escaping skyward the only noise breaking the stillness. When Tommy glances up to watch them leave, the sun stabs into his eyes until pain flares in his skull. The flash of pain grounds him.
“Eddie – Diaz, with the 118 – mentioned a friend of his is looking for a bodyguard.” Howie says it like it isn’t absurd. Like Tommy belongs in sunglasses and an earpiece, protecting sleazy men that don’t deserve it.
He huffs a laugh. “A bodyguard?”
Howie shrugs and grins. “You’re big and strong. You look like a movie star. I think that’s all that’s required.”
Tommy arches a brow.
“I don’t know, it just seems like,” he exhales, and Tommy can’t tell if he’s exhausted or amused. “It seems like you can deal with being a well-paid hunk of man meat on the ground for a while.”
Another drag of Tommy’s cigarette burns harsher as he inhales, the sharp smoke seeping into his lungs. “Like…a glorified security guard?”
“Yeah,” Howie nods as he pushes against the wall to stand. “I think it’d be pretty easy. Here–”
Howie snatches Tommy’s phone from his pocket and taps something into it. Eddie’s number, Tommy assumes.
“You really need a passcode,” Howie mutters with a chuckle.
“There’s nothing on it,” Tommy deadpans. “If someone wants my calculator my captain’s missed calls, they can have it.”
“That’s sad, man.” Howie doesn’t even try to hide his disbelief before he gives another friendly squeeze to Tommy’s shoulder. It’s so gentle and considerate, even the small amount of empathy feels unearned to Tommy. “Let’s hang out sometime, yeah?”
“Long as it’s not at one of these things,” Tommy nods his head, gesturing to the polite crowd milling just behind them and Howie laughs.
It’s bigger, a little more playful, and Tommy feels a spark of something warm in his chest that’s been missing since the crash.
“Scout’s honor,” Howie says, half-mocking, half-earnest.
Tommy chuckles, waves him off and glances at his phone. There’s a text Howie already sent to Diaz from his phone – It’s Chim, on Tommy Kinard’s phone. He’s your next hot bodyguard.
Tommy rolls his eyes, pockets his phone, finishes his cigarette, and steels himself for a last round of goodbyes before heading back to his dark, empty house.
*
*
“Kinard,” the guy says, chewing on the name with a heavy East Coast accent, the r swallowed in the back of his name. “You’re a friend of Eddie’s.”
“Friend of a friend,” Tommy corrects. “I used to work at his station. We’ve got some people in common.”
“Ah. Anthony. Nice to meet ya,” He pivots down a narrow hall, the sad beige walls giving way to worn brown carpet. “Small place. My brother Scott and I run it. Just a handful of us, but we stay busy.”
“What kind of, uh, clients do you serve?”
Anthony smirks, expression unreadable, some blend of unimpressed and amused, but keeps walking until they reach a cramped office at the back. He drops heavily into a chair behind the desk and gestures for Tommy to take the one opposite.
“We handle a lot of small-time stuff. Stalkers. Pre-trial assistance. Local celebrities who need someone to keep the riffraff away.”
The office smells like lemon-scented chemicals and mint gum, the bitter tang of coffee braided into the air. Somewhere nearby, a man barks into a phone. It’s one-sided but loud enough to make Tommy wonder who’s catching heat on the other end.
“How does it,” he sweeps a hand across the office, “all of this – actually work?” Tommy asks.
Anthony reaches into a drawer and pulls out a flimsy pamphlet – it’s the kind that looks like it should be warning kids not to smoke, to try an after-school club instead. Pixelated photos of bulky men in slightly oversized suits and tough-looking women crowd the cover, with blocky bullet points scattered down the page.
- Perform sweeps of meeting places
- Transport executives to business locations
- Check vehicles for explosives
- Keep a watchful eye for potential attackers
- Provide protection while traveling
“Here’s the gist,” Anthony says, tracing the list with the chewed end of an old ballpoint. “Depending on the client, we can be on call for an hour, a day, or weeks at a stretch.”
Tommy nods like he understands and knows what the hell he’s supposed to be looking for, though the setup seems straightforward enough. Nothing here screams danger, and he doubts this little outfit skirts action beyond the occasional hothead with a few years of bar fights under his belt.
“You guys carry?” he asks, flipping the pamphlet between his hands.
“Tasers, cuffs, sure. We’ve all got permits to carry firearms if someone asks.”
Tommy’s handled weapons, trained for far more than just flight in his time in the military.
It feels kind of absurd, the idea that protecting someone now could soothe the guilt of losing people under his watch. Still, the control appeals to him. A chance to tip the scales. To balance karma. To somehow right his wrongs.
Not to mention the practical reason. He can’t go much longer without making some money, his meager medical coverage won’t do much beyond keep a roof over his head and his savings are dwindling.
He sets the pamphlet down and looks back up at the burly man in front of him. “When can I start?”
Chapter 2: Exhibit A
Summary:
Buck and the 118 respond to The Getty after an earthquake.
Notes:
we're diving in! don't worry things will be explained, stick with me friends. this is post s8, pre s9 but also this is an AU so we're being wobbly here. don't expect consistency with chapter lengths, ending when pacing makes sense, so just enjoy the ride.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“We’re so excited to have you here,” Hannah says, broad smile stretching into her cheeks. She’s bouncy, giddy with the excitement she’s (unsuccessfully) trying to contain when she guides Dr. Kay toward the exhibit.
As Associate Curator, Hannah has been deeply involved in research and collections at the Getty, but this is the first opportunity she’s had to own a project of this magnitude.
“I’m glad to be here,” Dr. Kay smoothly replies, her own smile soft and warm. She’s already unique, her style attracting the eyes of many in the field, but her accomplishments far outshine her vintage tees and classic Doc Martens. Hannah glances at her again, eyes skimming her tattoos – sleeves filled with hyper realistic illustrations of animals wielding weapons – and her smile grows.
Dr. Judy Kay is a new Guest Scholar at the Getty Research Institute, specializing in Illuminated Manuscripts & Material Culture of the Late Middle Ages – a mouthful to some but fascinating to Hannah.
There may or may not be a picture of Dr. Kay on Hannah’s desk that she’s tucked away to avoid embarrassment. But she feels like she knows Dr. Kay as more than a scholar, given how often she’s turned to her bright face for advice over late night research dives.
Known for challenging old assumptions about authorship, gender, and symbolism in manuscript culture, Hannah’s used her textbook in recent coursework - Ink & Power: Women Scribes and the Politics of Devotion, 1250–1400 – and has her TED talk “Saints, Scribes, and Soft Power” nearly memorized.
“Y-You know,” Hannah says, stepping into the elevator and holding the door, “Your paper on blending traditional scholarship with digital tools inspired us to create an app for the library.”
Something like surprise flitters in Dr. Kay’s eyes, and Hannah nods rapidly, “It-It’s incredibly popular, we already have well over 150 subscribers.”
“That’s rad,” Dr. Kay smiles as she offers a friendly fist to Hannah. Hannah bumps it excitedly, and when their skin collides, she’s certain she’s never washing that hand again.
“It is rad,” Hannah beams.
The elevator dings and deposits them into the special collections library and Hannah can barely contain her bubbling energy as she leads the way. “We’ll start here and move through special collections – my personal favorite – before we head back to the archives. I want to make sure you stick around.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Dr. Kay replies, eyes scanning the massive collection as they work their way through the aisles. “I could live here if you’d let me.”
“If it were up to me,” Hannah says, “I’d build you a house in here myself.”
With that, Dr. Kay laughs, full throated, and Hannah feels like she’s earned a Nobel – it’s warm and mirthful, filling the stacks with childish wonder despite the ancient words the books hold.
“So. Tell me, Hannah, what are you interested in – what did you study?”
Hannah’s pulling back another door and leading them deeper into the collection, towards the oldest and most precious works – housed in a special room that pulls oxygen from the air and keeps them protected.
“Portrayal of disability in medieval literature,” Hannah boasts, “Your work has been eye-opening in reassessing the works of the time. Fascinating, really.”
Dr. Kay nods and finds Hannah’s eyes. They shimmer with a glint of gold tucked between the bands of green. “I’d love to hear more about it, when we have the time.”
Hannah’s fairly certain her stomach freefalls in the moments between that request and the next, and her heart races over the thought of someone like Dr. Kay being interested in anything she has to say.
When the door shuts behind them, cutting off the rest of the library from the small room, the vacuum of silence fills the space, and Hannah’s pulse reaches her ears as she nervously fidgets.
“Thank you,” Hannah says quietly, turning toward the room and shaking free from her awestruck expression. “Um, here we have the special collections – it’s where we house rare and unique materials in art history and visual culture, including archives, manuscripts, architectural materials, rare books, prints, and photographs.”
Dr. Kay nods, waiting for her to lead the way to their destination, eyes widening with excitement. Hannah steps forward, and the jolting and familiar feeling of unsettled ground erupts, shaking with what seems to be an earthquake. Hannah reaches for Dr. Kay and pulls her free from the smaller room, out to a nearby table, crouching beneath it as the shelves start to rumble.
The sound of cracking concrete and scraping metal fills the air, shattering glass sending glistening shards around the larger room they’re encased in.
“Heavy duty glass and door,” Hannah explains. They remain intact while the rest of the casing collapses, “to protect the collections.”
“And us, apparently,” Dr. Kay shouts over the loud rumble of shifting metal. The loud echoes of crumbling rock shoot through the air causing the pair to huddle closer together beneath the table, protecting each other until the ground settles.
When they emerge, the room is in shambles and Hannah’s heart nearly cracks out of her chest. Hundreds of years spent collecting and restoring precious works falling apart with one shift in the earth’s crust. Tears spring to her eyes before she has a chance to stop them, burning behind each blink. When she turns to Dr. Kay, however, her thoughts are stalled.
Drops of crimson blood emerge from a gash across Dr. Kay’s head, slicing her eyebrow and oozing lazily into her eye.
“Oh my god,” Hannah says, removing her scarf and pressing it to Dr. Kay’s temple. “You’re bleeding. Are you okay?”
Dr. Kay’s eyes roll up, seeking the wound that’s pulling tacky liquid from her skin and down her neck. She’s shaken free from her shock and nods, “I’m fine. I didn’t even notice.”
“Must’ve been a piece of glass,” Hannah’s eyes scan the room searching for the culprit of the injury. “Or maybe a piece of wood or metal or something – are you in pain, Dr. Kay?”
“Judy, please,” she replies with a gentle smile, “and no, I promise I’m fine. Should we go check on your colleagues?”
Crawling out, Hannah emerges from beneath the table and offers a hand, pulling Judy to her feet and keeping a tight hold on her elbow, eyeing the gash where she presses the scarf to her temple.
When Hannah moves to the door, though, something stands in her way. A shelf collapsed and fell across the entrance, well over eight feet of steel sprawled across open books and documents, glass cases shattered between the metal.
“There’s just one problem,” Hannah says, turning back to Judy. “I think we’re trapped.”
*
*
“So you’re saying there’s a chance,” Chim says, eyebrow quirked as he jogs up the stairs with Hen in tow.
“Over your dead body, Chim,” Hen laughs loudly, circling him when they reach the top where he stops, mouth agape in feigned shock.
“I won’t soon forget this,” Chim says, hands on his hips with a fierce glare. A smile grows on her cheeks as she makes her way to the kitchen island where Buck is chopping carrots, Ravi behind him drying dishes at the sink.
Buck feels another small piece of himself settle, those loose jagged pieces still hanging freely in parts of his brain since Bobby died. Plenty of moments still happen where those pieces fray happiness, cutting deeply into new memories formed without his laughter, but Buck takes the tiny wins with the painful losses.
Things are starting to bloom again in the garden he thought had withered away after the lab. The 118 is still under Gerard’s captaincy, but he’s less cruel than he used to be. He mostly keeps to himself, grumbling with occasional arguments about how things were “back in the day,” but he’s harmless. Something Buck is grateful for despite the desire to have another leader at the helm. One that pushes the team to greatness, draws their courage together within themselves and builds family bonds easily – with kindness.
With the birth of baby Han – Bo, a piece of Bobby but still too painful a reminder to wear his namesake so loudly – Chim was on paternity leave and Eddie re-joined, filling in as paramedic in his absence.
It shakes things up enough that Buck feels tethered again to the 118, but doesn’t tug on the painful parts of his past that are too raw to sew back together. And Eddie’s great at it – him and Hen are calm and confident, and their bedside manner is compassionate and caring.
Truly, Buck doesn’t mind, sticking with Ravi in the engine, a bond formed between them in the wake of Bobby’s death that Buck feels incredibly protective of.
Thoughts of Daniel occasionally flood his mind, wondering if he would’ve been a big brother to him like he tries for Ravi. In their stead, Buck feels importance in carrying those thoughts forward, even if only for himself and the lingering memory of his brother.
“Whatcha makin’, Buck?” Chim asks as he deposits himself onto the stool next to Hen, plucking a piece of carrot from the cutting board before Buck has a chance to swat his hand away.
“Stir fry,” Buck replies with a roll of his eyes. Ravi snakes between the countertops and makes to set the table, the soft clatter of stacked dishes a quiet song of familiarity in the afternoon air. “Rav said he was craving it.”
Grinning, Ravi spins and faces the team before continuing to set the table, and Eddie nearly collides with him at the top of the stairs. His eyes are locked tightly onto his phone.
“Sorry,” Eddie mutters as he skirts Ravi and past the team, pulling out a chair near the pool table.
“Everything okay?” Buck asks, his eyes narrowed, tossing chopped veggies into a dish at his workstation. “You seem a little distracted.”
“Hm?” Eddie glances up and shakes his head dismissively, “Yeah. Just trying to wrap things up with the house in El Paso.”
Buck nods, fingers moving back to the cutting board, mincing and dicing falling into patterns easily with his well-formed muscle memory. “Find a buyer?” he asks, and Eddie nods slowly.
“Hope so – got an offer at least,” he says, still focused on his phone. With the shift back to L.A., Eddie’s been tirelessly working to close gaps – re-enrolling Christopher back in school, helping Pepa out with doctor’s appointments and follow-ups, getting his re-certification and tacking on a few courses as a paramedic. He’s been antsy, if not glad to be back, but Buck wishes there was more he could do to help.
“Let me know i-if you need me to hang out with Chris for a couple days, if you have to…” Buck gestures broadly, “you know, go back an-and wrap anything up.”
“Thanks, man,” Eddie finally looks up at him, mouth curling up into a genuine smile. “I appreciate it.”
Despite the excitement he has over Eddie and Chris being back, and the overwhelming love he has for the Han family, Buck still feels a pang of loneliness. It’s easier to cope with time spent in solitude when he can fill the silence whenever possible.
Hen coughs and he shakes the thought free, clearly distracted enough to call attention to himself.
“How was your date?” she asks teasingly, plucking another veggie from the bowl.
Letting out a throaty chuckle, Buck says, “She was gorgeous but we just didn’t click – it seemed like she was hung up on this ex of hers. Colin something or other.”
“She wouldn’t stop talking about him on the first date?”
“This was o-our third date,” Buck corrects, brows raised. “She brought him up – more than once I might add – every date.”
“Sounds like you dodged a bullet,” Chim pipes in as he reaches for another carrot. Buck gets him this time, slapping his hand away mid grab.
“Guess so,” he says as he glares at Chim. “Dating sucks, though. I wish I could just skip all this a-and get right to the good stuff.”
Eddie’s brows raise and he nods, “Tell me about it. I went on a date with a woman last weekend that said she was spiritual – when I asked her more about it, she told me she practices Satanism.”
Buck and Chim chuckle at that, Chim’s hand finding his way to Eddie’s shoulder to offer a friendly squeeze.
“I’m lucky,” he says with a grin. “Maddie’s perfect.”
“Good answer,” Buck says as he tosses the chopped veggies into a skillet and starts warming them on the stove. “Eddie, you’ve got sisters right?”
“Don’t even think about it,” Eddie bites back, hopping off the stool and heading toward the couch. “Off limits, Buckley.”
Buck’s jaw drops and he scoffs, “I’m a catch!”
“You’re a liability,” Eddie teases before collapsing in front of the television. There’s a movie playing with some kind of car chase on screen; Buck just smirks and dismisses him with a wave.
“You’ll get there, Buck,” Chim says, his voice a little softer, still teasing but with the quiet edge of support Buck’s used to from who he’s come to call an older brother. “Don’t put too much pressure on yourself.”
“Easy for you to say,” Buck smiles. “But yeah, I’m sure it’ll work out.”
He doesn’t lie – not necessarily – but he’s held parts of himself at bay, settling into something steady – reliable for the others. What Bobby said they’d need. And it’s easy, really, he’s fine, not broken, not sobbing over three a.m. half-empty bottles of liquor, far removed from a metaphorical and physical ledge.
He’s just…fine.
Right as he reaches for a spoon, intending to give the veggies a stir, the dishes along the table start to tremor and the equipment downstairs shakes with a loud roar.
“Earthquake!” Chim shouts, calling out to the station, voice booming as the ground starts to shake with more vigor. “Protect your heads, everyone!”
Reaction times fast as a whip, the crew stabilizes potentially dangerous hazards. Buck tosses the knives into the sink to keep the blades from scrambling across the countertop and slicing into an unsuspecting victim.
It’s loud, the ground trembling underneath their feet, metal and steel clanging together as tools skitter along the apparatus floor. Despite the speed with which it passes, the station is in disarray, and the crew eyes one another, that familiar song from dispatch won’t be long – calls will be tumbling in soon enough.
Collecting the most critical pieces of equipment, propping tools back against the station walls and into their proper compartments, it doesn’t take long for the klaxon to erupt through the station, pulling everyone’s attention. The crew hurries to the engine and takes off, Dispatch alerting them of the need for the 118 to evacuate and triage the Getty along with the 122 and the 136.
The drive to the Getty is swift – sidewalks and side streets littered with helping hands and simple messes, neighbors helping neighbors to clean up patio tables and broken flower pots, car alarms blaring every block with a new symphony of disjointed disaster.
By the time they roll up to the museum, there are already scattered crowds, faces hung with frustration and annoyance, some speckled with blood and pain. Familiar fire engines flank the entry, cherry red in the afternoon sun, and when the 118 pulls in beside them, Buck hops out along with Ravi and Chimney, slinging his oxygen tank across his back and jogging up to Gerard to wait for instruction.
“Bukley, Panikkar, you’re with Terrence and Rhodes from the 122, you’re in the research institute,” he points at the massive circular building to the right of the main entrance. “They’ve got a few of the staff left in collections – fifth floor.”
Buck nods and reaches for Ravi, his hand colliding with his partner’s shoulder as they take off for the building, joining Terrence and Rhodes along the way.
On the fifth floor, they find two women, trapped in what seems to be a small library, a shelf tipped and blocking the front door of the room.
“Help! We’re in here!” A woman pounds against the glass, her eyes shining with fear. She’s got blonde hair, curls falling flat under the likely weight of her scrambling to find cover during the quake. “We have someone injured.”
Terrence and Rhodes shuffle behind Ravi, allowing Buck to take the lead, and he urges the woman to step back. “We’re gonna break this glass,” he shouts, “take cover!”
She nods and scurries away, heading back toward another person who Buck can’t see clearly, though its apparent from their legs they’re sitting or laying on the floor deeper into the room. Working quickly, they shatter the edge of the frame, broken glass raining over them, before they reach inside and attempt to shove the bookcase out of the way.
It’s heavy, too heavy, and the angle is off, but they finally get a grip on a corner and create a crawlspace big enough for Ravi to climb through. When he makes it to the other side, the leverage from his grip allows them to heave the shelf free, finally making entry.
“We’re here to help,” Ravi calmly tells the perky blonde, arm outstretched to steady her. “What’s your name?”
“Ha-Hannah,” she says, tears threatening to fall. “A-and this is Dr. Judy Kay.”
“Judy,” another woman says from just behind her, quiet smile on her lips. She’s leaning against the wall, palm pressed to her temple where a stream of blood trickles steadily down the side of her face. “We’re okay, we just couldn’t get out.”
“Let me take a look at that,” Buck reaches for the scarf covering Judy’s injury, sees purpling bruises bloom beyond a small gash in her head, but doesn’t spot anything too concerning. He has her follow his finger, asks a few questions, and it seems she’s okay save for the cut, stitches likely in her future.
Meanwhile, Ravi is checking on Hannah, scanning for injuries and asking questions to make sure she didn’t hit her head without realizing. The 122 worked on stabilizing the entryway while they checked the victims over, so they can make an exit without worrying about collapse. Buck calls out, directing the team to start to head for safety.
“We’re gonna get you out of here. Everything will be okay,” Buck says with an easy smile. When Judy smiles back, Hannah nods shakily, and Ravi helps them to their feet. “Is there anybody else back here?”
Hannah blinks and suddenly her face drops, color draining from her pearly skin in an instant. “Oh my god! Alex, h-he usually is…he works down here, I-I think he was working today but…we-we didn’t see him. Oh my god, is he okay? Can you check and see? What if he hit his head? What if he–”
“Hey, it’s okay,” Buck assures her as Ravi helps Judy through the door and Terrence keeps a hand on her back, holding her steady in the rubble. “I’ll look, you go with my friend Ravi, and I’ll get him out if he’s back there. Rav?”
“Got it,” Ravi guides Hannah out behind Judy and Buck nods. “I’ll be right back.”
In the back corner of the room is a smaller sub-section, encased in another layer of glass, the shelves pristine despite the quake. A few of the books have fallen, but there’s no broken glass, no fractured furniture, not even a speck of dust.
Buck opens the door, eyes scanning for anyone inside, calling out as he enters, “L.A.F.D., anyone here?”
No response. Sound is vacuumed from the space, the room so quiet he’d be able to hear the tread of socked footsteps, would easily be able to hear someone calling out for help.
“L.A.F.D.! Alex, you in here?”
Still. No response. Just as Buck’s about to turn around and head out, let Hannah know Alex must’ve played hooky that day, a sudden, sharp hiss sparks behind him where the door clamps shut and the broken sound of an alarm blares between breaths.
Buck jogs back to the door, pulling on the handle and desperately trying to yank it free. “Ravi!”
Ravi, face filled with alarm, bangs on the door. Buck can’t hear what he says, but he sees Ravi’s eyes dripping with concern as he turns to the women, asking a question. Hannah shakes her head and looks at Buck, her eyes finding his. It fills him with an icy dread, a sickening rush of cold terror flowing through his veins at the sight.
She looks horrified, eyes shimmering with tears, arms outstretched pointing at different doors, stumbling back into the room.
The air feels thinner, the quiet hiss echoing in his ears, and Buck spots a sign just beside the door that makes his stomach drop.
“OXYGEN REMOVAL SYSTEM ACTIVATES IN CASE OF EMERGENCY”
Oxygen removal system. Buck’s read about this. The Getty has a small room that contains incredibly rare artifacts, books, and manuscripts, and the room is in place to keep dust, debris, and any humidity out. It maintains the items and reduces wear and tear, as well as activating in case of a fire to protect the books.
Fear turns to desperation as Buck slams his fist against the glass, his chest growing heavier, a wave of dizziness crashing through him. Lightheadedness, lips tingling, the edges of his vision pulsing with his heartbeat, it all gathers and builds strength – his lungs aren’t getting any air.
He’s breathing but it’s not getting him anywhere.
The crackle of the radio startles him out of his panic, as Ravi looks at him through the glass – determined.
“Buck, listen to me,” Ravi says, voice firm. “The oxygen removal system kicked on, but we have time, okay? We’re working on getting you out.”
Despite every urge to beg them to move faster, to claw at the glass until it shatters under his fingernails, Buck shakes his head with a small nod. “Get them out first. Get them to safety,” he says, words tight, pointing at Hannah and Judy. “Bring back equipment. How long?”
“An hour,” Ravi says with a heaviness they’ve shared since the door slipped between Buck and Bobby at the lab. “We have time.”
Buck nods and smiles, tries to keep his voice light, knows fear betrays him. “Plenty.”
Ravi nods and directs the others out of the room, glancing back at Buck before disappearing himself. Buck does his best not to spiral, hopes to God there’s a way they can get through the reenforced glass, the heavy steel frames.
Staggering to his feet, he starts to assess, starts to work towards escape. He looks for any kind of manual lever, a panel he can tamper with to open the door, a key hole or emergency button. He sees a small camera, but no wires, no standard vents, no outlets, and his panic only grows.
By the time he circles back to the door, it’s been nearly twenty minutes, and he starts to feel heat rise through his limbs, up into his chest even though the room isn’t warm.
Turnouts shed, brow tight with worry, clammy with sweat, Buck stumbles before sitting back against the wall. He thought he had more time, but the way he’s been working himself ragged can’t have helped, his breaths more desperate and ragged than they were only minutes ago.
His vision blurs around the edges, sounds dull and fade away, heavy and thick like hearing through water. A high-pitched ringing echoes in his ears and his hands start to tremble.
Buck’s breath becomes the loudest thing in the room, and the sudden crackle of radio static seems deafening at first, then far away. Sometime between one blink and the next, Ravi’s back at the door, shouting through the glass with a muffled roar.
Buck’s thoughts fragment. Words slip – when he tries to call for Ravi, to tell him he’s fading fast, he stumbles – his fingers don’t work quite right, he can’t remember if Ravi can hear him or not through the radio, can’t figure out exactly why he’s here.
Time warps, the whir of equipment and shouts from the crew lost behind inches of heavy glass, behind growing specks of darkness fading into Buck’s vision.
Terror hits hard – his body knows before his mind does that something’s wrong. But before he has time to do anything about it, it shifts to something calmer, an eerie sense of relief. As Buck collapses into a heap, a soft exhale leaves his lips and the relief consumes him. His body’s last calm before shutdown.
His eyes close and he succumbs to darkness, his last thoughts fluttering to Alex and the hope of him having a fun day off, beer in his hand, laughter in his throat, safe and protected far away from this mess.
Notes:
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Chapter 3: Playback
Summary:
Buck is rescued by the team, but is he really safe?
Chapter Text
There’s something fascinating about Evan Buckley.
Born to parents desperate to fix a child they cared about far more than they ever did him, a sister who fell in love with a man who treated her like an afterthought, a nomad through most of his young life. Disconnected. Unwanted.
He’s nearly died more than once – has on one occasion – and still puts his life on the line every day of his job with the L.A.F.D.
And yet.
His dance with the devil hasn’t finished the song, hasn’t gotten him killed, not quite, and he keeps the Grim Reaper at bay with nothing more than a charismatic wink and a plea for more time.
It’s sickening, the way he saunters through life with that grin – one that’s plastered on his face like he’s never done anything wrong. As if he deserves the red carpet rolled out for him by victims of his charm.
It makes him sick, the rot of it.
Old television interviews, newspaper clippings, a medal of valor with his name engraved across the back, all of it reveals a life of broken glass stitched together pretending to be whole. And she’d almost fallen victim to it, too – stepped into his web with the hopes of happily ever after only to be confronted with a farewell on the front stoop of a fancy restaurant and an empty wish for a good life.
Just one without him.
It didn’t take much, not really, to find out where he works, his sister’s name and the pathetic man she’s married to. Two kids growing up in a house that adores their precious Uncle Evan.
The rest was easy. His co-workers and friends, all attached at the hip and hardly good people themselves, follow the same routines, drive the same routes to work, ride in the same seat in the eyesore of an engine. Close-knit. Predictable.
So, he started taking notes. Watching patterns. Keeping a quiet distance, tracking a running tally – all the ways Evan’s pathetic act of being a good guy and the way he oozes friendliness under the guise of being moral.
It seeps out of him like a sticky, sickly-sweet sludge, a smile hanging on cheeks that plump up under praise, a puff of his chest at a job well done.
But he knows the truth. Knows Evan’s a sad excuse for something more, a weak imitation of better than.
So he starts small. A letter missing from the mailbox. A tire slashed. An online order mysteriously canceled. A complaint to the city about “the firefighter down the block.”
Evan, the bastard, takes it all in stride, brushing off each attempt at tipping him off-kilter, unsettling something in his usual routine, revving up for something more. He smiles through it, pays for new tires, offers to cover additional shifts, makes calls and makes improvements to his usual routine. He adapts, carries on.
That leaves no choice but to escalate. Raise the stakes. Make him pay for the sinking feeling of heartbreak he caused and the saccharine sludge of an attitude that bears no resemblance to the man inside.
He knows better. Knows the truth of who Evan is. Knows that rot doesn’t belong in a firehouse.
There are things in motion now, levers to pull, threads to tighten.
Maybe Evan Buckley has flirted with death too many times. Maybe this time, he owes her a drink. Dinner. Happily ever after.
If Evan couldn’t give it to her, he’ll give Evan the next best thing.
*
*
“Buck!”
His ears are ringing, the echo of his name reverberating against his skull in time with a tempo far too fast for dancing.
“–an you hear me?”
The voice is familiar, something out of a dream, a distant relative of someone he cares about. It’s hard to breathe, to pull oxygen into his desperate lungs. His fingers and toes prickle with pins and needles. His head is pounding, deeper than a drum, and the air around him feels thick and slow.
“Open your eyes, Buck. Come on.”
He was at the station, he thinks. That’s the last thing he remembers. But this voice doesn’t sound like Hen or Eddie. It’s more frustrated – almost broken, tight and short – with something tenuous holding it together.
“Nngh,” is the best he can do, his jaw worn and tired, heavy with a dizzying ache.
“That’s it, man. You’re gonna be okay, let’s see those famous Buckley eyes.”
Chim.
The sound of his name through his brother-in-law’s voice is more familiar now, less broken, less distant. The thudding behind his eyes is still ferocious, his chest still tight, but air trickles in easier now.
“Hey, how’s he doing?”
Eddie’s voice now – that, he can tell, the way worry sits right behind his breath, the speed he moves, but still with intention. Buck can already feel Eddie’s fingers grazing his wrist, searching for a vein.
It’s nice, he thinks distantly, knowing the 118 are here, taking care of him. A symphony he knows by heart, the ring of voices strangely comforting. He just can’t remember why he needs saving this time.
A needle pierces his skin and he feels the cool rush of saline, hears the harsh rattle of a plastic backboard hitting something metal. It’d be a lot easier to force his eyes open if he didn’t know what was waiting for him.
*
*
The monitor glitches, flickers once then stabilizes, the tiny figures filling the feed eager and bold, their movements practiced. The 118 is smarter than he’d hoped, and they don’t stop at the sight of a barricade, at the buckling of a plan. They’ve breached the room, crossed the threshold he thought was strong, one he’d spent time investigating, one he’d spent time inhibiting.
Evan – or Buck according to the tinny voices onscreen – is still unconscious, eyes still closed, chest heaving in shallow stutters. The man watching the screen leans in closer, his own pulse thrumming with the rush of watching this traitor of a man succumb to something so easily before he’d been brought back from the brink.
Adrenaline fades, replaced by something sharper, sweeter.
So he bleeds, after all. Gasps. Trembles. Just a man under all that hero shine.
It’s intoxicating, the thrill of a life teetering on the edge, one he was so close to smothering with his own hands. He licks his lips, tastes the heat of it, seeks out more in the wake of its failure.
Maybe near-death isn’t a failure. Maybe it’s an invitation. A reminder.
Evan Buckley always comes back. Always escapes.
But not forever.
He’ll be keeping a close eye in the meantime, and won’t hesitate to take action if it’s warranted.
For now, he shuts the laptop, sticks his keycard back into his pocket, and joins the flow of evacuees gathering outside The Getty. Calm. Invisible. Already planning the next move.
*
*
“He’s coming around. Vitals are good. Let’s get him some oxygen.” A mask seals over his face and the first rush of air that bleeds into his lungs feels heaven-sent.
Heavy-lidded and exhausted, he finally forces himself to confront the light, and it slams into him like a truck. Fluorescence and its glare pummels him when he blinks himself into the room, the only redemption the sight of his brother-in-law with a gentle shimmer in his eyes. It brings relief in waves, settles Buck’s dread in a way he wasn’t even aware Chim could do.
“The man of the hour.” Chim says with a grin, “Buck, how you doin’, bud?” Buck already feels safer under his watchful eye, a piece of a brother he never got implanted in a friend that became one.
“Head hurts,” Buck mutters, the words slurred and slow.
“I’m giving you something for that,” Eddie says with his own grin and a squeeze of Buck’s shoulder.
Buck feels the warmth of unconsciousness call for him again. When his eyes slip closed, though, his friends don’t let him succumb, instead telling him to stick with them through the nasty business of rescue.
He still can’t quite piece it together, the shattered glass, books scattered in disarray, the team in turnouts despite the tidiness of a room without the scorch of flame.
“What ‘appened?” he manages, the tight puffs of air escaping his lungs clouding the mask on every tremor.
“Don’t worry about that right now,” Chim says, attaching the pulse oximeter, thumb brushing Buck’s wrist. He’s checking his pulse again, as if attempting to assure himself that Buck is really here, really talking to him. Really alive.
Buck gets it – after what they’ve been through – so he loosens the grip he has on his annoyance and settles into the quiet care of a team that wants to protect him. He drifts, body pleading to tip into slumber, to shove away the thrum of pain still bouncing behind his eyes.
But he can’t give in.
Instead, he focuses on the feel of the needle in his wrist and the bite of tape against his skin. The pressure of oxygen snaking into his lungs. The dig of the backboard into his ribs.
It's familiar, the feeling of pain. Buck’s been here before, combatting fear and dread with a physical blow. It takes on the weight of a blanket from childhood, worn and dirty but still somehow loved by its owner.
Muscles heavier than lead, throat raw, Buck floats on the feeling, cataloguing sensations until he’s deposited into an ambulance and carted away from the scene.
He hopes Chim will call Maddie so he can avoid the awful task of doing it himself. Thinks about how his bed isn’t made because he’d been washing his sheets and grumbles at the idea of laundry when he finally makes it home.
His stomach roils at the thought of the leftovers he has sitting in the fridge, the idea of a meal he’d prepped this week and the fourth day in a row eating it making him nauseous. He hopes he’s lucky enough for a few days of painkillers and an escape from reality for a bit, the call of deep sleep heavy on his mind.
*
*
By the time he’s discharged, he’s a little more clear-headed despite the headache still playing jazz between breaths inside his brain. His muscles are heavy and he’s fighting the urge to ask what happened every hour, but clarity is slowly crawling back in. He’s piecing fragments together – earthquake, debris, oxygen depletion – but most of it sits behind fog he can’t quite clear.
Maddie walks him to the car, her hand looped under his elbow, the other wrapped around his waist. He can’t resist the smile that fights onto his face at Chim in the driver’s seat. The back door is open, one of Jee’s blankets tucked in the chair, a sleeping mask held in his palm, outstretched to Buck.
“Thanks,” Buck murmurs as he climbs in, gratefully sliding the mask over his eyes. He sighs and hears Chim chuckle, Maddie’s playful tap to his arm nothing but teasing, quiet love. When the car rumbles beneath him, Buck starts to drift, and doesn’t even realize he’s fallen asleep until Maddie’s gentle voice hums softly in his ear.
“Come on, Buck. Almost there,” she coaxes, wrapping her hands around him again as he reluctantly pulls the mask from his face.
It feels like he’s run a marathon, limbs heavy with exhaustion. His chest is still tight, weak from his body’s frantic attempts to pull in air. He’s groggy, detached, and a little weightless where his spine should feel tethered to the rest of his body.
He doesn’t need the details. Ravi and Eddie already told him what happened, and he’s content to leave it buried. Another tally mark on a growing list of close calls and, frankly, he’s grateful for the gap.
Buck’s settled into the guest bed, a stuffed animal from Jee sitting guard on the pillow, so he’s been told.
Times have been tough lately, and the reality of that hits hardest laying in the dark, body aching and chest tight, eyes burning with tears he doesn’t want to fall. He can grin and bear it, most of the time, but this unlucky streak is on the heels of a particularly horrible loss, and he’s really not up for playing games with the universe.
If he smiles through it, he can usually get by, can build the hefty walls of support he’s gathered through years of trust and pain. He can be the dependable one, the steadfast friend, the reliable brother, the perfect firefighter.
But lost bills and broken tires and complaints to his captain don’t help, and the time he’s lost today in the wake of yet another near-death experience has him trembling under the weight of it all. He’s tired of counting the ways he’s survived.
If Bobby were here, he’d know what to say.
But he’s not, and Gerrard’s a shit replacement, a weak excuse for a captain let alone a mentor and friend. Buck lets a tear fall, then another, and before he knows it, he’s weeping himself to sleep in a room that doesn’t belong to him, with a family that isn’t his, not really, with another tally to one of his nine lives, hoping something changes for the better.
*
*
A heavy knock at the door startles Buck out of a deep sleep, given how rough he feels when he opens his eyes. For a moment, he’s not sure where he is. His head swims, body sluggish from too much sleep and not enough rest.
“Yeah?” he croaks, then coughs through a frog in his throat, feels his chest tighten again with the misery of his missed breath at the museum.
“It’s me,” Maddie’s voice says from behind the door. “Athena’s here. She wants to talk to you, if you’re up for it.”
Athena?
He pushes upright, heart picking up speed. Why would Athena come here? Did something go wrong on the call? Did someone—
He stops the thought before it finishes.
“Give me a minute.”
He drags on sweats, runs a hand through his hair to look somewhat human again, and stumbles into the living room.
Athena stands there in uniform, posture crisp, expression unreadable, lips drawn in a tight line. Buck can’t quite tell if she’s upset or worried, hasn’t been able to read her emotions since they lost Bobby in the lab. He swallows back bile at the thought.
“A-Athena…what are you…is everything okay?” the words feel clumsy, his voice quieter than he intends, like he’s afraid of the answer. Maybe he is.
“Can we sit?” Her voice still sounds like honey, steady and warm as always. He can’t help it, the way he feels so safe with her, trusts her implicitly. Because Bobby loves–loved her. Because she’s proven to him time and time again that he can.
“O-of course,” he gestures to the table and sinks into a seat across from her, his hands shaking slightly. From anxiety or exhaustion, he’s not quite sure which.
“Are you familiar with this woman?”
She pulls up her phone and flips it to him, the image on screen a woman he’s met before. Dark, curly hair, eyes a deep brown, a cheerful smile he’d seen now hiding behind a frown. He knows her but this looks nothing like the version he met, the one he shared dinner with a few times before telling her they weren’t meant to be.
“Yeah,” he says after a long pause. “We-we went on a couple of dates. Nothing serious. Is she okay?”
Athena nods, pocketing her phone. “She’s fine. Her brother, Colin Landers, is a person of interest.”
Buck blinks, startled at the news, confusion tangling with dread. He rubs a hand over his face and leans against the table. “I never met him. Like I said, we weren’t that serious. What’re you guys…interested in him for?”
Athena meets his eyes, expression heavy.
“Buck, we think you might be in danger.”
Chapter 4: The Oasis
Summary:
Tommy gets assigned to Buck's case.
Chapter Text
“You’re late,” Scott calls as Tommy skirts past his office, bagels and coffee balanced in one hand.
“But I come bearing gifts.” Tommy smirks and lifts the bag, “Even got your favorite.”
“I’m watchin’ the carbs,” Scott says, patting his stomach as he falls in step beside him. “No bagel for me today, Tom.”
Tommy rolls his eyes at the man who’s quickly become like a brother, complaints common but loyalty deeper than the sea, stitched through scar tissue. Both he and Anthony had served, Scott in Eddie’s old unit. There’s a kind of kinship that comes from shared dust and violence, from leaving behind parts of yourself in the desert.
Tommy’s settled into this new normal – vengeful exes, disgruntled former employees, stalkers who can’t take a hint. He’s gotten a pretty good handle on what it takes to do well in this industry and he’s mastered the ability to make it through jobs unscathed and, usually, with a good review to his name. He adapted fast, muscle memory and instinct sharpening with every luggage check, hotel sweep, vehicle inspection, threat assessment, and quiet interview.
It all folded into a new kind of normal than what he’d grown fond of with the L.A.F.D., but one that doesn’t fill him with dread each shift. No klaxon makes his pulse spike, no ghosts whisper through the walls when he clocks in.
“You’re late,” Anthony grumbles when Tommy and Scott reach the briefing room. Tommy sets the bagels in the middle of the table and pours Anthony a steaming cup of coffee – black, just the way he likes it – and hands it to the man.
“Forgive me?” Tommy grins as Anthony takes the cup and sips on the steaming brew.
“Only because it’s from Verve,” the steaming cup slides into Anthony’s hand like it belongs there, and Tommy smirks at the win.
“Wouldn’t dare to go anywhere else.”
“Kinard, how’d Ms. Shune make out?” Ryan, a poor soul who’s been at this for over a decade asks through a mouthful of bagel, crumbs catching in his mustache. He doesn’t even swallow before he shoves another piece in behind it.
“Made it to the Gala without a hitch,” Tommy answers with a wink, slipping into a chair beside Monica, another bodyguard. He unwraps his own bagel and winces when she nudges him in the ribs. “Ow,” he startles, “What?”
“That’s all you’re gonna give us?” She taunts, steam curling out of her own cup, cherry red nails tracing along the seam. “She’s married to the C.E.O. of LuxeGene – LuxeGene, Tommy – you know, creators of the quote unquote perfect specimen, and she ‘made it to the gala without a hitch’?”
Tommy shrugs, taking a bite of cinnamon raisin and savoring the sweetness. “Confidential.”
The groans ripple through the room before Anthony shuts them up with a folder drop. “Alright, alright, let’s focus. You knuckleheads can’t even go ten minutes without getting distracted by something shiny. We’ve got a live one for you, T.”
Tommy drags the dossier closer, flipping it open to reveal the cover sheet. Scanning the info he’s not surprised by much inside – standard stuff, nutty ex on a stalking binge, cops want them to protect the guy while they investigate.
Link Security has formed a partnership with P.D. in recent years, Tommy’s connection to the city doing more for their reputation than expected. It saves a buck for the department, reduces the need to set up extra cops for cases they don’t deem high enough priority. He usually gets them if he’s free, knows the ins and outs of red tape more than his peers.
But this guy, it seems, is not just any client.
“Evan Buckley, 34 years old, he’s a firefighter with L.A.F.D.” Anthony starts, looking over his glasses at Tommy before continuing. “You know him?”
“Not personally,” Tommy says as he keeps reading – Buckley’s with the 118. “I used to work out of his station though. Diaz is there.”
Scott nods. “That’s how we got him. Worried about a potential stalker. Just out of the hospital.”
Tommy’s brow furrows, “For what?”
“Some kind of attack at The Getty. Oxygen deprivation system supposedly malfunctioned. Door sealed him in.”
The air in the room sharpens. Monica swears under her breath. Tommy schools his face, tightens his jaw. It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t know this Buckley kid personally, Tommy takes any attack against a firefighter with the weight it deserves.
“I’ll reach out to Howard Han. He’s at the 118, old friend,” Tommy says, already planning. “Find out what’s not in the report. When’s pickup?”
“Today,” Anthony replies. “Head to The Oasis until we get more info. Sounds like they’re being overly cautious and I’d expect at least a day or two before they get answers.”
Tommy grimaces. The Oasis. The name’s deceiving, much nicer than the place – cramped, dull, strictly function, no comfort. Canned goods, bottled water, toiletries and clean linens. They don’t operate many safehouses, but there are a few they hang onto for these exact reasons. It’s armed, its location protected, and it’s Tommy’s least favorite place to be.
Sometimes memories are best kept locked behind the walls that hold them.
“Got it,” Tommy replies, eyes still scanning the file. Buckley’s got a sister and Tommy realizes quickly that she’s married to Howie, recognizes her image in a trimmed photograph from his ceremony. He tries to push away the panic that shoots through him at the memory. “I’ll check in.”
The rest of the briefing goes fine, but Tommy’s eyes keep tracking back to the photograph pinned to the top of the manila folder in front of him. Evan Buckley beams up at him, blue eyes brighter than the midday sky, a small Bordeaux colored birthmark brushed over his brow.
He looks open, unguarded. He doesn’t look like he’d hurt a fly.
It’s not often Tommy finds himself with the opportunity to use his new skills to benefit people he used to know, a career he wished he didn’t have to abandon. He tells himself the flicker in his chest is professional interest, that the small jump in his pulse is because the job matters. But when he gets to his car, the thought of that crooked smile lingers longer than it should.
*
*
“Tommy Kinard – hey, man!” the voice booms through the speaker when Tommy calls.
Tommy chuckles. “Been too long, Howie.”
“Too long and way too boring, Kinard. How’s a man supposed to brag about knowing a firefighter pilot if the pilot disappears?”
“Maybe brag about your adoring wife and your beautiful child instead.”
“Children, T, pural,” Howie corrects. “Jesus, it has been too long.”
“They let you take another one home?” Tommy grins, tension easing.
“Buy one, keep one alive, get one free.”
Tommy laughs, the familiar banter trudging up memories that got buried along with the trauma. Happiness and camaraderie dancing in the grooves of brotherhood. It feels nice to tango with them again.
“Not to talk shop too soon, but I’m calling about–”
“Buck? Yeah, thanks for taking this on, man. We really appreciate knowing he’ll be with someone we trust.”
Buck? Tommy’s father was staunchly against nicknames despite his own, claimed it only belonged in his house because he wasn’t good enough to use the name his father shared.
“Yeah, ‘course. Just trying to get some information that might not be public, any insights you have? How’s he holding up?”
Howie sighs and he sounds exhausted. Tommy wonders how many children he has – sounds like triplets with the weight of the breath he exhales. “He’s… okay. Shaken. Took the Captain’s death hard. You remember Nash?”
“I do,” Tommy says quietly. “He was a good man.”
“He was,” Howie agrees sadly. “Buck and him were…they were close. He’s been trying to fill the hole with dates – bad ones, mostly. Seems like everyone he takes out should be on some kind of red flag watchlist.”
A knife juts into Tommy’s ribs at the thought – of Evan Buckley, just lost a mentor and captain, trying to find love in all the wrong places. Tommy can’t judge, he’s been there. More than once. Those blue eyes flash across Tommy’s mind as he re-focuses on Howie.
“And this guy was an ex? Violent?”
“Not the ex. The brother. Overprotective, obsessive type. Buck ended things, guy didn’t take it well. There was a woman at The Getty that said he worked there – I’m sure the police have more info.”
“Yeah, got it. You meet her when they were dating?”
Howie laughs and scoffs. “Dating? T, they barely knew the other’s last name. I didn’t get the pleasure, no.”
Tommy hums, eyes on the road. “I’ll take care of him. Thanks, man. You’ll call me if you think of anything?”
“I know,” Howie says. “Yeah, I will. And Tommy? He’s a great guy, and he’s my little brother – so you know the drill, right?”
“Not a single hair,” Tommy finishes.
“That’s my man.”
*
*
Buckley’s neighborhood is bright and suburban, the kind of place that smells like clean lawns and weekend barbecues.
There’s a school just down the block, so there’s likely families nearby. A park sits on the outer edge of the neighborhood, and it’s well lit at night, so it’s not likely he’d find himself in a back alley with nobody in earshot.
It’s a nice area, the houses are all warm, a few lit from within, oranges and yellows brightening with a few families home during the day, the occasional plumber or other service vans stacked at random houses. Tommy takes note of the names of each service, instincts humming as he runs through a mental checklist.
Buckley’s house is unassuming – truck parked in the driveway, motorcycle tucked into an open garage, a small weight bench sitting in the corner with a few sets of barbells stacked neatly beside it.
Bringing his knuckles to the door, Tommy raps on the wood and clocks the weight – heavy, good – and hears the rustling of a couple of deadbolts behind it. When the door opens, he forgets how to breathe for a second.
Buckley’s eyes are brighter in person, smile bigger than the camera gives it credit. His hair’s a little wild, wearing a sweatshirt that’s just a little too big. “H-Hi, you must be from Link?”
“That’s me,” Tommy says, smiling back. “Tommy Kinard.”
“I’m Buck – Evan Buckley. Evan.” Evan, not Buck, Tommy thinks, heart swelling with an odd kind of pride. He smiles with a grin so crooked Tommy’s tempted to level it out with a brush of his thumb. He dismisses the thought and shakes Evan’s proffered hand, his grip is warm, lingers a fraction of a second too long.
“Thanks for, uh, I guess all this,” he says, stepping back. The way he bounces on his toes as he circles the small kitchen ignites a mirror image in Tommy’s chest, fluttering along with Evan.
“Just doing my job,” Tommy says, following him ins. “I’m happy to help. Especially for a friend of Howie’s.”
Evan’s already poured two cups of coffee before Tommy can even turn it down, and he splashes milk I his own before glancing up at Tommy in question.
“Black’s fine.” Evan smiles and hands him the warm mug which Tommy accepts. The first sip goes down like lava, boiling hot and far too bitter, but he hides it with a polite nod. “Perfect.”
“I-I have everything I need,” Evan starts, darting between rooms, collecting stuff, talking too fast. “I think. Well, m-my captain said it shouldn’t be too long I guess? Though he was pretty pissed he was losing a firefighter for a few days, guess he cares about that more than what I need. Sh-should…should I bring more?”
Tommy chuckles when Evan reappears with half his house in tow. He’s holding three bags and wearing a backpack, all filled to the brim.
“I think you’re good,” Tommy says. “We can always get more if circumstances change.”
“Right,” Evan says, dropping the bags in the hall by the door in a heap. “I’m just worried – well not worried…I-I know I’m gonna be bored. I think this is all a-a little dramatic.”
“Think of it as a paid vacation.”
Evan scoffs, “You clearly haven’t met me.”
“There’s always a good movie on T.V.,” Tommy tries, taking another sip of coffee and remembering too late what it tastes like.
Evan looks shocked at the suggestion and shakes his head, “I can only watch so many movies, Mr. Kinard.”
Tommy laughs, his heart thudding against his chest at his name in Evan’s mouth. “Never enough movies, Mr. Buckley.”
Evan’s cheeks dust with pink as he finishes his coffee and sets the mug in the sink. Tommy does the same and heads toward the door.
“Stay here,” he says with a pointed glare. “I’ll bring these out to the car and come back to grab you.”
Evan only nods as Tommy does a quick check of the bags and slings them over his shoulder. The yard is empty, and nothing looks amiss, so Tommy hauls the bags into the trunk. When he turns around, he jumps at Evan, standing right behind him with a shit-eating grin on his face.
“I told you to wait,” Buck shrugs. “Guess I’m not great at orders.”
Tommy bites back a smile, guides him to the passenger seat, moving quickly to get him away from any prying eyes. “Noted.”
“I’m fine, don’t you think this is a little ridiculous?” Evan says with an easy smile, but when Tommy’s eyes dart sharply to him, he sinks a little, adding, “Sorry.”
Tommy confirms his location to the office, shuts down his phone and tells Evan to do the same.
“I have to give up my phone?” he sounds a little like a kid that got put in time-out, and his pout only matches the energy. It twists Tommy’s heart a little bit, seeing Evan look so young, even if only for something small.
“I have another one you can use in the meantime, but yeah, we’re not gonna make it easy for someone to find you.”
Evan looks like he’s holding back an eyeroll, but drops the phone in the cupholder and slouches against the seat. “How am I supposed to occupy my time if I can’t look up things o-or get the gossip from the station?”
“You’ll survive,” Tommy tells him simply as they drive a little further outside of the city.
The sun shines through the windshield, golden rays landing on Evan’s ivory skin, his curls glinting against the honeyed amber rays. He looks ethereal, Tommy thinks, and swallows thickly at the speed he’s fallen into the distraction.
Of Evan’s smile, his eyes, his soft gaze and warm energy. Tommy thought he’d been in a good place the last couple of years – made it through the worst of his trauma and endured his darkest moods – came out clean on the other side.
Only now, inches from Evan, he realizes he hasn’t felt something – not like this – in a long time. It’s bittersweet, the realization that Evan can evoke something in such a small amount of time coupled with the knowledge he’s been missing out on connections like this in the treachery of the gray storms of his past.
“It’ll be a while,” Tommy says when Evan’s eyelids start to droop with each slow swing of the car down a new road. “If you wanna conk out, you can.”
“Mm,” Evan hums as he gives in, crossing his arms and leaning against the headrest. “’f I’m sleeping, I won’t be bored.”
His voice quiets and falls off at the end, the innocence of exhaustion curling around him and piquing Tommy’s alertness. More vulnerable in slumber, he’s aware of the weight that comes with protecting Evan’s life, and he’s not about to be the reason a man so innocent gets hurt.
It’s in the job description, sure, but Evan’s not just any client – and Tommy’s not just any bodyguard. Their shared experience as firefighters tethers them together in a knot already stronger than most, and a call being a reason for the threat on Evan’s life only pulls it even tighter.
Tommy glances at him now and then, caught by the easy rise and fall of his chest. It’s disarming, the trust. The peace.
The sun’s crossed the horizon and night falls before they end up at The Oasis. There were several considerations in its selection including location, proximity to local hospitals and police, visibility, size – all calculated to determine where Evan will be safest.
When the car comes to a stop, Tommy glances at Evan, eyes still closed, lips parted slightly in sleep as small snores escape. His arms have fallen, and his hands sit loosely in his lap, palms up and open.
Tommy’s mind conjures images of his hand slotting into Evan’s, the warmth of his palm connecting with Tommy’s as their skin touches. He thinks about leaning over, brushing his lips to Evan’s ear and whispering that they’ve arrived, waking him up slowly and sweetly before guiding him carefully inside.
As quickly as the thoughts come, he dismisses them, instead clearing his throat, not whispering but speaking into the quiet night that they’ve arrived. Evan doesn’t stir, just murmurs something sleep-heavy and drowsy.
Tommy hesitates, then reaches out and squeezes Evan’s arm. “Hey. We’re here.”
Evan blinks awake, eyes searching, hazy with quiet confusion, before landing on Tommy. It’s not a broad smile, not like the one that greeted him when they met, but it still feels familiar somehow.
Tommy swallows whatever that does to him and steps out to check the perimeter. He turns back to Evan before shutting the door. “Stay here this time. I have to check the house.” Evan gives him a salute and a smile, putting his hands up in surrender.
Tommy pulls out his flashlight, carries it with him as he scans the perimeter for any sign of breach or entry. Nothing seems out of place as he skirts the yard, the small patch of land a little overgrown but not noticeably so.
There’s a key box locked behind a brick near the garage and Tommy takes care to remove the key quickly, entering the small house with soft footsteps.
Dust is settled across the countertop and delicate spiderwebs hang from the bookshelf in the kitchen and dining room. Throw pillows are haphazardly strewn on the couch in the living room – stale air bringing the faint musk of vacancy to light. There’s a small television and a stack of board games in the corner, along with an old Playstation and a sad display of games that have seen better days.
Two bedrooms and a bathroom are stacked down a quiet hallway, each equipped with a twin bed and a dresser, folded sheets and blankets sitting on each one. The bathroom has a half-empty bottle of two-in-one shampoo and conditioner and a bar of soap on the counter that could be from any time dating back fifteen years.
Still, despite the pitiful display, it’s enough, and it’s clear of any danger, so Tommy goes back to the car to collect Evan and his bags.
“Th-this is a little much,” Evan laments as they make their way inside. “I-I really don’t need–”
“Someone tried to kill you,” Tommy reminds him gently, brow raised. Evan sighs and nods, heading to the kitchen and searching the cabinets for a glass. He finds paper cups instead and fills one with water, takes a sip.
“But I didn’t die,” Evan says, leaning against the counter. “Because I was with my team. They saved my life. I should keep working, they have my back.”
“What if it puts them in danger?” Tommy challenges, setting Evan’s bags down and locking the door. He starts another check of the windows, ensuring they’re locked, drapes pulled in each room. “What if there was someone in that room with you?”
Evan huffs, and Tommy barely contains a grin. He looks like a kicked puppy, all doe-eyed frustration spilling out of him. Hardly toxic.
“I guess,” he concedes, heading toward the couch. “So, what now?”
“Lasagna from a box,” Tommy says with a laugh as he unloads supplies. He stacks a first aid kid and police scanner on the counter beside a loaf of bread and threadbare groceries.
“Gourmet,” Evan deadpans, slumping into the cushions.
They eat in companionable quiet. The static hum of the scanner fills the room. Buck yawns mid-bite, fighting it with little success.
“Go on,” Tommy says. “Get some sleep.”
“What about you?” Evan asks, blinking blearily at him.
“I’ll be up a while,” Tommy stands and sets the plates in the sink, tucks the remaining lasagna in the fridge for later.
“Why?”
Tommy smiles and keeps it gentle, steady. “Because I’m protecting you.”
Evan’s expression softens, something unspoken in that piercing gaze. “Right. Bodyguard stuff.”
“Exactly.”
He disappears down the hall, and a little while later, Tommy follows. Just far enough to pause in the doorway. Evan’s already asleep, one hand curled under his cheek, face turned toward the light spilling through the crack in the door.
Tommy watches long enough to see his chest rise once, twice, slow and even. Then he steps back into the quiet, settles into the chair by the front window, and keeps watch.
Chapter 5: Hunger
Summary:
Buck and Tommy get to know one another in the solitude of the safehouse.
Notes:
shout out to @judymarch15 for helping me when i felt super stuck on this one! since she is the falling in love expert.
Chapter Text
Thirty-two hours.
After hour nine, Buck was already mind-numbingly bored, despite being asleep for seven of them. By the time they hit hour eighteen, he had exhausted his most interesting conversation topics, spinning through natural disaster factoids like he was rattling off answers to a pop quiz. Tommy kept distinctly quiet all the while, occasionally scanning a window or shifting weight to listen for the faintest footstep outside.
Buck couldn’t tell if Tommy was annoyed or interested; the corner of his mouth tipping up into a smirk only to be replaced by a frown of concentration as Tommy checked locks again, then peered out the blinds.
Tommy had already rearranged a few furniture pieces to create clear sightlines from one side of the room to the other, moved a small chair slightly to block a shadowed corner. It all seemed a little over-the-top to Buck. He’s always in danger, really, when he steps foot into the firehouse each shift. What’s a little extra danger hiding out, ready to pounce?
It’s not like it would be the first time.
The truck bombing. The sniper. Jonah. The lab. The 118 seemed cursed with targets on their backs at every turn. The bodyguard routine was a little extreme, even for them. Still, this meticulous watchfulness, the tiny, deliberate movements Tommy made, made Buck feel…something he wasn’t expecting. Safe, somehow.
“How can you not be bored out of your mind?” Buck asked at hour twenty-three, running a fingertip along the grain of the small kitchen table, memorizing divots from silverware and fists. A faint stain on the edge – balsamic? Blood? – he doesn’t want to know.
Tommy shrugs, a motion Buck’s already become familiar with, and picks up his crossword, flipping to a new page. He’s finished three in as many hours. “Spent a lot of time alone,” he says. His voice is casual, like the words don’t reveal a quiet isolation. “You have to get used to your own company.”
There’s a sense of loneliness in his voice, like it’s better for everyone this way. Buck doesn’t like it, has felt alone without wanting to for so much of his life. He’d rather be surrounded by people than spend his time alone.
It’s too quiet with only his thoughts. There are ghosts that grab hold and join the ride, whisper cold taunts in the silence. He’s better off with the living.
“No siblings?” Buck asks, making conversation.
“No siblings,” Tommy says, filling in four down. Astute. “You have one,” he adds casually, glancing at Buck as if confirming a detail from memory. Buck takes half a second to remember what they’re doing here – why Tommy would already know.
“I do,” Buck says proudly. “She’s great. A-a lot older than me, though. So, I was kind of an only kid for a while.”
Tommy looks up then, the corner of his mouth falling for a split second. Heartbreak or curiosity. He blinks and it shifts into a gentle fondness. “Not a fan?”
Buck shakes his head and wanders over to the sad little stand tucked in the corner. His fingertips brush along the edge of each shelf, tracing along the boxes stacked there. There’s a dusty collection of board games, and Buck lingers on one that feels completely at odds with Tommy’s quiet, tactical presence.
“Wanna play?” he asks, shaking the box, earning a smile from Tommy. He gestures to the chair across the table and closes his crossword book as Buck settles in.
The smell of dust and old paper escapes as Buck lifts the lid of Hungry, Hungry Hippos, the ink conjuring childhood memories of birthday parties and sleepovers, soft lamplight spilling over sleeping bags. He smiles at the recollection, a rare, light feeling.
Piecing the plastic together, he places the board in the center, facing Tommy. “I’m green, you’re yellow.”
Tommy spins the board toward him, a small smile pulling up his cheeks. Buck glances up, waiting for an explanation.
“You should be yellow,” Tommy says. “Bright, cheerful. Like the sun.”
Buck’s chest flutters, a quick lurch of awareness. The words are casual, effortless, easy. Like the sun plays on repeat in his mind, the lilt in Tommy’s voice so generous and warm he knows they’re genuine.
It strikes him almost as fast as the lightning, there and gone, and he barely has a moment before Tommy releases the tiny white balls. Their hands lunge, reaching for their respective levers, the hippos’ mouths stretching and reaching for each tiny orb.
“Oh I’m not letting you win that easil–”
“You won’t be able to stop m–”
“Ha! Come on, come on, come on.”
The madness of the game swallows them, a battle of plastic teeth and pride, their laughter echoing off the walls. It’s just the two of them, burly and curled over a small kitchen table, palms pressed to plastic as they fight for first place in trivial combat.
When the last ball lands in Tommy’s hippo mouth, Buck leans back, defeated, watching Tommy’s grin light up the room. Broad, commanding, but so young and eager in his joy.
Buck feels butterflies fluttering in his gut, feels the heat of being so close to a man – one who exudes quiet strength, who can contain danger and disorder so easily – and swallows down the instinct to lean in and–
“Another round?” Tommy asks, counting his jackpot, smirking when he realizes he’s gotten more than half the goods. Buck will let him win every game if he can see that expression over and over; a favorite song set to repeat.
“Uh, yeah, sure,” Buck stutters, presses his palms to his thighs to absorb the sudden heat. He swallows hart, pulls himself out of the heady fog he’s floating in. “My parents hated stuff like this.”
Tommy raises an eyebrow and leans back, curious. “Oh yeah? Why?”
“Too loud, too competitive. They were always so…quiet. Our house wasn’t…that kind of place. I would go to my friends’ instead. I think after my – after we moved, they just didn’t feel like it should feel like that again.”
Tommy listens but seems confused. He doesn’t press, which Buck is grateful for. Still, there’s something about him that feels safe. Grounding.
Like being near him is all Buck needs to confront things that have felt suffocating for so long. Like Tommy would hold onto those pieces for Buck as he slowly broke apart and carefully place him back together with gentle words and careful hands.
“I had a brother. Well, I was born and my brother died a year after that, so I don’t really – I don’t have any memories of him.”
“Wow, Evan, I’m–”
“It’s okay. I mean, it’s awful, but it was a long time ago and…anyways, I just don’t like being alone. I always feel better being around people.”
Tommy nods, smile soft. “I can tell.”
Butterflies, again.
They play another few rounds, Tommy earning another win before Buck ties it up with the next two. When they finally slow, Tommy rises to get drinks, Buck following with a can of coke, grateful for something to do with his hands, for the mundane ritual breaking up the rising heat between them.
“My parents weren’t great either,” Tommy says softly. “Well. My dad wasn’t. My mom wasn’t around, she left when I was a baby. Dad was an alcoholic. A mean, reserved old ass.”
Buck hums and leans in, forearms on the table, makes sure not to miss a word. It feels like a secret Tommy doesn’t let people in on often, one Buck feels privileged to hear.
“Our house was a lot like this,” he looks around, flinches at the haphazard blankets strewn across the back of the couch. “Same layout, same cold, dark corners.”
The way he quiets makes it seem like he’s been transported, like the memory came and yanked him in with a mirage, seduced him with the funhouse mirror version of something he used to belong to. Buck wants to pull him into his arms, keep the darkness at bay.
Tommy shudders and turns to meet Buck’s gaze. “Freud would have a field day with this.”
Buck laughs, startled by the sudden joke, and feels instantly at ease with Tommy’s quiet chuckle. “My therapist would agree. She’s heard enough about my parents, for sure.”
“It’s how they stay in business,” Tommy smirks as he raises his can in a solemn toast.
They spend the rest of the afternoon in quiet, comfortable solitude, another movie on television, another three crosswords complete before Tommy’s next perimeter check and Buck’s next quiet negotiation with God to get the hell out of this god forsaken house.
*
*
Buck’s tried at least ten times now to strike a deal with both the devil and the Lord – no luck. He’s come up empty on both sides. They’re coming up on day five of this nonsense, and the longer it goes on the more he feels like he’s losing it.
Being with Tommy is the only benefit, his dry wit and composed vigilance doing wonders for Buck’s restless energy and incessant need to be in motion.
He works out every few hours with a small routine that feels like something he’d be forced to endure in prison. He eats frozen meals while daydreaming about things he’d cook for Tommy if they weren’t trapped here.
He listens, learns Tommy’s rhythm and subtle signals. Head tilt, fingers held up, quiet listening. Usually, the only thing Buck hears is the echoing thud of his own racing heart and Tommy’s soft breaths.
Tommy’s at the stove one morning, bent over a sizzling skillet of eggs and bacon, the smell of coffee curling around his broad frame. It’s the only meal Buck’s grown to enjoy, Tommy’s affinity for breakfast food as endearing as it is mouthwatering. He reaches for his mug, startled when Tommy’s phone buzzes, slicing through the cozy hum of the small home.
He reaches for it after sprinkling paprika into the eggs, answers calmly, voice far too composed for this early in the morning. “Hello?”
Buck can’t catch the words on the other end, but the cadence sounds familiar. He leans in, straining to hear before Tommy rolls his eyes and taps the phone, the call shifting to the speaker.
“Officer Grant, you’re on speaker,” he says casually, returning to the eggs.
“Hi Athena,” Buck croaks, scalding his tongue on too-hot coffee. Slipping into a chair and wincing in pain, he settles at the table. “Any news?”
“Sorry, Buck. Haven’t gotten him yet,” Athen’s exasperation is palpable even through the phone. “We had a lead on him, but the IP traced back to an old warehouse. Nothing but rusting conveyor belts and empty offices.”
Buck exhales and glances at Tommy, who at least has the decency to look remorseful.
“Anything from the library?” Tommy asks, reaching for toast that’s popped up with a cheerful ding from a toaster that’s probably violating at least three fire codes. Buck swallows the urge to launch into a lecture and takes the plate gratefully after the monotonous frozen pizzas of the last few nights.
“Employee there, Hannah Jobeck, says she knows him,” Athena continues. “We’ve spoken a few times. You can follow up if you want, we’re done interviewing her for now.”
Tommy nods, “Thanks, I’ll give her a call. Knows him how?”
“The guy was an employee there, sounds like, for a brief stint,” Athena says. “She worked with him on a collection. She’s a little shaken, but wants to help.”
“So when can I–” Buck starts, leaning closer to the device, eager.
“Not yet, Buck. I’ll be in touch.” Her voice hesitates. Tight, careful. Buck knows that tension, recognizes it as a wall people raise when they can’t share everything. It gnaws at him. “Tommy can I fill you in on something else?”
Tommy takes her off speakerphone and steps into his bedroom, Buc’s piercing gaze follows after him, eyes narrowed. Tommy gives him a look, raises a brow, gestures at the plate on the table. “Eat your eggs.”
Buck obeys, knowing better than to press. Murmured words behind the closed door are indecipherable, two words at most between grumbles and brief agreement. He swallows his impatience. He’s trying to do better, to let people care. He knows how hard it is to be forced on the other side of an unmoving wall, prevented from fixing anything at all.
He doesn’t want to do that to his team, let alone Athena. Not after–
Tommy opens the door and weaves back into the kitchen. He grabs his own plate and sits across from Buck. “Taste okay?”
Buck rolls his eyes but nods, “It’s fine.” He looks up at Tommy, hoping his wide eyes and patented Evan Buckley pout will convey everything he wants to know. “What was that about?”
Tommy looks up at him and smiles. “Nothing,” he says, seemingly unbothered by the quest for more information. “They’ll call when they get him.”
“If they get him,” Buck mutters, chest tightening with the slow tick of anxiety pressing in, digging deeper into his spine with every hour that passes.
Tommy seems sympathetic when he says, “They’ll get him.” The look in his eyes carries something soft, that loosens up the knot of Buck’s panic and holds it at bay. At least for now.
Buck shoves his plate to the middle of the table, barely half empty. Tommy watches, patient.
It’s a little unnerving, that Tommy already can read him so well. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes – fondness? Frustration? Annoyance? Buck isn’t sure, but he feels entitled to a little frustration given the situation.
“This sucks,” he says, flat. Tommy nods, takes a sip of his coffee, doesn’t seem bothered by the heat.
“Yeah,” he says. “You wanna call this Hannah person? See what she knows?”
Buck’s ears perk up at the thought of another human voice beyond his own, Tommy’s, Athena’s, or some other faceless man at Link. “Ye-yes. Yeah. Let’s call her.”
Tommy chuckles and looks at his phone, tapping her number. The phone rings a few times before a familiar voice picks up on the other end.
“Hello?” She’s a little quieter than the last time they crossed paths, more shaken than before. It stings, the knowledge she’s been struggling after enduring something so horrible. Something someone like her should never have to suffer through, far from common for anyone outside of Buck’s chosen field.
“Hi, Hannah, this is Tommy Kinard,” he says. “I’m working with Officer Athena Grant on the stalking case. Evan Buckley, the firefighter that–”
“Of course,” she says, cutting him off. The quiet rustle of paper, another woman in the background asking if she’s okay, then a door clicking softly as she moves. “Is he okay?”
Tommy gestures for Buck to answer, which he does. He tries to keep his voice careful but steady. “I’m okay. Hi, Hannah. It’s Firefighter Buckley.”
She exhales a sigh of relief, one that seems to be full of anxiety and fear, one she’s likely held onto since that day at the library. “It’s good to hear from you, Firefighter Buckley.”
“You can call me Buck,” he replies, soft, warm. “You too, Hannah. A-are you okay?”
“Me?” She asks incredulously. “I-I’m fine, yeah. How–how can I help?”
“Officer Grant said you know this guy, Colin Landers?” Tommy asks.
“Yeah,” she says quickly. “He worked here for a few weeks, was assigned to my department.”
“Did you notice anything when you worked with him? No detail is too small.”
As the conversation continues, Buck listens, can tell Tommy’s goals are different from the police. He’s searching for information about how the guy communicates, how he interacts with people, how much knowledge he has about security systems and hidden cameras. Tommy’s not trying to catch the guy, but working to get inside his head, reading behavior and habits, preparing.
Buck supposes that’s the best way to make sure his head doesn’t lead him here. To Buck.
Finally, Tommy looks at him expectantly.
“Evan?”
“So-sorry,” Buck stammers. “What was that?”
“Anything you want to ask Hannah?” Tommy prompts, eyes tracking Buck, a hint of worry clouding his gaze.
“No. No, sorry.” Buck says, even though he doesn’t actually know if there’s something he wants to hear. He’s been too busy watching Tommy jot down notes, his attention drawn to the curve of his letters perfectly tilting one word into the next, his hands tracing careful lettering and shorthand known to only him. It’s mesmerizing and soothing all at once.
The call ends and Tommy clears breakfast as Buck wanders off into the living room. He picked up a dusty vampire romance novel from the nightstand, grateful for the mundane escape. He imagines the heroine not wandering into danger alone – he knows all too well what that feels like.
Maybe, if he’s lucky, Tommy will turn the safe house into storybook, turn him into a vampire – lead him through adventure and danger and become someone to trust.
At least that would be more exciting than frozen pizza and Terminator reruns flickering on the tiny television in the living room.
*
*
Lights flicker above his head, uneven, patchy shadows between sparks of illumination. Buck walks through a tunnel, one foot carefully placed in front of the other, tentative, cautious. Heart racing, frantic and hollow, there’s nothing stopping it from escaping his chest, ribs rattling with each broken shimmer.
“Hello?” he calls out into the dark. His own voice bounces back, distorted. Unsteady and raw. “Is anyone there?”
The lights flicker again and he’s not sure if it’s in response to his question or the taunt of something more sinister, but the breath he tries to catch does little to settle his nerves. It’s fleeting, the oxygen in the room, thin and heated.
He presses on, each footfall careful as he tries to get to the end of the hall only for the path to tilt sharply left, twisting, restricting him further.
“Call out. Can anyone hear me?” Buck yells, his shout cracked, panic rising as ice fills his veins.
He finally – finally – makes it to the end of the hall, lights flashing a relentless strobe above, and he’s met with a door. Heavy. Metal. Bolted at the hinges and knobless. He slams his fists against it, desperate to reach the other side.
Behind him, the gnawing presence of something unseen grows, creeping up his spine. Poison ivy, threaded rope, the clamped jaws of a jungle cat. An unseen predator.
“Let me out!” He screams, voice shredded as he pounds again, lights flickering to black.
He’s trapped, blinks quickly but can’t see anything in front of him. His breathing gets faster, more ragged. He tries to backtrack, to find another way out but meets another door behind him.
When he turns around again it’s only a foot before he reaches the first door and he realizes with growing unease he’s stuck, surrounded with no more than three feet of space between the bolted doors that have imprisoned him.
His lungs are desperate, air scraping against his throat as he shudders on each inhale, ragged gasps searching for oxygen. Tears stream down his face and he tries – he aches for someone to hear him to just let him out. If he can just–
–bolting upright in bed, Buck scrambles for breath, mouth agape seeking air he couldn’t find trapped between metal, stuck in a nightmare.
His fingers twist, grasp at something – anything that has more give than the hell he left behind in the shadows of sleep. The room is dark but not black, moonlight filtering through the blinds, flickering and settling between looming shadows in the room.
Until suddenly the room is baked in gold and amber, the shadows falling away, hiding in the corners they emerged from. Buck can see his hands, trembling, in front of him. He stares, breath still shuddering, ribs still aching. He flexes his fingers, tries to feel the weight of gravity and scramble back to earth.
“–ey, hey.” A voice, soft and gentle, approaches his side. Familiar but not family, trustable. He flinches at the noise, shakes his head and tries to focus. Tries to find something to pull him out of the last dredges of his bone-chilling slumber.
“It was a dream. You’re in a house. Your name is Evan Buckley. I’m Tommy,” the voice says, steady, unshakable. He’s repeating things, stating facts, emotion withheld save for the confidence behind each word.
Buck’s lungs rasp, catching. He tries to take in more air, tries to settle his lungs, but he can’t quite get there. His hand clutches his ribs as he wills himself to calm down.
“That’s right,” The voice – Tommy – says. He hasn’t moved, remains still and strong in the doorway, guarding anything that threatens to breach the threshold. “You’re safe. It’s okay.”
He doesn’t feel safe, not yet anyways, the claws of the nightmare still digging deep into his mind, still holding him hostage in some twisted way. But he breathes, deeper this time, slow and deliberate as he closes his eyes and focuses on the path his lungs trace to grow, to pull in oxygen.
The panic ebbs, gradually, and when he finally feels steady enough to speak, he’s not sure how much time has passed. Tommy doesn’t look bothered. He’s stoic, chest puffed up in quiet intensity, eyes cast down at Buck.
It doesn’t feel menacing, though, when he looks in those eyes.
It finally feels safe.
“Th-thanks,” Buck murmurs. “So-sorry, I…”
“You don’t have to apologize,” Tommy says. He waits a moment, takes a deep breath like he’s willing Buck to do the same. He does. “I’m gonna get you some water, okay?”
Buck nods, “Ye-yeah, I’m good.”
Tommy steps out and Buck takes the opportunity to survey the room. Bedsheets tangled, blanket tossed aside, strewn across the floor. He straightens them out and tosses a pillow behind him, rubs a hand over his face.
The easy routine and gentle motions ground him, zapping the remaining energy that jolted him awake in the chase of a nightmare making landfall.
“Here,” Tommy says, setting a cup nearby after Buck’s hand shakes when he reaches for it. Tommy notices, moves deeper into the room.
“Th-that doesn’t really happen,” Buck whispers, folding his legs under him and crossing his arms over his chest. He feels exposed in a way that has nothing to do with his pajamas. It’s like a slow unraveling, a loud reveal of his deepest, darkest parts fileted from the depths of his flesh and put on display. He hates it.
Despite the way he’s quick to show joy or frustration, anything deeper, any press of vulnerability that requires shame and guilt be made public makes Buck feel too raw. Like a circus, displaying all the freakiest parts of himself. Eyes cast on him as he contorts his heart in the center ring under the bright lights of a big top.
“I used to be a firefighter,” Tommy says quietly. Buck looks up, surprise bringing his brow to the center of his forehead before he has a chance to stop it. Tommy chuckles, “I know. I know. I was a pilot, out of Harbor. Actually, used to be at the 118 before that.”
That tugs on something Buck knew before, things he’s heard about the station under Gerrard’s historic captaincy making recent conversation in the wake of his unwelcome return. “I-I think I knew that.”
Tommy nods, “It was a different station then. Much better now.”
Buck nods, feels his limbs get heavier as he listens to Tommy. He can finally feel the last pieces of the nightmare start to flee, finally feels like he can breathe without the deep press of pain in his ribs with each shaky attempt.
“Anyways, I, uh, I worked out of Harbor for a few years. Loved it,” Tommy looks fond, eyes shimmering with a memory of something unshakable. Buck knows the feeling.
“Why’d you leave?” The words are quiet, soft-spoken for fear of shattering the stillness of the moment, worry over splintering the ground that feels sturdier than what he just left behind keeping him cautious.
Tommy draws a breath, seems to borrow from Buck’s anxiety as his hands tremble just barely. “There was a drone,” he pauses, looks down at his shaking hands and clasps them together to steady them. Buck waits, barely breathes as Tommy continues. “We were transporting a patient and a rogue drone got caught up in a cross-wind. Hit us and took out the engine.”
Buck tries to find the right words as his chest tightens, fails to offer anything at all. He keeps waiting instead.
“Crashed. Lost the patient and a medic.” Tommy pauses, quickly brushing a tear from the corner of his eye before it has a chance to slide down his cheek. Buck’s heart aches at the sight. “My crewmate. Teddy. He was…he was a great guy.”
“I-I’m so sorry,” Buck says, so soft he isn’t even sure Tommy hears him. Tommy looks up, though, eyes glistening but grateful. The ache in his heart softens.
“Anyways,” Tommy breathes, shifts backwards. “I had nightmares for a long time after that. So…I get it.”
Buck nods, so caught up in the moment it takes a second to recalibrate. He takes a breath, nods again. “Right, yeah. I just – I probably won’t be able to get back to sleep. Not – not tonight at least.”
Tommy gestures toward the living room, shoulders relaxing. “Want to watch a movie?”
Buck rolls his eyes but stands on shaky legs, yanks the blanket from the bed and trails behind. “What is it this time?”
Tommy doesn’t even have the chance to answer, because when Buck enters the room, he sees Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio arm in arm on the front of the Titanic. Buck groans and Tommy grins, undeterred. “Again?”
Settling into the couch, Buck suddenly feels exhausted, the adrenaline from the nightmare finally dulled to the bone-deep ache that comes along with panic.
“Thanks,” Buck murmurs after a few minutes, chest warm from the shared blanket and proximity. From the way Tommy trusted a piece of himself with Buck. “For, uh,” he nods to the bedroom.
Tommy reaches out and brushes Buck’s knee, palm holding against it before giving it a gentle squeeze. It’s small, barely noticeable, but Buck feels the heat from it burning through him in an instant.
“Do you feel better?” Tommy asks.
Buck nods, turns to face the television, feels a blush rise on his cheeks. “Leonardo DiCaprio doesn’t hurt.”
“He certainly doesn’t,” Tommy says, laughing softly.
So secure in the way he feels safe with the man beside him, so exhausted from the betrayal of his own mind deep in a dream, so warm from the blanket tucked around him, Buck drifts off before the movie ends.
The last thing he remembers is the frenzied call about an iceberg, seeing none of the destruction before the comfort of unconsciousness claims him once more.
Chapter 6: Escape
Summary:
Evan's cleared to leave The Oasis after 10 days, but Tommy worries the threat isn't totally gone.
Notes:
i'm sorry this was so delayed, y'all, i was SO SICK for about a week, but we're back at it. we'll be finishing this guy before year's end.
⚠️see end notes for triggers/cw.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“So that’s it?” Buck asks, glancing at Tommy. “We-we’re just…supposed to go?”
“Not exactly,” Athena cuts in, siding the kitchen chair out beside him.
The table’s a landscape of the last ten days – board game boxes and loose puzzle pieces, a stack of books and torn paper from desperate games of charades in the peak of their boredom. A peek into a nostalgic past untouched by screens, but right now it feels slightly eerie – oddly unsettling.
“I can still work with you,” Tommy assures him, feet planted behind Athena, arms crossed over his broad chest. “We’ll make sure you’re safe. Locks changed, route adjustments, an action plan if anything feels off.”
It should help. Tommy’s words, his calm confidence, it’s all started to feel like a warm meal to Buck, steadying. He’s come to trust this man who’s been within twenty feet of him for ten days straight, tied to him in ways that feel both accidental and inevitable.
Truthfully, there hasn’t been a moment he didn’t want it He’s been resisting impulses, resisting the pull of Tommy’s proximity, the urge to tug him closer by the collar, to press lips together, tangle tongues until time collapses. He can’t explain it, the way Tommy pulls at him, magnetic despite all logic. If they have to be apart much longer, Buck isn’t sure he’ll be able to keep the lid on it. And yet, the thought of separation makes him ache.
His hands clench together to fend off the buzzing anxiety that rises with that thought. So when Tommy promises guidance, support, and a plan, Buck nods quickly, and agrees without hesitation.
“Ye-yeah, if…that would help,” he says, voice earnest.
Tommy’s smile is small, steady, and Buck feels himself relax, just a little. “Then we’ll do that.”
“Buck,” Athena says, settling his hand beneath hers. He hadn’t realized he’d been drumming his fingertips against the table until her skin pressed against his. “We won’t let anything happen to you.”
He wants to believe her. He does.
“I-I know,” he says, his smile faltering alongside his voice. “You said he’s definitely not in the state?”
Athena taps a few times on her phone, scrolling deliberately before propping it face-up toward him. A map blossoms across the screen, traced paths and red pins marking sightings. “This is where he’s been seen leaving the city. Witnesses, security cameras, everything confirmed.” She traces the route, eyes locked on his. Buck doesn’t doubt her now. It’s easier when he’s not in the crosshairs. “We’ve got a B.O.L.O., and we’ll get him. He’s well into Nevada now.”
“I’ve got my guys confirming everything the cops do, Evan,” Tommy adds, and that somehow steadies Buck more. He can’t stay here forever, after all, even if part of him wants to graze his fingertips along Tommy’s cleft chin – feel the heft of his body draped over his own. “I’ve got your back.”
Their eyes find one another and that does it. The knot in Buck’s chest settles, finally, and the nervous undercurrent of energy that’s been buzzing along his skin slows.
“Okay,” he breathes, matching Tommy’s inhale, the small synchronization soothing him even more.
They leave The Oasis the next morning. Buck’s bag is half-packed, six shirts he’s grown tired of and socks that no longer feel like his tossed in the trash. Tommy leaves first, as he always does, ordering him to stay put just like the first day, and Buck obeys, comforted, for once, by the routine.
It’s gotten easier, listening to Tommy’s instructions, knowing he’s looking out for his best interest, knowing he can. Shared nights of heartache and whispered confessions have brought them close, peeling back layers until Buck knows the man beside him more fully than almost anyone he’s ever trusted.
When Tommy rounds back to the front of the house, his grin blooms into that dorky, crooked salute. “All clear.”
The heart Buck was attempting to steady inside his chest suddenly stutters at the gesture, different than the heavy drum of anxiety, a soft flutter filled with flits of butterfly wings. A grin creeps across his face despite the eye-roll.
“Glad I won’t have much longer of that,” Buck says, though he doesn’t really mean it.
Tommy’s jaw drops, mock offense driving his hands to his chest. “And here I thought I was giving you the V.I.P. treatment.”
“I shudder to think what the people are getting if this is for the important ones,” Buck teases, climbing into the passenger seat. When Tommy climbs in next to him, Buck almost reaches for his hand instinctively, a life that’s never been lived. He stops short, if only just, letting restraint win this time.
The ride winds along unfamiliar roads, Buck’s eyelids growing heavy. He leans against the seat, lulled by the soft dimming of the radio and the subtle weight of Tommy’s gaze. Sleep comes easily, warmth seeping through the passenger seat, and his last thought before surrendering is that he hopes he feels the same safe certainty when Tommy isn’t next to him anymore.
*
*
The drive leaves Tommy restless. He grips the wheel tighter than he needs to, eyes scanning the dark roads, heart pounding in quiet panic. Evan’s out of immediate danger, the stalker is confirmed to be outside of the state, funding pulled from his company by the L.A.P.D. But familiar anxiety gnaws at him. Every mile feels like a countdown, every shadow in the rearview a potential threat.
He feels the comforting wash of memories of their nights spent together in the safe house. Evan shuffling in the kitchen in the middle of the night, the aroma of burnt toast, coffee cups clinking, laughter in quiet moments, the soft, accidental brush of hands reaching for the same dish.
How Evan trusted him in the wake of a nightmare, vulnerable and raw, exposing parts of himself Tommy had no right hearing. He swallows hard, chest tight at the memory. He wants to wrap Evan in his arms, to stay tethered in that fragile bubble of safety forever, but reality looms.
Every time his mind drifts to the possibility of leaving him alone, guilt slashes through him. He knows it’s irrational, but instinct overrides reason. Their closeness, the ease that has grown between them, haunt him as much as they comfort him. His pulse slows only slightly when he reminds himself that Evan is careful, capable, aware, but the weight of responsibility presses on him.
*
*
Night comes along faster than Tommy realizes, the slow stretch of violet softening into shimmering black. He’s gone through everything he can think of with Evan – securing the house and reducing risk, monitoring the street and lingering passersby, calling Tommy and 9-1-1 if anything seems off. Hell, he’s even given him a taser and some pepper spray, encouraged him to use if it comes down to it.
“If it’s you or them, pick you every time,” Tommy says, voice strong. It’s important Evan hears it – he knows what it’s like to have the instinct to protect life, the desire to keep everyone safe, even at the expense of his own.
This isn’t a fire. This isn’t sacrifice. This is self-preservation. And Tommy doesn’t want anything to happen to Evan. It would break him – in more ways than one.
It’s his job. That’s what he keeps telling himself anyways.
“Yeah,” Evan nods, eyes scanning the room, searching for threats even as they stand there together. Good. “I-I got it.”
“I’ll swing by in the morning and check in, make sure everything’s okay,” Tommy says, slinging his coat on and fidgeting with his keys in the entryway. “I can check the camera footage since we set that up out front.”
His instincts are screaming at him – the threat of something unknown climbing up his spine like it does every time he thinks about that day he fell out of the sky. But there’s no reason, no evidence.
And Tommy doesn’t run on instinct anymore. It’s gotten too many people hurt – killed.
“Thanks,” Evan says as he reaches out his hand to Tommy. Tommy wishes he could hang onto it, pull him close, envelop him in a protective hug and press their lips together. He shakes it instead.
The touch doesn’t linger – he doesn’t let it – but it sparks something in him that’s been long-forgotten. Something like hope.
“Just doing my job,” he replies with a wink. “Call if anything comes up.”
“Ye-yeah,” Evan says as Tommy walks over the threshold, the magnetism of Evan as strong as the instinct to stay. Tommy swallows it back and heads toward his truck, forcing his feet to carry him forward. “See you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Tommy says with a wave as he hops in. When he drives off, he sees Evan close the door, watches the lights flicker on, sees the curtains fall in the living room, and breathes a little easier.
He’ll be fine.
It’s one night. A few hours, really. The guy’s not even in the state, couldn’t even get here before Tommy plans to come back anyways.
When he gets to the intersection, he eases right, intending to stop his heart from taking over, but adjusts and heads left, back toward the office. He’ll just check in there, drop off the paperwork from the safe house and head back home. That way he can pass Evan’s house again and make sure nothing looks out of the ordinary.
Just to check.
The office is dark when Tommy arrives, and he makes quick work of documenting his findings from the ongoing investigation with Sargent Grant and the L.A.P.D. Additionally, he makes sure to include the conversation with Hannah Jobeck from The Getty and her suspicions, the safe house goings-on, and the information surrounding Evan’s status at home.
It’s habit now, checking off tasks after long days with his client’s safety at the forefront of his mind. But this is different. Every keystroke, every saved document, every piece of information feels critical, feels like it’s holding more value in the fragility of Evan’s safety. Their suspect is still out there and everything Tommy has, he knows, will be crucial in bringing him to justice when he’s found.
Tommy’s not going to let the piece of shit roam free on a technicality.
Running his hand over his face, Tommy feels the weight of his exhaustion, eyes burning from time spent staring at the screen, muscles tight from his constant state of hypervigilance over the last ten days.
He takes a swig from the coffee he’d prepared when he got in, grown cold, tepid and sour, and shakes out the skittering press of anxiety that’s branching through his fingertips. When he glances at his watch, his jaw drops at the time – three hours have passed in what feels like the blink of an eye. If Tommy’s not careful, he’ll end up running ragged, body giving out whether he likes it or not, and he knows he’s no good to Evan in that state.
Tomorrow, they have to get the locks changed and install the remaining cameras, so Tommy knows he should be at home, in bed. Finishing up the critical pieces for now, Tommy finally shuts the lid of his computer with a quiet click and stands, neck and shoulders tight, spine sore.
Walking out to his car takes longer than he intends, limbs heavy with fatigue, body eager for his own bed after so many nights away. The familiar rumble of the truck roars to life beneath him and he clicks the seatbelt into place, almost convincing himself he’s fine to head home.
Evan will be fine for the next eight hours.
If only Tommy could convince the sinking feeling in his gut, he’d be twenty minutes closer to that comfortable bed rather than turning down Evan’s street. Lights glow warmly through the living room windows, curtains drawn. No movement. For a fleeting heartbeat, he dares to exhale.
Shaking out the worry that’s still hanging around in his chest, Tommy pushes it down and chuckles at his paranoia. Until he sees a van across the street that stops him cold.
Harper’s Cleaning.
That wasn’t there when he picked up Evan two weeks prior. There’s no phone number, no website listed, vinyl lettering peeling despite looking brand new. He jumps out of the truck before thinking, moving toward the house with every muscle coiled.
When he gets to the front door, he leans in, breath quiet and deep, heart racing despite all outward appearance of measured calm. He strains, tipping his head in the direction of the back hallway, eyes scanning the yard for any sign of footsteps, any noticeable forced entry.
He doesn’t knock, doesn’t open the door, instead backpedaling slowly and circling the house. There are windows in every room, some covered fully, others only in part, but when Tommy makes it to the back patio, his stomach sinks.
Broken glass litters the concrete patio, glistening shards strewn outside the now broken sliding door. Before going inside, Tommy shoots a text to Sargent Grant – Athena – and his boss, letting them know he’s in need of assistance – and to bring an ambulance.
Footsteps not nearly as steady as he intends, the echo of his own heartbeat catapulting against his ribs, Tommy tries to sneak in through the same door as the intruder, gun at the ready. Crackling against the quiet night air, he makes quick work of climbing over shattered remains of windowpanes and enters through the dining room.
The stench of whiskey and overturned furniture hits before he even sees the blood. Tommy’s throat tightens, eyes scanning for Evan. There’s more broken glass, the remnants of a bottle, pooled with the burgundy stain of blossoming blood.
Still not finding anyone, Tommy moves through the house with intention, sweeping each room with quiet conviction, eyes searching both for Evan and whoever broke in. The hallway is a dark tunnel, menacing and ominous, taunting him with its sinister emptiness.
Making sure Evan’s safe outweighs any fears, pulling him deeper into the house. The last room – Evan’s bedroom – is tucked into the furthest corner of the house, the door shut tightly, buttery yellow light pouring from beneath it.
There’s no mistaking a second voice when Tommy leans in this time, though the tone surprises him.
“–an away! It’s your fault,” the voice says, tight, full of something that resembles pain. If circumstances were different, Tommy would feel sympathetic. As it is, he doesn’t wait another second to find out why she’s blaming Evan.
“He wanted you dead!” the woman screams as Tommy opens the door, looming over Evan, knife in hand, wild-eyed, blood smeared across her hoodie sleeve. Her words tumble out in a frantic, jagged rush. “And you refused to listen–”
Evan’s on the ground, gash across his brow, blood trailing down the side of his face. He looks confused – eyes glassy, hands raised in surrender.
He looks terrified.
“Back away,” Tommy shouts, circling the room to face the intruder. He has his gun raised, trained on her chest. “Drop the knife.”
She looks at him and smiles, chest heaving in maniacal laughter as she points the knife between him and Evan. Tears streak down her face, the hoodie she’s wearing two sizes too big, the name Colin embroidered across the lapel.
Her brother.
It takes Tommy a fraction of a second to notice but that’s a fraction of a second lost to her violent streak, and she screams, charging toward Evan, knife arcing. Tommy moves instinctively, two shots, and the intruder goes down. The heavy thud of her falling to the floor, lifeless, reverberates in the small room.
Tommy moves in and kicks the knife away, drops to his knees to check for a pulse and finds none. When he looks back up at Evan, his jaw is hanging open, breath coming in ragged heaves, eyes darting between the body on the floor and Tommy.
There’s a beat, a moment where the world stops, time ceases, Tommy’s eyes watch Evan – a life gone in a blink that could’ve easily been him. He doesn’t let it linger, moving to Evan’s side and reaching out, pulling a towel from the counter and pressing it to the crimson trail along his pale skin. Every detail etches itself into his mind, but his focus is unwavering. Protect Evan, stabilize him, reassure him, keep him breathing.
“Are you okay?” Tommy’s voice is strong, unwavering.
Evan shakes, disbelief and fear clear across his face, gaze flicking between the fallen woman and Tommy. “Wh-what…”
“Hey,” Tommy tugs his attention, eyes locking. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”
A slow shake of the head, tears form at the corners of Evan’s eyes.
“Come on,” Tommy guides him gently, ushering him toward the couch. Every step measured, every motion protective. He plants himself on the coffee table, sitting opposite Evan, hand still pressing lightly against the wound, watching Evan’s chest rise and fall, grounding him, lending steady support.
The bleeding’s slowed, but Evan still looks dazed, uncertain. Unsure if it’s due to a head injury or shock, Tommy continues to offer a steady presence, listening for the telltale sound of sirens echoing down the block.
Time loses all meaning, the next thirty minutes passing by in a blur, L.A.P.D arriving on scene mere moments before Anthony from Link. Tommy takes a shaky breath, the pull of oxygen cleaner now with a familiar face nearby. Paramedics are crouched in front of Evan, asking him questions, taking his vital signs, flashing a light across his eyes.
He looks so young, easily startled by new sets of footsteps or voices in the room, turning a sickly shade of green when Athena mentions the woman on the floor twenty feet away.
“Rachel Landers,” she says, flipping through her notes. “Thirty-two, brother is Colin Landers, which you probably already know, Buck.”
When she glances at Evan, he nods his head, arms tight across his chest, I.V. tubing creeping up his arm, attached to a bag held by a paramedic. “Sh-she’s the one I…”
The sentence trails off and Athena nods, mouth in a tight line. “She stopped going to her psychiatry visits about two months ago. Seems her and her brother have been planning something for a while.”
Tommy narrows his eyes at her, “What does that mean?”
Athena exhales, puts her notebook in her pocket and pulls up a chair, sitting down across from Evan, next to the coffee table that still holds Tommy. He hasn’t been able to pull himself away from Evan’s side even though he’s probably more in the way than anything.
“There were…photographs, and articles,” she starts as Evan slowly looks up, face twisting in confusion and disgust. “Plans to marry you, have kids with you, the whole nine.”
“Wh-what?” Evan’s hands are trembling, Tommy isn’t sure when it starts but he’s holding back from reaching out, wanting to take them in his own, still them. “Sh-she was…that was before I–”
“Yes,” Athena cuts him off. “That was before you went on any dates with her.”
There isn’t any warning before Evan turns to the side and heaves, the contents of his stomach evacuating over the floor. The paramedics are quick to grab an emesis bag, swiping up the mess with a cloth.
“Okay, Mr. Buckley has a concussion,” a paramedic – Miller – says gently, but firmly. “We need to get him to the hospital. Are you coming with him?”
Miller looks at Tommy as her partner collects the gauze and equipment, tucking it into their bag and steadying Evan as he stands slowly.
Evan’s eyes seek Tommy’s, pleading, unspoken trust hidden there. Tommy can’t refuse. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll be right there.”
As they wind through the house and head toward the front, Tommy hesitantly releases Evan’s arm, heading toward Anthony.
“What happened?” Anthony says, groggy but attentive.
“Finished things up at the office and swung by, cleaning service fan looked shady,” Tommy explains quickly, eyes darting to the front door, heart tugging him back toward Evan. “Nobody at the front, came around back and break-in was obvious.”
He gestures toward the shattered glass, strewn across the dining room floor, visible from the living room despite the other wreckage being tucked behind a corner.
“Sargent Grant told me they cleared him to come back,” Anthony says, hands in his pockets. He’s looking at Tommy carefully, gaze lingering, and Tommy knows it’s because he took a life – that he should be distraught, reeling from it. Instead, he feels relieved, glad he was here in time, that Evan is safe.
“They did,” Tommy confirms. “Something didn’t feel right. When I came in, he was already bleeding, she was standing over him. Told her to drop the knife, she didn’t. She lunged for him, I took the shot.”
Anthony nods slowly, reaching out for Tommy’s weapon. He offers it freely, hands over everything he has save for his wallet and phone.
“Can I–”
“Go on,” Anthony nods. “Keep him close, the brother’s still out there, T.”
Tommy shudders and nods, racing out the door toward the ambulance waiting. Evan’s tucked inside, securely strapped onto the gurney, blanket loosely draped over his hips. There’s gauze in place of the makeshift bandage, and it’s already soaked through. The sight of it nearly makes Tommy sick.
Tommy climbs in beside him without hesitation, sliding a hand into his. Fingers intertwine, grip firm as the doors shut and the sirens blare to life, carrying them away from the disaster that shattered the night, and Tommy can’t help but think they haven’t quite escaped the worst of it. Somewhere, out there, the threat still lingers, and for all the safety of this moment, he knows it’s only the beginning.
Notes:
⚠️minor character death/gun violence on the page
Chapter 7: Folded Memories
Summary:
Buck recovers at Tommy’s house, and their growing bond is tested.
Notes:
enjoy 6k, lovelies! 💕
Chapter Text
The scent hits him like a tidal wave – chemical lemon, latex, antiseptic sharp enough to sting the back of his throat. Beneath it all lingers the acrid undercurrent of fear and dread, trapped in the seams of cramped waiting rooms and dim, endless hallways. The day’s been long, but it’s nothing compared to the quietest parts of the night.
Nights trapped beneath hospital blankets, stuck in the same nightmare, fragments of a downed helicopter and the screams of people he couldn’t save.
Evan’s in imaging, a tech gathering up his gown and blanket, tucking him into a wheelchair with an IV sprouting from his arm. Tommy insists on following, bartering with hospital staff until they relent, then getting stalled behind the heavy doors where metal isn’t allowed to pass.
He paces the waiting room between the main lobby and the machinery – back and forth, back and forth – limbs so heavy with exhaustion they don’t even feel like his own. Thoughts rattle through his skull in sudden flashes of the van he almost missed, the calls with Athena, The Getty, his boss. They loop and overlap, spiderwebbing outward until they crack the thin shell of confidence he’d been clinging to, the false belief that he’d done everything possible to keep Eva– his client safe.
Tommy had missed something. He knows he did. He had to have. There’s no other way she could’ve gotten that close. No other way Evan ends up trapped in his own home, someone looming over him, knife in hand, one breath and a hair trigger away from stopping his heart. Killing the one person Tommy was meant to protect.
It isn’t the first time he’s failed.
Others have suffered under his watch, more than just those that lost their lives. The sound of Teddy’s mother, standing at his grave, sobs tearing through the air, sticky and raw beneath a merciless sun. Rattling metal. Rising flame. Alarms screaming through the rapid freefall that left him without a medic, that tore an innocent soul from the earth and left an empty shell behind.
“Did you get a date with him?” Tommy asks Martin with a sly smile, jabbing her lightly in the side as the three of them head toward the helicopter.
She looks over at him and bites her lip, putting her hair behind her ear, “wouldn’t you like to know?” Her boots squeak against the hangar floor as she skips away.
Teddy and Tommy stop, look at one another, and turn back to Martin, running to catch up with her, “You can’t leave us hanging like that!” Teddy begs, “You have to tell us!”
“Let’s just say he has a spot I can find,” she wiggles her eyebrows at them, “buried treasure.”
Tommy lets out a loud laugh, and offers a high five to Martin. She meets it with her hand, and they both turn to Teddy, Martin crossing her arms across her chest as they do.
“So I’m left with no treasure and no date?” He says exasperatedly, “what the hell is this?” He frowns and gives her his best puppy dog eyes, turning to Tommy and doing the same. “Pity for the odd man out?”
They turn back to each other and laugh again, turning their backs on Teddy before Martin shouts behind her “It’s a dog eat dog world, Teddy!”
Tommy blinks hard, tears burning hot behind his eyes, threatening to drag him under. He’s lived in memories of joy as often as memories of trauma, but they never stay separate. The bright moments are always tainted, reminders of what the world took, with priceless interest in tow.
Teddy’s laughter shifts to screams. His bright smile turns bloody. The air around him traps him in heavy, thick smoke. Tommy, stuck between a nightmare and reality, tries again, desperate, to pull back the joy, suspend the terror, leave the memory pristine, shimmering with delight.
It never works. His mind never fails to muddy the waters, turn traitor and capture him in the worst moments of his life on a relentless loop.
“Mr. Kinard.”
Tommy flinches at the voice, curses himself for losing focus, and turns.
A woman in bright purple scrubs stands there, blonde hair pulled tight and swaying down her back. She smiles softly, “Mr. Buckley will be out momentarily.”
“Thank you,” he mutters, nodding.
When she disappears behind the doors again, he rolls his shoulders, works the tension from his neck, claws his way back from the memories like he always does.
A glance at the clock rattles him – reveals he’s been waiting for a little under an hour. It feels like only minutes. He can’t even recall the face of the tech that brought them down, can’t pull up the name of the nurse that’s been at Evan’s bedside since they arrived.
“Thirty-three-year-old male, laceration to right flank, significant blood loss. Blood pressure fifty-eight over palp, pulse one-sixty and thready. He’s been unconscious since the crash. Head injury, broken femur, arm, clavicle. Right pupil is five millimeters and unreactive. Left is six and blown.”
“Get him to trauma two. Kerry, call in the surgical team.” The doctor looks at Tommy, eyes sharp, voice commanding. “Sir, you need to stay here,” he waves over another nurse and her gloved hand settles on Tommy’s shoulder. “Alyssa, our nurse, will take a look at your injuries.”
“I can’t – he’s…I can’t leave him,” Tommy looks up, feels like he’s suspended in quicksand, a slow descension into a hell he can’t escape, one he has no control over. “His mom – you have to call his mom.”
“We will.”
The doctor hands him off to the nurse and vanishes behind glass doors. Teddy lies limp on the gurney in the middle of the trauma bay, crimson dripping, falling from his fingertips to the floor. He’s pale and unmoving.
Alyssa guides Tommy away. His body feels wrong, disconnected, ripped from the only thing keeping him tethered. He barely makes it into the room before he vomits, the world tilting violently before everything goes dark.
A rattling wheel echoes from across the room and pulls him back.
Tommy blinks, shakes his head, eyes finding Evan’s when he looks up. He forces a careful smile. “How’re you feeling?”
Long legs folded up in front of him, Evan looks unbearably young, bruises blooming along his face and down his neck, stiches holding skin together where it’d been torn open hours before.
“Kinda glad this place has cameras everywhere,” Evan admits quietly. “And tired.”
The tech leads them back toward his room and the unforgiving tile, bleached laminate, beep of every monitor along the way battles with Tommy’s exhaustion to play the chorus of a song he’s far too familiar with.
He’s still having trouble focusing, Teddy’s memory trying to pull him under tempting him with impossible bargains, his life for Teddy’s – a twisted mirage. It’s not real, no matter how convincing it feels.
Evan’s tucked back into bed, narcotics easing him towards sleep as his eyes droop shut. Tommy watches closely, stationed at the front of the room. He’s gotten a list of approved visitors from Athena, and they cycle through as soon as he can take visitors.
Promises are made for home-cooked meals, cards and get-well-soon video games gifted from his station and their kids, urges to let them know if he needs ‘anything at all, Buck,’ fade in and out. Tommy keeps watch, bouncing in and outside of the door, cataloguing patterns, faces, footsteps.
Forty-two hours without sleep shows. Memories creep back more rapidly, things startle him more easily, his body gets heavier, dragging him down. The line between reality and imagination gets cloudier, thoughts cycling, worry growing.
“Yo-you can sit.”
Tommy jumps. Evan’s voice, quiet from across the room, startles him. Evan’s eyes shift from earnest to worried before he adds, “Sorry, you just – Athena said there’s police out there too.”
He’s not wrong. Patrol officers line thehall, intent on keeping not only Evan protected but the rest of the patients on the unit. Tommy knows their names, badge numbers, how long they’ve been with the police department, how long it took them to graduate from the academy.
Given their track records, Tommy knows Athena hand-picked the lot. Worried for Evan herself, she holds a piece of her late husband’s family, one she’s committed to protecting.
Tired eyes scan the hall one last time before Tommy takes Evan up on the offer, pulling a chair from the corner of the room and positioning himself between Evan and the door. A small smile curls up Evan’s lips as he watches and Tommy can’t help himself. “What?”
“Nothing. So-sorry,” Evan stutters quickly, shifting in the hospital bed.
“Get some sleep,” Tommy encourages, voice soft. His heart clenches watching Evan, seeing him in pain.
Evan nods, eyelids growing heavy, and adjusts, tugging the blanket higher across his chest. Moonlight slips through the blinds, settling softly on his face, and Tommy can’t pull his eyes away. He doesn’t deserve this, didn’t do anything to end up here – twice inside of a month – scared and in pain. Still, he drifts off, and Tommy keeps watch.
The hospital quiet deepens, the thrum of his memories does the same, and Tommy finally eases into something resembling peace. Close to Evan, he knows he’s right beside him if anything else threatens to pull him under again.
*
*
After two days under observation, a close eye kept on his head injury, constant monitoring of his labs and vitals, Buck is finally allowed to leave, thank God. Tommy’s been hovering since the minute he was admitted and, if Buck’s being honest, having him close by does help with the anxiety.
If it weren’t for the near-constant thump-thump of his pulse echoing behind his eyes, the nausea hovering just outside every breath, Buck would probably be a lot more anxious to begin with. As it is, he focuses on staying conscious for more than an hour at a time, rides the waves as they come.
He’s been hurt before. Head injuries, stitches, long stretches trapped inside hospital rooms more times than he can count. But something about this time is different. It doesn’t carry quite the same frustration as a reckless injury on the job, doesn’t come with the familiar tune of knowing better. It’s heavier. Weighted with the loss of Bobby still looming over everything.
The thought of his own bed calls to him like a lullaby, soft and inviting, until fear and dread slip in, curling through the memories of home.
“It’s not an option, Buck,” Maddie says, voice firm. “There’s no way you’re staying at your place.”
Normally he’d argue. Push back – disagree and fight hand over fist to be in his own space, prove he doesn’t need anyone looking after him like a child. Except the words don’t come. Lodged in his chest, caught in the sticky spackle of anxiety still clinging to his ribs, crumbling inward and mucking up every part of him that wants to insist he’s fine.
“I-I…where am I gonna stay?” Buck asks, glancing between his sister and brother-in-law. “I’m not staying with you. I’m not putting you or the kids in danger.”
“Buck–” Chim starts, stepping closer, hands shoved into his pockets.
Buck shakes his head. “No, not happening.” He swallows hard, cuts off the next set of offers before they can form. “A-and same goes for Hen and Eddie.”
Tommy’s at the edge of the room, arms crossed over his chest, eyes red-rimmed and heavy with exhaustion. He’s slowly shifting focus, tracking the conversation, jaw tight. He pulls out his phone, taps at the screen, then looks back up at Buck.
His gaze is piercing, calculating, already ten steps ahead even as a shimmer of something that looks like worry shifts beneath it.
“I-it’s fine,” Buck says quickly. “We can…we can just do the safe house again, right Tommy?” Hope trails through each word. He can’t put the 118 in danger and he definitely can’t risk anything happening to their kids. They’re family. If anything happened because of him, he’d never forgive himself.
Tommy shakes his head and pushes off the windowsill. “It doesn’t have supplies, not close to a hospital. We can’t put you there while you’re recovering.”
Buck’s knows that’s not entirely true. He knows Tommy’s mentioned times inside a safe house wrapping bloody gashes, stacking antibiotics onto infection and hoping for the best. The knowledge of that makes something bloom in Buck’s gut, knowing Tommy wants something better for him, that he doesn’t want Buck to suffer. Even if suffering, right now, is something as small as a bad pillow beneath a throbbing head.
“What about a hotel?” Chim suggests.
Tommy doesn’t hesitate, shakes his head again. “No, too exposed. Too many people to monitor, to keep track of.”
Tommy’s phone rings and he tugs it back out, raising a finger and stepping out of the room with a soft hello Buck’s eyes follow him, tracking the way his shadow stretches down the corridor before disappearing. The anxiety that needles at his spine grows, hitching his breath before he forces his focus back to Maddie and Chim.
“Any news on the brother?” Chim asks as Maddie sinks into the chair next to the bed.
Buck closes his eyes, takes a shaky breath. “Nothing.”
He hears Chim sigh and the soft brush of fabric, knows he’s reaching out for Maddie’s hand. If his brain didn’t try to evacuate his skull every time he moved, Buck would smile at the love his sister deserves finally finding her despite current circumstances.
A flash of pearly white teeth – too perfect, too sharp – sparks as she raises her hand, knife grasped in her deceitfully dainty fingertips.
Blood, tacky and warm, floods down the side of his face. His vision blurs at the edges, palms sliced by unsuspecting glass shards that exploded along with the pain when she broke in. Whiskey burns his nose, a broken bottle bleeding caramel-colored liquor across the floorboards, mingling with red.
“You think you’re better than me?” Her voice is harsh, familiar despite the shrill edge, her face just as recognizable despite the bloodthirsty glare twisting her mouth into a frown. “We could’ve been something!”
“I-I didn’t…what do you–”
“I worked so hard,” she snaps, stepping closer. “Made myself into someone you would like, someone you could build a future with.” The words aren’t comforting even though they claim to be, the promise of a future closing in like bars instead of paradise.
“P-please. I-I didn’t mean–” Buck tries to stand on shaky legs. Tries to rebel, to fight back – but his limbs are heavy, growing heavier by the minute, head pounding as the world whites out and slams back in. It’s a roller coaster, suspended between pain and relief, dread and escape, reality and blissful darkness.
“–ure we’ll figure it out.” Maddie’s voice cuts into the memory as the door swings open and Tommy’s careful footsteps return him to the room.
“Link is working on something,” Tommy says. “Until that’s sorted out, you can stay with me.”
The sudden relief that hits Buck is palpable, soothing in a way he didn’t realize he needed. The certainty of Tommy there, someone he trusts, someone who knows how to protect himself and Buck. Someone who knows what to watch for and where to push.
“A-are you sure that’s not…I don’t want to intrude,” Buck says, even though everything inside him is screaming, praying he doesn’t revoke the offer.
That brings a smile, that one Buck’s come to recognize, a hint of fondness wrapped in security, the glint of something knowing. “I offered,” Tommy says easily. “Besides, I’m still getting paid.” He adds a wink that sends a sudden, thunderous cloud between the butterflies that have been dormant in Buck’s chest, stirring them awake.
“Can we stop by?” Maddie asks, squeezing Buck’s hand. Her touch is grounding, a lifetime of love pressed between their palms. “Check in and…is it like the safe house? Can he call us?”
Tommy chuckles and nods. “I’ll clear space in the freezer for all the frozen dinners you guys have been threatening. And yeah, visits are fine, as long as nothing changes with Landers.”
The name makes Buck flinch. Rachel’s face flashes – jaw slack, eyes empty, blood pooling with his own on the bedroom floor. Tommy notices, eyes shifting to his at the movement, smile fading as he shifts subtly closer.
The three carry on, conversation floating over him like icy waves. Mentions of guest bedrooms, security cameras, murmurs of a rotation of visitors skitter through the small room as his eyes droop shut despite himself. His last coherent thought is a tired, frustrated curse to himself that he can’t stay awake through any of it with this stupid concussion.
*
A stack of paperwork and three naps later, Buck’s on his way out of the hospital, stuck in a wheelchair at the insistence of everyone but baby Bobby, never mind he doesn’t know any words yet, much less standard hospital discharge practice.
Chim’s carrying a stack of homemade cards and three bouquets of flowers, already toting two frozen dinners and a list of podcast recommendations from the rest of the 118 as they wind through the hospital halls.
Tommy’s waiting out front, passenger door and trunk open, eyes tracking the automatic doors, flicking briefly to the cars pulling up behind him. He hasn’t stopped, hasn’t lost focus more than a handful of times since Buck’s met him. On high alert for any threat from a wayward sneeze to the security guard near the lobby entrance, hand resting too close to his holster.
“Your chariot awaits,” Chim grins, depositing the goods into the trunk as Maddie grabs a duffel from her car, adding it to the pile.
“I packed a bunch of clothes and stuff, just let me know if there’s something else you need,” she says, hands twisting together nervously in front of her. Chim comes up behind and wraps an arm around her waist. She instantly settles.
“I’ll be okay,” Buck says, injecting the words with enough confidence he hopes it sounds like he believes them. “Plus,” he gestures to Tommy, who slams the trunk closed, “Tommy’ll be there.”
“He’s a professional,” Chim says with a salute to Tommy. Tommy just laughs and mirrors the gesture.
“I won’t let anything happen to him,” he assures the pair, laughter still lacing his words, but Buck can feel the weight beneath them.
Jee darts around their legs and stops short at Buck’s lap, climbing up and looping her arms around his neck. The warmth from her little body floods Buck, her tiny breath tickling his skin in the heat of the afternoon. He squeezes her and she giggles, twists around to face her parents.
“Uncle Buck can make banana bread?” she asks.
Maddie leans over and scoops her up, settling her against her hip. “Maybe we’ll make banana bread for Uncle Buck this time, yeah?” Jee nods and giggles again as Chim reaches out for Buck, helping him out of the chair.
“I got it,” Buck mutters, even as a wave of dizziness washes over him. He swallows back nausea and leans a little harder into Chim’s side. He takes the weight easily, guiding him to Tommy’s truck.
“Sure you do, big guy. Come on, get in.”
Tommy and Chim fuss over him until Buck draws the line at the seatbelt, swatting Chim’s hand away and narrowing his eyes as he clicks it into place himself.
“I’ll stop by in a couple days,” Maddie says as she peers in over Chim’s shoulder. “And just call if you need anything.”
“And don’t worry about the station, Buck, we’ll hold down the fort until you’re back to fighting strength,” Chim adds. “Maybe Gerrard will even be gone by then.”
Buck snorts and leans back against the headrest, closing his eyes against the glare of the summer sun. When he opens them again, he scans the small group until he finds Jee again and winks. “I’ll be waiting for banana bread.”
She nods and offers her tiny pinky, which he proudly hooks with his in a promise, and by the time they pull away, sleep is already tugging insistently at the edges of his vision.
“Here,” Tommy says, reaching behind the seat and handing him a sweatshirt. “Sorry I don’t have anything better, but you can use this. It’ll be a little while, you can conk out.”
The fabric is soft, worn and washed time and time again, and when Buck tucks it under his head, it smells like Tommy. Whatever off-brand cologne he wears that reminds Buck of being on a hike in the middle of summer, the cheap ivory soap beneath, some faint echo of motor oil and grease. He settles deeper and lets the motion of the truck pull him under.
*
“Come on,” Tommy’s voice is gentle, soft, curling at the edges of sleep he’s been pulled out of.
He feels the brush of Tommy’s fingertips, hears the soft click of the seatbelt and a gentle tug on his elbow. He follows Tommy inside, steps sluggish and heavy, the world moving through fog.
“Step up,” Tommy says quietly as he guides him over the threshold and down the hall. If it were anyone else, Buck would be nervous, tense on high alert despite the drowsiness tugging him down.
But it’s not anyone else, it’s Tommy. Tommy who’s been keeping Buck safe, protecting his life like it’s his own, worn raw and ragged with guilt despite saving him days ago. He follows him like he’s been doing every day for the last few weeks, feeling safer with every step, more magnetized with each movement.
There’s a modest guest room, one with clean sheets and stacked blankets, the lamp lit dimly in the corner, blinds drawn tight. Buck plants himself on the bed as Tommy moves around him, telling him not to move. Buck doesn’t think he does much of anything besides breathe before Tommy’s back, duffel in hand.
“Do you need help with anything?” Tommy asks, voice careful, tentative. “Your clothes are here, I’ll grab you some water and your pain meds. I can charge your phone in the other room, but no screens for a few days.”
“Mhm,” Buck murmurs. “I can do it, uh, thanks.” He reaches for the bag and hisses as his stitches strain against the stretch.
Tommy intervenes immediately, unzipping the bag and pulling out sweats and a t-shirt, offering them to Buck. “This okay?”
Buck nods and Tommy sets them down, brows tilted in worry. “You’re not gonna tip over if I leave, right?”
Buck considers it. “Unclear.”
“Here,” Tommy exhales a laugh and reaches for Buck’s shirt, pausing at the hem. “Can I help?”
“Yeah,” Buck says quietly.
Tommy moves easily. His fingers are gentle, tucking beneath the fabric and pulling the shirt free over Buck’s head. His fingertips brush against Buck’s temple, checking the gauze, nudging a stray curl back into place. It’s oddly endearing, the way he moves so easily in Buck’s space, and Buck’s surprised to find he isn’t bothered by the crowding in the slightest.
Buck barely registers the change until he’s in a t-shirt embroidered with the L.A.F.D. logo and Tommy’s kneeling in front of him.
“Want to change your pants or leave them for now?” Tommy asks, squeezing Buck’s knee.
“I can’t wear pants I wore in the hospital in bed,” Buck says, grimacing. “Ca-can you…I mean, if you don’t mind…”
“Yeah,” Tommy says easily. “I got it.”
The same careful touch finds the waist of his pants, tugs them free over his hips. Tommy steadies him when he stands, Buck’s hands resting on Tommy’s shoulders. The sweats are swapped and the clean fabric offers a different kind of comfort, one that pulls him further from the attack, one that feels closer to home.
Soft blankets are pulled back and he slides between the sheets, exhaling as relief floods through him. It doesn’t take long for the soft cotton to pull him back into the dreamless sleep he found in the car. When he drifts off, he swears he can still feel Tommy’s fingers brushing against the curls on his forehead, murmuring assurances that he’s safe.
*
The next few days go something like this, sleep finding him between small meals and steam-filled showers. The podcasts only keep his attention for so long, his phone a distant memory of endless research spirals and funny videos, and he can’t even catch up on any of his guilty pleasure shows.
Instead, he finds himself drifting between rooms, curled up on the couch or tucked into the bed, listening to Tommy cook and clean, the familiar sound of his perimeter checks and keyboard strokes soothing. It assures Buck he’s nearby, always watchful, waiting, anticipating even as Buck’s mind betrays him with confusion, dizziness and exhaustion.
They fall into a pattern, a breath away from something domestic, teasing prods over romcoms and worst calls, new recipes shared and tried with Tommy’s functional kitchen instead of The Oasis’ tiny hotplate.
Tommy hasn’t mentioned Link finding an alternative and Buck isn’t going to be the one to ask. He certainly doesn’t want to change anything.
Friends and family come and go, drop off food, check in. Buck says he’s fine, because he is. He’s only having nightmares every other time he sleeps, only jumps at the sound of Tommy locking the door when he isn’t paying close attention, only feels sick when he uses a knife making dinner with Tommy.
The first time he woke up, legs tangled in his sheets, his own voice bouncing off the walls in a scream, Tommy had come in, helped him settle, sat on the bed beside Buck, didn’t pull away when he leaned in.
So, time keeps crawling, no change on the Landers front, Buck and Tommy now so closely connected the 118 refers to them as a unit. They ask about how Tommy’s doing when they check in, give him just as many baked goods as Buck.
Buck wonders if Tommy falls into the same traps he does, forgetting about the threat at all, curling up late at night, tucked under the same blanket on the couch, empty takeout containers littering the coffee table.
Until one night after a particularly hard day, his body filled with lead, dragging after nightmares, caught in a whirlwind of anxious energy. Buck falls into the guest bed, wrapped in a hoodie that’s now picked up the scent of Tommy, and Tommy peeks in from the hallway, lit from behind and haloed with a warm glow.
Buck’s arm reaches out against his will, the call of something so normal and warm it wraps around his ribs and bends through his bloodstream. Tommy, drawn into Buck’s reach, grabs onto his wrist and a spark ignites. He sits near Buck’s hip, fingers mindlessly brushing over Buck’s knuckles.
He’s not even sure Tommy knows he’s doing it.
Before he can second guess himself, Buck pulls him closer and presses his lips to Tommy’s, the spark spreading and igniting through his cheeks, warming him up from within. Tommy doesn’t pull away, instead he deepens the kiss, his hands finding Buck’s jaw, tipping his head up as he does.
It feels like the first day of summer with the windows open wide. Like the last three seconds before midnight on New Year's Eve. Like finding the perfect gift for someone special. It’s natural, familiar even, and Buck doesn’t want to pull away.
When they finally do, Tommy looks as starry-eyed as he is surprised, his lips rosy when he draws his hand up to them. “I-I’m so sorry, that was so unprofessio–”
“Tommy,” Buck says when Tommy stands, backing towards the door. “Don’t–”
The door slams shut without another word and Buck falls back against the pillows, wondering how he screwed this up so badly. How something that felt so right could go so wrong.
*
*
Evan kissed him.
Kissed him in the midst of one of the most vulnerable stretches of his life. Concussed, shaken, tucked into Tommy’s house because there was nowhere else safe to put him while Landers was still out there.
And Tommy didn’t stop him.
How could he have, when it felt so natural? Like the next, inevitable iteration of whatever they’ve fallen into, Evan curled up on the couch as Tommy cooks him dinner. Evan, still clinging to the hoodie Tommy had handed him in the truck on the drive home from the hospital, what felt like years ago now. Evan, so incredibly patient and kind and generous to his friends and family every time they stop by, even when he’s in pain, even when Tommy can see it in the way he moves so carefully.
Tommy leaves the room so fast, he’s half-convinced he left a hole in the door shaped like the Kool-Aid man, heart racing, palms sweaty. The electricity of the kiss propels him forward even as he hears his name from Evan’s lips – the lips he stupidly kissed and even more stupidly abandoned – as the door slams shut behind him.
Pacing the kitchen, he shakes out his limbs, tries to release the dregs of shimmering fondness that still thrum under his skin after their lips collided. There’s no real escape from it – from thinking about Evan and the way he’s settled so easily into Tommy’s space – not with evidence of him everywhere. His shoes kicked off by the door, a blanket from Evan’s place tossed over the arm of the couch, his charger plugged in, permanently now, at his spot and a glass of water he refuses to let Tommy exchange for a new one, insisting he’s “still working on it.”
There’s a half-finished crossword spread across the table with most of the answers in Tommy’s sloppy scrawl, but a handful are Evan’s. It’s set beside a puzzle missing its final piece because Tommy’s waiting for Evan to slot it in and claim the win as his.
He startles at the sound of the door opening, Evan’s careful footsteps winding closer to him. When Tommy looks up, his chest aches with longing, the desire to wrap Evan in his arms and keep him safe, make him laugh, make everything smell like him.
They share a brief moment, frozen, eyes locked on one another–
–until Tommy’s phone rings.
*
They found Colin’s car.
And a letter.
A suicide note, addressed to the police, bitter complaints of a cruel world that was never enough for his sister, a painful plea to be with her again, a request for forgiveness.
The car was parked at the edge of the beach, twenty feet from the water police say swallowed him whole.
“There’s no sign of him,” Athena says, arms crossed, gaze piercing. “You can’t live in fear forever, Buck.”
Evan glances between Tommy and Athena, nods, takes a deep breath and shakes out the last tendrils of fear that lace his features. “You’re right,” he says softly. “I-I get it.”
“And you’ve got the new locks, the cameras, the go-bag – you’ve got my…Link’s number,” Tommy says, rattling off things that should make him feel just as confident as he’s pushing Evan to be. He feels anything but. “He can’t hurt you.”
They share a look, a silent promise, the last month stacked up brick by brick, trust leveling each layer. “His picture’s up at every fire station, every police station – when you’re at work you’ll have your team,” Athena adds. “They’ll make sure.”
“Ye-yeah, you’re right,” Evan says. “Th-thanks, Athena. For everything.”
“You got it, Buck,” Athena says warmly, squeezing Evan’s shoulder. “We’ll see you next weekend at the Wilsons, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Evan says, opening the door for her. “I’ve got a new panettone recipe I’ve been dying to try.”
“Sounds great,” Athena grins. She shakes Tommy’s hand on her way out. “Next time, Tommy. Thanks for looking out for Buck.”
Tommy glances at Evan before answering. “Easiest job I ever had.”
Evan blushes and smiles. If Athena notices, she does them the courtesy of not saying anything about it. When she heads to her car, she waves at them both, eyes scanning the yard, still cautious despite her confident words.
Tommy looks back at Evan, chest tight. He’s anxious about leaving him alone, worried about something slipping through the cracks. Old memories still linger, clinging to new ones and pulling him back toward fear. All it takes is Evan’s gaze on him for the knot to loosen. Just a little.
“So…” Evan says, fingertips tracing the edge of the door. “You’re out of a job, I guess.”
Tommy chuckles, brushes his thumb across his lips, wishing it were Evan instead. “I guess so.”
“Is there, um, some kind of like…statute of limitations on – no, that’s not it,” Evan’s eyebrows furrow in concentration and Tommy’s having trouble finding the words to describe how fond he feels. He quirks his own brow in question. “I-I mean can you…are we–”
“Do you wanna get dinner on Saturday?” Tommy asks, saving him from his clear misery.
Evan’s shoulders sag in relief and his smile grows, like the sun peeking through clouds. “I would love to.”
“Great,” Tommy says, immediately regretting the finger guns but doing them anyway before shoving his hands into his pockets. He’s holding himself back from reaching out and pulling Evan closer, locking their lips again. “I’ll pick you up at 8?”
“Yeah,” Evan nods, blush deepening. “That sounds…yeah. So-sounds good.”
*
*
When his watch ticks over to 8:45, Buck starts to worry.
He paces the living room, socked feet whispering over hardwood, eyes flicking between the window and the clock, desperate for either to change. Tommy had been texting with him earlier that afternoon, making sure their plans were still on, adding he’d gotten a reservation for 8:30 at a spot nearby.
When Buck was getting dressed, he’d sent a message asking Tommy if he’d need a jacket, wondered if he’d regret not having something to layer over his shirt. There’d been no response, but Buck hadn’t panicked then. He’d assumed Tommy was in the shower, or pulling on boots, or stuck on a last-minute work call. Maybe already on the road, trying to avoid the worst of traffic.
Buck got antsy at the 8:15 mark, knowing Tommy keeps a careful eye on the time – efficiency ingrained from his time in the military and beyond. He texted three more times before calling when the clock hit 8:30.
Tommy left him on read, his call went to voicemail, Tommy’s voice bouncing back in an automated message that made Buck sick with fear.
Now, it’s 8:47.
Buck still hasn’t gotten a response from his string of messages, hasn’t heard anything but Tommy’s request to leave a message after the beep, and the worry in his chest grows thicker with each passing minute.
He crosses the living room again, eyes still locked on the street, speaker blaring as it rings endlessly. Porch lights and high-beams carry shadows across the street that do nothing to calm his rising panic.
Then he sees it.
A van rolls slowly down the block, white and unassuming, the words Harper’s Cleaning stamped across the side in neat blue lettering.
Buck’s breath leaves him. His phone slips from his hand and hits the floor, still ringing unanswered.
Tommy is not late.
Tommy is not ignoring him.
Tommy is not okay.
And maybe this time, Buck is too late.