Tommy and Buck are on vacation in the Alps for their second six month anniversary when they get an unpleasent reminder of the first attempt. But this time things are different.
MAY
Home Alone | Salbuck | E | 1507
Just your basic Salbuck smut.
JUNE
Next Thing You Know | salbucktommy | E | Mpreg | 19241 | WIP
After a one night fling gives him some great advice (and a couple of great orgasms), an unknowingly pregnant Buck gets back together with Tommy. Turns out that fling might have known what he was talking about better than anyone anticipated.
AUG
Seasons | bucktommy | G | 1027
The wind is coming. He’s conscious of it before it even arrives these days. A smell in the air or a sense of something impending. (My entry for the bucktommyzine)
2024 Fic Round Up
Tagged by @loucifersbitch - thank you so much!! 🩷
This year I wrote 20 fics and a total of 36,619 words (I haven't included the 2x Destiel ones here as there's enough to list already!)
JULY
Like A Circus Wheel | saltommy | E | 1432 wds.
"He's insinuating that you're gay."
Tommy looks over at Sal’s smart-ass smirk and for a second he’s frozen. Sal’s expression doesn’t change but something in his eyes feels like a challenge.
Show You Off | Bucktommy | E | 2083 wds
“Maybe we should move this to the bedroom?” he murmurs. “Otherwise we’re gonna be giving the neighbours a show.”
Buck’s mouth is suddenly bone-dry. Memories of a mis-spent exhibitionist youth suddenly flood back and his breath shallows, mouth falling open a little, cock twitching as he swallows hard.
Tommy pulls back and looks him in the eye, eyebrow raised. “Oh. You like that idea baby?”
Keys to Fit Our Locks | saltommy | T | 1133 wds.
Tommy comes home to something surprising.
Just some soft, silly, sort-of-established Saltommy.
AUG
Every Little Sacrifice | saltommy | E | 3335 wds
Tommy jumps down from the engine the moment it stops, already heading to the gear racks as the rest of the team clamber out behind him, the stench of melted plastic and hot metal surrounding them. He needs to get away from the smell, it’s choking him, filling his throat. He coughs, trying to clear out the memory. Sal flashes him his most charming grin, blue eyes bright in his soot-streaked face, and claps him on the shoulder as he passes. Tommy doesn’t stop and doesn’t meet his confused gaze, his jaw muscles tick as he bites back the fury thrumming through his veins. He strips off his turnouts in record time and heads up the stairs without a backward glance.
Honey I'm Home | bucktommy | T | 762 wds
“Hey honey I’m home,” Buck murmurs to himself, half-falling through the door into the dark entrance hall of Tommy’s house. The whole day has been a seemingly endless stream of small, silly calls, each bell draining more and more of his energy, leaving him a shell of the man he was when he left that morning.
It had been a great morning too. Two orgasms before he’d even had his coffee had seemed like a pretty promising start to the day and then he’d spent most of his shift on a constant simmer, half hard in his turnouts because his boyfriend, who was having the opposite sort of day at work, decided it would be a good idea to send him shirtless selfies taken in the Harbor locker room that would have been rejected from the firefighter calendar for being too pornographic.
Calendar Boy | bucktommy | E | 2505 wds
“What’s up baby?” Tommy asks, concerned, walking over to kiss the side of his head.
“It’s the most insufferable time of the year,” Hen mutters, not looking up.
Tommy looks down at the photos covering the table and stops short, blinking in surprise. Oh.
“It’s the LAFD calendar,” Evan says, as if that explains everything, which, in a way Tommy supposes it does.
Tommy’s eyes widen as he takes in the piles of pictures of semi-- and, in some cases, more than semi-- naked Evan that are spread across it. He swallows awkwardly, his tongue all of a sudden seeming too big for his mouth, and manages an only-slightly-strangled, “Oh?”
Solace | bucktommy | T | 615 wds
Buck comes home to Tommy after a very bad day.
SEPT
Nicknames | saltommy | M | 529 wds
A few nicknames, endearments and insults from Sal and Tommy’s relationship.
Desk Defying | saltommy | E | 2478 wds
Sal and Tommy decide to take out their frustrations on top of Gerrard's desk.
Riding Up Front | bucktommy | E | 5511 wds
Buck is outside in the yard, blasting the engine with the high pressure hose and entertaining murderous fantasies of turning the hose on Gerrard and blowing him through a fucking wall. The bastard is on the warpath today as usual, finding a seemingly endless list of pointless tasks for each of them.
When Tommy arrives unexpectedly it dawns on Buck that the engine is conveniently just out of sight, pulled around the side of the firehouse and the rest of the crew are occupied and a terrible, brilliant and honestly somewhat familiar plan forms in his mind.
When you're tastin what he's drinkin (are you thinkin bout me?)
bucktommy w/ past saltommy | M | 1893 wds
Sal runs into Tommy with Buck at a bar and drags up old memories.
OCT
If It Comes Back | saltommy | E | 3773 wds
Tommy & Sal reconnect at a wedding.
NOV
A Quiet Night In | bucktommy | T | 1190 wds
Just some fluff & cuddles - post 8x6 comfort
DEC
Flashover | bucktommy | G | 2724 wds
When his phone rang this evening he was on the floor in front of his couch, in the middle of another fifty push-ups, TV on in the background playing a show that he couldn't have named or described if someone put a gun to his head. He didn't pick it up, didn't even glance at it, just let it vibrate its way across the table and fall on the floor. The third time it rang he finally picked it up, annoyed, and glanced at the caller ID. Sal Deluca. Jesus Christ, talk about a blast from the past. He'd answered it without even thinking.
"Sal?"
"Kinard. Open your door. It's pissing rain out here."
You Should Probably Leave | saltommy | E | 2347 wds
“Doesn’t look like it’s coming back on anytime soon.” Tommy says, looking out of the window at the dark street. “It’s the whole block at least.” He turns back to Sal who is spread out on his couch, beer bottle in one hand, one foot on the floor.
“Ah shit, guess I’ll just have to stay here then huh?” Sal smirks, eyebrow raised as he stretches his arms above his head so his t-shirt rides up, exposing the trail of dark hair that disappears under his waistband. Behind him on the table a candle lantern flickers, deepening the shadows and planes of his features, casting crawling shapes over the walls. Tommy's throat is dry, he swallows hard. He already knows how the rest of this night goes. How it always goes.
Taken | saltommy | M | 884 wds
Jack shakes his hand, holding it just a fraction too long, smiling up at him almost shyly. "Hi Tommy. Sooo, I know this is kind of a cliche but…um…would you maybe like to get a drink sometime? With-with me?"
"Kinard! Get your ass back on the truck!" Sal's voice snaps out.
Tommy tries not to laugh for Jack's sake. "Jack, you seem great but I—"
Jack sighs. "Figures. You're clearly way too hot to be available. Ah well I had to try, right?"
"Kinard!"
10 Weddings and No Funerals | saltommy | T (will go up) | WIP
In order to survive a summer of wedding fever, longtime friends, Tommy and Sal, agree to be each other's plus one at every wedding they've been invited to.
AU based on Plus One (2019).
Kisses | saltommy | G | series WIP
Some replies to the kisses prompt meme on Tumblr. Currently all saltommy - may add some bucktommy later. Rating may change.
Here's to a creative 2025!
Tagging - @rdng1230 @littlepaws9 @bucksbignaturals @fuselsstuff @peppermintquartz @bangpop91 @nine-one-wanton @girlwonder-writes @thecarrott @judymarch15 @racerchix21 @weewookinard @loulou-land and literally anyone else I know or who sees this and wants to do it. My brain is shutting down now lol.
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One thing I’ve seen happens in this fandom- and honestly sometimes in real life discussions about Hudson too- is that people end up flattening all POC experiences into one universal experience.
Race absolutely matters. Racism absolutely exists. But different racial groups are stereotyped in different ways, and those stereotypes can produce completely different social expectations.
For example, I’ve seen people criticize Rachel and Jacob for joking about Hudson being unintelligent because he’s a person of color. If Hudson were Black, I would understand that criticism more, because there is a long history of anti-Black stereotypes portraying Black people as unintelligent. But Hudson is Asian. Asian men are stereotyped in almost the opposite way. They’re often assumed to be intelligent, studious, and academically successful. The stereotype is still racist, but it’s a different stereotype. It doesn’t suddenly become an anti-Asian stereotype just because we’ve replaced “Asian” with the broader category of “POC.”
The same thing happens constantly in fanfiction with Shane.
A lot of writers portray Shane as being afraid to fight because he knows he’ll be judged more harshly than white players. I understand where that idea is coming from, but as a black person I’ve never found it particularly convincing.
If Shane were black, that analysis would make more sense to me. Black men are often stereotyped as aggressive, which means behavior that is considered acceptable from white athletes is often interpreted differently when black ones do it.
But asian men occupy a very different place in the racial imagination. They’re frequently stereotyped as passive, non-threatening, weak, nerdy, emasculated, etc. If racial stereotypes were influencing Shane’s approach to hockey, I could just as easily imagine the opposite dynamic: feeling pressure to prove he’s aggressive enough to belong. Maybe he’s fighting TOO much.
But that doesn’t make sense for Shane. He’s the league’s golden boy. He’s polite, media-friendly, and heavily inspired by Sidney Crosby. He’s a superstar. Fighting is often delegated to players lower on the depth chart whose role is specifically to provide physicality. Star players generally aren’t expected to be enforcers. Teams usually want their elite talent scoring goals, not sitting in the penalty box after dropping the gloves.
So Shane not fighting much doesn’t strike me as evidence of racial pressure. It strikes me as evidence that he’s Shane Hollander.
Crosby is a useful comparison here. For years, people mocked him for not being physical enough (and for talking to the refs too much). They questioned his toughness and masculinity. They called him “Crybaby Crosby” or “Cindy Crosby.” Fans edited photos of him in dresses or makeup. The criticism wasn’t really about hockey. The joke was that he wasn’t a “real man.”
And that’s a white player.
Imagine how much worse those conversations could become if the player in question were Asian.
That’s the kind of racial dynamic I could actually see affecting Shane, not him worrying about people thinking he’s too aggressive, but people questioning whether aggressive ENOUGH.
There’s a good chance that if Shane fought exactly like many white players, he probably still wouldn’t be viewed as tough enough. Meanwhile, if a Black player fought exactly like those same white players, he might be interpreted as more aggressive.
People often criticize Rachel for not doing much racial analysis in the books. But sometimes fandom fills that gap with racial analysis that feels disconnected from both hockey culture and the specific stereotypes that affect different racial groups.
Not every POC experience is interchangeable.
A stereotype that affects Black athletes is not automatically a stereotype that affects Asian athletes. A stereotype that affects Latino athletes is not automatically a stereotype that affects Indigenous athletes.
If we’re going to talk about race- and we should- we have to talk about the actual racial dynamics at play, not just substitute “person of color” for a more specific analysis.
Sometimes no racial analysis is better than bad racial analysis.
“Because the truth is, tech doesn’t have an image problem. It doesn’t have a message problem. It has an intention problem. What’s wrong with the axe murderer who broke into my house is not that he hasn’t successfully persuaded me to buy into his narrative. What’s wrong is that he’s trying to kill me with an axe. Similarly, when you launch a product that’s designed to put millions of people out of work, block access to sources of verifiable truth, replace human creativity with slop, and lower the barriers to every sort of atrocity, the problem isn’t that you haven’t told the public a good story about those things. The problem is that you are trying to do them.”
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will I be burnt at the stake if I say that I don’t think Ilya’s fuckboy persona is entirely an act. will people draw and quarter me if I say that I think he is a different person with different people and none of them are entirely separate from who he is. will people stone me if I say that ilya loved being a fuckboy and loved sleeping around at the time and had a fucking blast doing what and who he wanted even if he wanted to be with shane for most of it.
Like I think people eschew that persona from him too aggressively in favor of making him a Soft Boi but there are multiple facets to ilya and I dont think any of them are necessarily fake. Just because he used promiscuity to cope doesn’t mean he didn’t have a marvelous time participating in it. That man loved pussy. He loved fucking pussy and eating pussy and making women come and whine his name. You cannot convince me otherwise. He was a very proud slut. Just because Shane made a housewife out of a hoe doesn’t make the Hoe Phase not genuine. U feel me?
I feel like people are latching on to this weird notion that your Person being the only one who can make you feel good is Romantic actually, when like??? Not really??
Like yeah, obviously Shane and Ilya are on a level of sexual compatibility that is only possible in a romance novel - they were literally made for each other and that is beautiful. Wanting your Person to be the one who makes you feel the Best is normal and cool and I agree.
But I feel like we've regressed to puritan notions of "innocence" or something. Your sexual appeal doesn't degrade with every person you sleep with?? Ilya can be a hoe and enjoy sleeping with literally hundreds of women and it doesn't make him any less perfect for Shane. It doesn't make Shane any less perfect for him. In fact, although it obviously makes him jealous, in the end Shane knows he won, he beat all these hundreds of women, which is the best gift you can give this competitive mfer. After doing all that, and having a good time doing it, Ilya chose Shane.
Send me a word and I’ll see if it’s in one of my WIPs.
(If it is, I’ll share a snippet. If it’s not, I’ll write a bit!)
This is from the OC Coach Frank's POV of Ilya Gets Traded To Montreal series.
I don't speak French, @steverogersisbi helped me out with that. The Russian is mine. Neither of us are native speakers, so whoops sorry for any mistakes.
I'm still work shopping how to handle the different langues used in this scene. I also couldn't pick where to cut it off for this post, so it is... long.
•
There are people by the ash tray, and not ones Frank would expect. He stops short, with his own pack of cigarettes in hand, so he stays ducked behind the cinder block wall. Ilya has a lit cigarette held lazily aloft.
“This is your second this week.” Shane says.
“Yes, yes, captain. I know.” Ilya says the word ‘captain’ with open affection, and bumps his elbow against Shane’s. “Am working on it.”
They’re standing near each other, Frank can see the back of their heads. Ilya ashes the cigarette into the tray.
“Did you forget to pack your gum?” Shane asks.
“Yes,” Ilya says with a laugh, bringing the cigarette to his mouth before turning his head to exhale away from Shane. “But it’s okay. Will just have this one and then no more.”
They stand together for a few seconds, Shane looking over at Ilya as Ilya continues to smoke. Frank moves to leave. He shouldn’t be smoking either, and something tells him these two will be here a while longer, they don’t need their coach eavesdropping.
“Kak skazat ‘to smoke’?” Shane asks.
Frank goes still. What?
“Kurit’.” Ilya says.
“Korit.” Shane echoes back.
“Hmm. Close.”
“…Kurit?”
“Better.” Ilya nods decisively, before adding slowly. “Yaaa…”
Shane shakes his head, but Frank can see the edge of a smile as he does.
“Ya kuryu, ty kurrr…ish?” Shane looks at Ilya in question.
“Da.” Ilya nods again.
“Ty kurish, on ili ona kurit, my kurim, vy kurite… oni kuryat?”
Is Shane Hollander learning Russian? Frank stares at the two of them. They’re standing so close that their shoulders are brushing.
“Khorosho, dorogoi.” Ilya smiles and snuffs the half smoked cigarette out resolutely into the ash tray. “Now use it in a sentence.”
Shane snorts.
“Ya ne kuryu.” Shane says.
Ilya laughs. Shane laughs back and then begins to speak French.
“C'est maintenant à ton tour. Conjuguer ‘fumer’ au présent pour moi.”
Ilya groans dramatically.
“Your French is better than my Russian.” Shane teases in English. “C’mon.”
“Je fume, tu fumes, il fume,” Ilya grumbles through the words, saying each one slowly. “Nous… fumez?”
Shane’s already shaking his head as Ilya looks at him.
“Nous fumons.” Shane corrects.
“Nous fumons,” Ilya nods seriously. “Vous fumez, ils fument.”
“Perfect.”
“It’s not,” Ilya grumbles some more. “Stupid language. Why use so many letters that are not pronounced?”
“Russian is the one with too many letters.” Shane says. “Too many consonants.”
“Shut up, Rozanov.” Shane shoves Ilya on the shoulder. Ilya reaches up and snags Shane’s hand, tangling their fingers together briefly, before letting go.
Frank needs to leave. He should have left much earlier. He’s seeing something not meant for him.
#sal deluca union man…save me... sal deluca union man. save me sal deluca union man (via @26-cats-in-a-trenchcoat)
This must be what Batman feels like seeing the bat signal. After the dumpster fire that is s9 I think we all deserve some Sal Deluca Union Man, as a treat.
--
The very first thing Buck said at eight in the goddamn morning was: "I didn't call him."
"And hello to you too, Sunshine," Chim said, heading directly to the kitchen for his third cup of coffee of the day. "Your beautiful nephew kept me and your sister up all night. Thank you for asking."
Jee had been a nightmare of a sleeper, taking hours to drop off only to wake up around four and refusing to go back down again. The only reason they got her on any kind of schedule was because preschool tired her out. Nash was a dream in comparison. That very first night they brought him home from the hospital, Nash was out by eight and slept through the night. When Chim jerked awake at seven the next morning and realized he gotten an unprecedented eight undisturbed hours, he rushed to the baby's room expecting to find Nash dead in his crib. What he got instead was his son happily staring up at Jee's old mobile, as happy as could be. But Nash occasionally suffered from bouts of insomnia, which left him frustrated and cranky, and nothing he or Maddie did could soothe him to sleep.
"My nephew?" Buck said, trailing after him. "How is that my fault?"
"It's the Buckley genes," Chim said. God, there were so many stairs. Why couldn't the 118 be a single story? "He can't turn off his brain."
"You know Maddie is a Buckley," Buck said.
"Yeah, but she got all the good genes and is a beautiful woman who has never done anything wrong in her life." The coffee pot was finally in sight. "There better be coffee in there. Actually, is there a way we can shoot espresso directly into my veins?"
"The best I can do is a quad shot," Sal fucking Deluca said from the kitchen table where they used to have family dinner, his phone in one hand and a takeout cup in front of him. "My favorite angry barista made it. It will give you heart palpitations."
"Sal," Chim said pleasantly, like his last hope of a good morning hadn't been snatched away by Buck's big fat mouth, "what are you doing here?"
Buck opened said big fat mouth but Sal beat him to the punch. "I planned this little social visit all on my lonesome."
Chim was too tired to even begin to detangle the Raso-Deluca-Kinard-Buckley codependency web to figure out if Buck had gone crying to his union daddy about whatever had his panties in a bunch now. With Buck, it could be anything.
"If this is union business then get in line." He held out for an entire ten seconds before giving in and snatching up the cup. "I already got the deputy chief after my head about the late evaluations. You know how long it takes to write up an entire station's evals when half your shift is spent putting out literal fires?"
"I'm familiar," Sal said dryly.
Chim downed half the coffee, which was a mistake; his pulse rabbited. "What the hell is in this?"
"Four shots of espresso, a fuck ton of syrup, and I think she poured in a packet of instant coffee."
He stared in horror at the cup. "Why?"
"She fears neither god nor death." Sal stood and slid his phone into his shirt pocket. Chim would bet good money if those cell phone belt clips were still around, Sal would be a proud owner. He was such a dad. "Let's take this to your office."
His vagus nerve went wild and his pulse kicked up another notch that had nothing to do with the espresso. "You've already made yourself comfortable. We can do it here."
Sal made a point of looking around the open concept loft at where all of Chim's firefighters were doing a great job at pretending not to listen in on their conversation. He was particularly impressed by Eddie's intense pantomime of searching the fridge for the quart of milk two inches from his face.
"This is a conversation better suited to an office that has a door, Captain Han," Sal said.
Ravi, who was heading towards the coffee machine, turned on his heel and beelined straight for the stairs. Coward.
Chim forced a smile. "If you would follow me, Steward Deluca."
"I know the way, asshole," Sal said, and didn't even wait for Chim to take the lead.
"Now who's the asshole?" he muttered and hurried to catch up with Sal. He was surrounded by assholes with long legs. This was why Hen was his favorite.
They made it all the way to the office before Sal paused, hand on the doorknob. Like the bay doors, Bobby had liked to keep his office open. "It sends the wrong message if it's closed," Bobby had said once. "We're here to help. People need to know they're welcome."
Before Sal could get off a quip or, even worse, be understanding, Chim pushed past and inside. At some point between the lab and all of them returning to work, someone had packed up all of Bobby's personal effects and cleaned the place out. The pictures and the #2 Dad mug that May and Harry had gotten Bobby as a gag gift on Father's Day went to Athena. The little figurine of an old fire wagon was in the Buckley-Kinard household. He'd caught a glimpse of it when they went over for dinner, which was a whole ordeal as they had to pack up the kids and both Jee and Nash hated being in their car seats. He had been irritated when he saw it, not because he wanted the figurine—that would have been one more thing for the kids to break—but because it hadn't even been a choice. Of course it went to Buck, just like Bobby's recipe cards, written by various Nash generations, had gone to Buck. Just like Bobby's final orders had gone to Buck.
The only attempt Chim had made at personalizing the office was to put up the obligatory framed photos of the wife and kids. He hadn't seen the point of anything else given how little time he was in there since the LAFD was all in on going paperless, which meant his laptop's new home was on the kitchen table. The air was stale. A tin layer of dust covered everything. Sal sneezed.
"So," Chim said, absolutely not hesitating as he took a seat behind the desk and laced his fingers over his stomach, "why are you here, Sal?"
Sal sat across him, mimicking his posture with his own hands folded over his stomach. "I'm just curious about why Firefighter Buckley has not taken the full family leave he's entitled to as a new parent."
The effort it took not to roll his eyes hurt. "Christ, I can't believe he went whining to you about this. Actually, you know what? I can believe he went whining to you. Isn't this a conflict of interest?"
"Buckley is only married to my best friend," Sal said, deeply unimpressed. "It's not like he's my brother-in-law and I'm his direct supervisor. Now that would be a lawsuit waiting to happen."
Chim took a deep, calming breath. "Buck took a couple of weeks when Theo moved in. I can't force him to take every minute available to him." That was polite and professional and more of an explanation than Sal was owed, and yet something about Sal's face, the set of his mouth or the fact he apparently stole Tommy's bitchy eyebrows, goaded him into adding, "It's just a foster placement. It's not like he's got a new baby. Besides, Buck is the donor, not the dad."
Sal went very still and very quiet and very dangerous. "Then I guess you think Hen shouldn't have taken her family leave when she and Karen took in Mara."
Through the horrific churning of his stomach, Chim said, "That's different. Hen and Karen were adopting Mara. And Hen didn't take the full leave either. Hell, I only took a couple of weeks when my son was born. Buck isn't being singled out."
"Yeah, let's talk about PTO." Sal deliberately unlaced his fingers. If this were a nature program, this would be the point where Buck would explain to Jee and Nash what a threat display was. "I've been doing some digging. Unofficially, of course."
"Of course," Chim agreed, annoyed.
"The 118 has a lot of unused PTO sitting on the books, which I find concerning."
"Oh, do you?" The annoyance was reaching the flashover point. "Tell me more about how to do my job."
Sal's expression didn't change; he used to be easier to rile. "It's not a good sign when your people aren't using the time they're due and that they've earned. Now I don't know if it's because they're all workaholics, in which case you got yourself a culture problem, Captain Han, or because they don't think they're allowed to take it. And if they don't think they're allowed then that's where I come in."
The flashover ignited. "You know, Sal," Chim said with forced geniality, "it's a shame that you never made captain. I remember you keeping us going through all those shitty captains after Gerrard. You were good at it."
"I sense a 'but' coming," Sal said, clearly amused, which only made the Chim's anger burn hotter by sucking up all the oxygen in the room.
"But you are not a captain and you are definitely not the captain of the 118." He jabbed a finger into the desk. "You do not get to come into my house and lecture me about my job and tell me how to look after my people. And if Firefighter Buckley has an issue with the way I'm running this place then he can put on his big boy pants and come talk to me instead of running to the nearest dad shaped figure to fight his battles for him. We all miss Bobby but some of us have to be the actual grown up in the room!"
Now Sal's expression changed, but instead of the self-righteous fury he remembered Sal being so good at it, Sal just seemed sad. "Howie, do you even want to be captain?"
That shocked him out of his fury. "What kind of question is that?"
"An overdue one, I'm guessing." Sal looked around the office, taking in the blank walls and the few framed photos and, more irritatingly, the ill fitting way Chim sat behind the desk. "I was surprised when I heard Hen declined the captaincy. I had her marked down for climbing the ranks ever since that night she found the car we all missed. You remember that?"
He snorted. Did he remember the night he and Hen became partners? Like he could forget how Hen metaphorically kicked their asses into being brave enough to dump Gerrard.
"I faintly recall it," he said at his most snide.
That got Sal to smile. "That's when I knew that someday I'd be calling her chief." The smile dropped away. "But then I hear she turned Simpson down. She didn't want it anymore."
"Bobby was mentoring her. She stepped up as interim captain when he was away. She was the one making the hard decisions. That's how she got on Ortiz's shit list." He scrubbed a hand down his face. "She doesn't want it like this."
"Nobody wants it like this." Sal heaved an old man sigh. "Do you know why I became a union steward?"
"Well, Sal, if I had to guess, I'm going with the fact you got an anti-authority streak a mile wide and love to fight with the brass."
"Well, you're not wrong," Sal said, a flash of wry humor. "But I was here for Gerrard. I saw what he did to Tommy. It was worse for you and Hen, I know," Sal added before Chim could rightfully protest. "He ground us down and turned us into the worse version of ourselves."
"Us?"
"Me." Sal leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. "I hate who I was under Gerrard. I hate how I treated you. I hate that my own best friend didn't feel safe to come out to me for years. I hate that it took me so long to do the right thing. I won't let another firefighter go through what we did. I will not let the brass protect more Gerrards."
"Is this your superhero origin story?" Chim said, knowing he'd crossed the line from good natured shit talking to mean bastard, but he couldn't stop. "It doesn't have the same flair as Spider-Man's origin, but, hey, at least you get the power without the responsibility."
Sal leaned back and donned a wide smile. "I'm going to do you a favor, Howie, since you're an old friend and we were in the trenches together."
"Lucky me," he said dryly. "That favor better be getting Buck to cool it on the snickerdoodle front. If I have to so much as see another cookie I'm transferring him to Alaska. I don't care how much Theo likes him."
"I'll do you one better. I'm going to tell you the same thing I told Bobby back when Firefighter Diaz almost killed a guy." Sal's smile became that of a great white shark. "I shut down the 138. I made sure there was an investigation into the culture the captain fostered and the harassment he encouraged. Every single firefighter who participated in the systematic sexual harassment was fired and denied all benefits. I oversaw the transfer of those affected firefighters to good houses with good captains. I dug and documented and uncovered every terrible, horrific thing they did, and I burned it all down and put heads on pikes and I salted the fucking earth. There will never be another Gerrard. I will not allow it, not even if it's the 118 and not even if it's your head."
"You self-righteous asshole," Chim said quietly, so furious he couldn't take a full breath. "You think you scare me? I've been dealing with people like you my entire life. I survived Gerrard. So if you want my head, Deluca, you're gonna have to fight for it."
"Howie," Sal said, not gentle because the only people Sal were gentle with was his daughter and Tommy, but kind, "do you want to be captain?"
Chim threw up his hands because the only other option was throwing a punch. "What fucking difference does it make? Hen doesn't want it. Eddie and Buck aren't anywhere near being ready to take command."
"You're not the only senior firefighter here," Sal said.
"But I am the only who fucking cares."
That was, Chim realized too late to do any good, a horrifying thing to say about the 118. It was the same thing Gerrard said every shift, the little phrase that allowed him to turn people into things: Gerrard was the only who cared about the job.
"I didn't mean that," Chim said into the asphyxiating silence.
"How did you mean it?" Sal said with what certainly sounded like genuine curiosity.
He forced himself to take a breath and then another. He brought his shoulders down a notch. "If I didn't take the badge," he said slowly, carefully feeling his way through the sentence, "then we would be stuck with whoever Simpson assigned here. We wouldn't get another Gerrard. I know you won't let that happen." He wasn't even annoyed with the way Sal tipped his head in faux modesty. "But we had a lot of captains between Gerrard and Bobby. You remember what they were like, right? They weren't bad captains but they—”
"Didn't give a shit," Sal said. "I remember."
The exhaustion ate away the last of the anger. "I don't want to get some guy who doesn't care about this place or about family dinner or about us." God, he was so tired. "We're Bobby's legacy and that matters."
Sal nodded thoughtfully and said, "I gotta ask one more time. Howie, do you want to be captain?"
"You're killing me, Smalls," Chim groaned. "Why do you keep asking that? Are you actually gunning for my job?"
"I'm asking because what it sounds like to me is that you took this job because no one else would and you were afraid the station would get saddled with a--"
"Mook?" he suggested.
Sal flashed a smile. "Yeah, with another fucking mook." The smile faded. "But you didn’t want this job, not like how Hen did and how Buckley does. And I think you resent the hell out of everyone for not stepping up and forcing you to do it, and I think that’s eating away at you.”
"I don't," he protested. "I'm not saying I would have chosen this if it weren't for everything, but I don't resent them for it. I'm doing this for them and for Bobby. We're a family."
Sal looked at him like Chim was an unstable building and Sal was trying to figure out the safest way to evacuate everyone inside. And then, with devastating precision, he asked, "And when was the last time you had family dinner?"
"Last shift," he said automatically, and then: "Wait, we had that call and Buck didn't get a chance to cook when we got back. So the shift before that. Or on Sunday. One of those days."
“You don’t seem sure about that.”
Chim opened his mouth to tell Sal to stop harassing him in his own station, but Sal had the audacity to be right: he wasn’t sure the last time they all sat down to dinner together. Buck had taken over cooking duties, but dinner was served buffet style with everything laid out so the rest of them could come and eat when they wanted to. It wasn’t like they were all retreating to their separate corners—people tended to cluster around the tv, on the couch, at the table, or leaning against counters because they were all raised in a barn—but they weren’t eating together, not like they before. Chim closed his mouth.
“Yeah,” Sal said, almost sympathetic. “This is your house now and you’re not handling it well.”
“So,” Chim said cheerfully, “this is the part where I tell you to get the hell out of my house.”
“This is what I’ve observed in the time I’ve been here,” Sal said, terrifyingly serious. “You have accused Firefighter Buckley of going behind your back by bringing me in, stated that he is not entitled to his full family leave per California law because he is only fostering Theo and implied that Firefighter Buckley is a child. You admitted to setting the precedence for not using PTO that the people under your command are entitled to and are resentful that Firefighter Buckley any family leave at all. You then proceeded to make several unprofessional and disparaging remarks about a firefighter under your command to another member of the LAFD. Is this you handling it well, Captain Han?”
“Let me tell you what I’ve observed,” Chim shot back, forcing his hands to lay flat against the desk. “Everything you just said exclusively pertains to how I’m treating Buck, which isn’t helping your case that he doesn’t immediately go running to you when another kid is being mean to him on the playground. My actual four year old daughter doesn’t complain as much.”
“That is a hell of a thing to say about your brother-in-law,” Sal said, “and an actionable offense as his captain.”
“Jesus Christ.” He dragged his hands down his face. “I know he’s your brother-husband, but this is still Buck we’re talking about. I’ve known him longer than you. Hell, I’m the reason you two even met.”
“You thought he was being unfairly treated and brought in an union rep to help him,” Sal said, tone heavy with meaning.
“Worst mistake of my life. Now I’m stuck dealing with both of you until one of us dies.” That was, Chim once again realized too late, too mean and too honest. “Bad joke.”
“That wasn’t a joke,” Sal said.
He gritted his teeth, and said, “I admit that was out of line. My son wouldn’t go down last night. I’m operating on about an hour of sleep.”
“The thing is, Howie, I don’t fucking care.” And there was the Sal that he knew and barely tolerated. “And those people out there, your people, don’t care either. You’re the captain. You don’t get to be tired or cranky or a goddamn asshole just because you missed some sleep. You don’t get to take out your frustration and resentment on Buckley because he’s your brother-in-law and you think that makes him a safe target. As you so aptly put it, Captain Han, you have to be the grown up in the room but all I’m seeing is a child throwing a tantrum. And my actual child knows how to behave better.”
“Tell me how you really feel, Sal,” he said, too exhausted to work up more anger. A tension headache throbbed behind his right eye. All he wanted was five goddamn minutes of quiet where someone wasn’t crying or grieving or expecting him to fix the unfixable. All he wanted was to be left alone so he could remember how to be a person again. “I’m serious. Dig deep. Lay it on me.”
“No one wakes up and makes the decision to be a hateful asshole, not even Gerrard.” Sal sounded as tired as Chim felt. “We give ourself little permissions every day. Your kid kept you up last night so that gives you permission to disparage Buckley in front of his coworkers. You didn’t take your full family leave so no one else should either. You care more about this job than anyone else, which means you can treat them however you want.”
Chim winced. “I get it, okay? I’m being a real asshole.”
“You don’t actually get it,” Sal said, and Chim had never seen him look so sad, not when Tommy was in the hospital and not even when he got himself fired. “I told you I’m here as a courtesy since we’re old friends. What’s happening here, all these little permissions and excuses you give yourself, this is how you get a Vincent Gerrard.”
“And you won’t let that happen again,” Chim said through a mouth gone sick and sour with shame.
“I never liked Nash, but I liked what he did for his place and what he did for you. I don’t want to have to salt the 118’s earth, but I will if I have to.” Sal stood. He wasn’t the biggest guy Chim knew—that honor went to his brothers-in-law—but had a talent for for filling the room, and right now there was no space left for him. “You saved Tommy’s life, and I am forever grateful for that, but I won’t protect you if you keep going down this road. The next time I com here, it will be in an official capacity.”
“Good talk, Sal,” Chim said, unable to summon up even the thinnest sarcasm. “My favorite part was the explicit threat at the end.”
Sal flashed that shark smile. “Don’t be dramatic. You’ll know when I’m threatening you.” The smile softened into something approaching genuine affection. “If you going to do this, Howie, you gotta do it right. And you don’t have to do it at all if you don’t want to. You can step down.”
“That will be all, Firefighter Deluca,” Chim said.
“Good to see you, Captain Han.” Sal nodded at him and then finally got the hell out of Chim’s house.
Chim got a full four minutes of quiet before the bell went off and then another minute before Hen shouted, “We gotta go, Cap!”
There was no time to be a person. Captain Han got up and went to work.
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I pretend to be complex and clever but in reality, nothing has ever made me laugh harder than those bad Chinese subtitles from the bootleg Lord of the Rings DVDs. Tears streaming down my face, core aching, slowly suffocating because I’m laughing too hard.
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