For @bucktommyfluffebruary, Day 13 - Outsider POV.
Los Angeles - February 2017
Melton isn't sure what to make of the new guy when he finally starts at Harbor. Captain assures him Thomas Kinard is a veteran firefighter with ample flight experience. The interview before the transfer had gone exceptionally well, and Captain admits that she'd been hoping to see the transfer request on her desk sooner rather than later when she'd first heard Kinard was looking to jump ship. Captain is usually a good judge of character.
Even so, Melton is skeptical, because he's heard Kinard has been around since the early 2000s, and everyone and their brother knows what kind of bigoted station the 118 had been back then. Even if Kinard hadn't been part of the problem, you most assuredly had to be a certain type of yes man to survive that ind of environment, and that was almost as bad.
Captain has set up a pretty good team, and Melton's resistant to any kind of change. He doesn't want to have to deal with the kind of bullshit machismo that veteran firefighter and former army pilot might be coming through with.
Kinard is different than he imagined, though. Melton is willing to admit that much. Sure, the man is towering in his bulk, but where Melton was expecting brash, loud, and arogant, he's getting respectful, insightful, and surprisingly funny.
Tommy follows instruction to a T, will wait patiently hand hang back to watch other's get the glory, and is quick to jump in and assist whenever possible. He's a wealth of knowledge regarding engine maintenance which is going to come in handly, and he's got a dry sense of humour thast sneaks up on you. He's so quick with a sarcastic quip that at times Melton almost doesn't realize the joke until the moment's passed. It's never at anyone's expense, though, making Kinard the kind of man who only punches up.
What really stands out, though, is the first time Melton is up in a bird with Tommy. There's a quiet competence to him, but mostly Melton just gets the sense that Thomas Kinard was born to fly. He never seems as alive as when he's up in the air.
It's not all perfect, though. For all that Kinard seems happy to joke around and chat with the crew, he says very little about himself. Beyond a love of craft beer and an uncanny knowledge of movie quotes, Melton hasn't learned anything about their newest addition.
He also seems to carry around with him an air of melencholy that Melton can't quite place. For all that he seems truly thrilled to be at Harbor now, Melton can't help but feel like Tommy is missing something.
He's sitting outside the hangar, contemplating what he wants to do to get Kinard to start to open up when an airport taxi pulls up and out pops a tower of a young kid with badly dyed hair that is clearly growing out. He grabs two large duffle bags from the trunk of the taxi, slings them over his shoulder with little effort before slapping the bag on the trunk and watching it drive away
The kid is stupidly tanned, and looking around the station curiously.
"I think you might have the wrong airport," Melton calls out to him helpfully.
"Oh!" The kid calls out, looking startled. "I'm looking for Tommy?"
"Tommy?" Melton mouths, not sure who the kid is talking about, still half convinced the kid has shown up at the wrong spot.
"Tommy Kinard?" the kid tries again, looking uncertain. "He just started here, and I thought he was on shift today. Did I get it wrong?"
Melton looks back in the hangar and yells, "Kinard! You've got a visitor!"
There's the sound of a clunk and tools clattering on the concrete floor. It's definitely Kinard that swears, and O'Reilly telling him to leave it.
Kinard steps out of the hangar into the sunlight, looking down at his feet and rubbing the back of his head like he's clocked himself pretty hard. "They say who itâŚ"
Cutting off, Kinard catches sight of who's waiting for him, and his whole demeanor changes. "Evan!"
Kinard's whole face is taken over by his smile, corners of his eyes crinkling, forehead wrinkling, looking for all the world like a brand new man.
The kid drops his bags on the ground and all but leaps at Kinard. He's caught in strong, sure arms, and Kinard all but spins him around and kisses the life out of him.
If Melton was less of a voyeur he'd look away, but this is the best entertainment he's had all day. Who knew their stoic, reticent colleague was hiding a secret lover in his storied past.
It suddenly shed a lot more light on Kinard's time under Captain Gerrard, and made Melton feel a little empathy towards him for what that must have been like.
When Kinard and the kid finally pull apart, Melton gives them a wolf whistle to remind them they have an audience. They both looked over sheepishly, but Tommy wraps his arm around Evan's waist and guides him over to where Melton is sitting.
"Melton," Kinard says by way of introduction. He's clearly over the moon about being able to introduce his man, but there's nerves there, too, like he's not used to introducing a male partner. "This is Evan, myâŚ"
Trailing off, Kinard shares a look with Evan, and raises an eyebrow. Evan nods in response, barely contained glee in his smile.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
[Begin Voicemail Transcript] Okay I guess this is how we're doing this. I'm sorry about Hen. I hope everything's okay. I'm more worried about you though.
Evan. They're your family what do you mean they didn't ask how you were? Not once? [Laugh] Wait no on second thought I see it. Fuck they really only keep you around when you're useful huh? Thought it was just me but they're doing it to you too. Wow.
Iâm sorry I wasn't there for you. You⌠[Sigh] I knew you weren't doing well but I thought you had them so I didn't push. I thought⌠You said you didn't have feelings [inaudible]. I thought I was the last person you wanted to hear from. Fuck. [inaudible] . . .
I shouldn't have said that about Eddie. You're not the only one who gets jealous. Just instead of maiming my best friend about it it looks like I maim you about it. Or maybe I maim myself about it I don't know. You have all this history and not romantically but you do love him and I thought you didn't love me since I was just⌠I was just your trial boyfriend.
Did it even help though me being your first boyfriend? Was I sheltering you or something? I know you're an adult I don't mean you couldn't make your own decisions but did I make it worse? Dating isn't easy and being queer isn't always easy trust me I know and I'm not saying I know exactly what you're going through because it is different for us but⌠But I'm sorry if I made it worse. I wanted you to be happy that's all I wanted was to see you smile becauseâŚ
Because I love you Evan. [Laugh] And the only reason I was ever worried about you breaking my heart is because you have it. It's yours. You're not too much. You're all I've ever wanted. . . . Fuck I wish I wasn't doing this over the phone. Can you call me please? Or just come over. Please. [End Voicemail Transcript]
dissociative/dpdr!buck below the cut. angst. ill-advised operation of a motor vehicle but it turns out ok.
buck realizes, when heâs pulling up to the curb outside athenaâs place to drop off maddie and chim and eddie, that maybe he shouldnât have been drivingâif these are even his hands on the steering wheel.
when he tells them all good night, it sounds like someone else is speaking. he can feel the vibrations of his voice in his chest, his throat, his mouth, and he must say the right thing because no one looks at him weird, but he canât help but wonder if, instead of a man, heâs an inanimate speaker, and always has been, and everyoneâs just been too polite to say anything to him about it.
this isnât the first time heâs felt like this, like he should know that heâs real, but it feels like heâs watching his life happen to someone else, like his life is a movie, like heâs a robot trapped on the inside of a bag of meat, like if he tries hard enough heâll wake up and realize none of this really happened, and the realness can finally begin.
the thing is, he used to be able to text bobby when it happened, for a dose of reality, and now he canât, and thatâs the problem.
if he says anything about it, itâll be, oh, buckâs making everything about himself again, or, buckâs having a mental break and should be fired from his job (and lose his health insurance) without a second thought. because thatâs what chim said tonight, wasnât it? if buck had a problem that affected his work, no questions asked, fired. orâwould it be because he didnât speak up about it the first time it happened, because anything past that would be lying?
nobody asked me, hen had asserted. nobody checked in after bobby died, because everyone was in their own bubbles, and she didnât want to add to anyoneâs grief. butâbuck is pretty sure that wasnât true. he remembers checking in with everyone, trying to get a read on what they might need.
because bobby had said they were going to need buck.
butâwhat if he hadnât, actually? what if heâd just thought he had? what if heâd dreamed it? heâs pretty sure it was real, but what if it wasnât? her words could have been his words. was she wrong, or has he totally misremembered the past year?
he probably shouldnât drive the rest of the way home like this. he should probably leave his truck here and get an uber. but that would only lead to more questions, that might result in him being fired, and he canâtâ
he canât text bobby, so he does the next best thing, which is to put on the greatest hits of springsteen, and roll his windows down to let in some freshâas fresh as it can get in LAâair, and head toward a drive-thru for a root beer and some fries.
â â
he makes it home. he showers and brushes his teeth and tries not to think about how uncomfortable it is to look himself in the face in the mirror. who is this man. he locks up the house for the night and burrows into his sweatshirt and finally feels like heâs not going to shake apart by looking for answers.
he takes in a deep breath, then lets it out.
his text chain with ravi is probably the safest to start. ravi wasnât there tonight, heâs on vacation, so it feels like a more neutral place to start. buck scrolls back, back, back some more untilâthere.
ravi hadnât really taken buck up on his repeated offers to talk about it, but just as buck remembered doing, there it is, in print: asking how raviâs doing, how heâs feeling, if he needs anything, offering support. buck doesnât really get why ravi wouldnât talk to him about itâafter all, why not talk to someone who was there, who understands?âbut the guyâs work/life boundaries are pretty ironclad, so maybe thatâs just part of it.
chim, athena, maddie, may, harry, even karen: itâs the same story. for the most part, he didnât get much in the way of nibbles on the line, but he tried. at least he got bachelor mondays with may and harry out of it.
he sees the letters and words on the screen and they all make sense. they look real. and that wouldnât be true if this was a dream, right? if this wasnât real?
he feels a surge of trepidation as he stares down the threads he has with eddie and hen, the two people who have made him doubt his perception of reality about this. eddie was mad, back in the spring, that buck didnât specifically ask how it felt to get the phone call about bobbyâbut if that was bothering eddie, how that felt, then why didnât he just mention it when buck asked how he was doing, if he wanted to talk about anything?
and hen, who buck had trusted countless times over the years for her honesty and understanding, had obviously lost patience every time she saw buck coming to ask her how she was doing, every time she replied to one of his texts. how does she get away with telling him, buck, you need to stop, then being angry that he took her at her word and stopped? was he supposed to violate the boundary she set? andâhow is he supposed to know, if someone is telling him the opposite of what they want?
how is he supposed to know whatâs real and what isnât, if the information he has to process isnât true? if everything is the opposite of what it appears? people care, but will take away your job without a second thought? people get mad at you for asking how theyâre doing, then say that you never asked in the first place? people say theyâre your best friend, your family, but donât seem to actually like anything about you?
buck burrows further into his blankets and crams his pillow around his ears and wishes, truly, that this is just another coma dream.
but: he canât deny that itâs night, right now.
Hen literally snapped at Buck for asking how she was and bitched about it and laughed at him for being too much
What wrong Chim did She was literally unable to do her job and ok i get it he shouldn't have fired her in hospital but he apologized and she's asking for comeback and work like no this isn't how it works
Man my poor Buck his face when hen outburst ahhh broke me
If you are open enough for people you'd notice what they do for you miss Hen
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
Summary: Controlled Burn Au: In another universe, Evan Buckley and Tommy Kinard meet in a war zone oneâs a reckless SEAL, the other a ritual-bound pilot. As missions blur together, habits turn into lifelines and choices into fractures, until survival means deciding what matters more: orders, or each other.
Rotor wash came off the strip like a blast furnace, flinging grit into eyes and teeth and the folds of every goddamn uniform. Tommy Kinard stood at the edge of the flight line with a clipboard tucked tight to his ribs, headset clamped to his skull, sealing the world down to engine whine and his own pulse. His right hand dropped automatically to the thigh seam of his flight suit, running it once, twice. Habit. Superstition. The little ritual that steadied him before every lift.
Behind him the MH-60 squatted on its skids, blades already in a blur, ready to run. The turbines whined higher, a living thing straining at it's leash. Tommy didnât glance back. He knew the machineâs moods the way other men knew their own heartbeat.
What he did look at, because he always did, was the team crossing the tarmac toward him.
They came in loose formation, practiced without needing practice. Torres at the center, every step measured, eyes flicking once across his men like a silent roll call. Hawk with that eerie stillness, scanning angles even when there was nothing to shoot. Mace chewing a toothpick that looked carved into his teeth, his scowl a permanent accessory. Rook bringing up the rear, already tapping at some piece of tech strapped to his wrist, muttering numbers to Hawk, who shoved him without breaking stride.
And then there was Buckley.
Not at the front, not tucked behind cover. On the edge, like he wanted the space to bounce on the balls of his feet, chute bag slung lazy, grin too bright for the heat. He spun his dog tags in a loop that clicked against the chain, a boyish tic that shouldâve belonged anywhere but here.
âBird looks tight, Ghost,â Buckley called, voice cutting through turbine scream as if volume had never been a problem for him. âFingers crossed you can keep up.â
Cocky. Too pretty. Too fucking young.
Tommy slid his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, slow enough to make it an insult. Let the kid see the flat, predator stillness in his eyes. âBirdâs not the one Iâm worried about falling out of the sky,â he said, pitched low for the crew chief on intercom.
The rookie didnât blink. He flashed two fingers in a lazy salute, insolent as hell.
âEasy, Buck,â Mace drawled, voice carrying over the engines. âDonât piss off the man with the keys to our ride. Again.â
âWhatâs the matter, Mace?â Rook chimed in without looking up from his screen. âScared heâll finally leave your charming ass behind?â
Hawk clapped a hand to Rookâs shoulder, steering him toward the ramp. âFocus, children.â His eyes met Tommyâs, assessing. He gave a nod before he followed his team aboard.
The crew chiefâs voice crackled in Tommyâs ear. âThe blond? Thatâs the rookie?â
âLooks like it.â Tommyâs gaze lingered as the SEALs flowed up the ramp around him. The kidâs energy bled into the team like voltage, sparking off all of them, and none seemed to mind. Dangerous.
He didnât add what they were both thinking: rookies got good men killed.
The bird lifted clean, nose tipping into the wind. Tommy felt the thrum in his teeth, the cyclic talking in his hand like it always did, every vibration a word only he understood. He tucked them low over the valley, nap of the earth, no lights. The air was clean at this altitude, cool rushing through open doors, turbine scream steady in his bones.
In the back, the team shifted into silence. Hawk bent to murmur in Rookâs ear, one last reminder. Mace rolled his shoulders before pointing out the bird. Torres stood easy, right hand loose, calm as stone. And Buckley sat on the edge of the bench, his tags spinning in a lazy circle around his finger before dropping them around his neck. A grin still on his face like he hadnât learned yet that grinning was a thing men stop doing in-country.
Tommy told himself he didnât care. He kept his eyes forward, followed the valleyâs curve, felt the rotor disk cut the air clean.
âTwo-zero out,â he called when the skids kissed dirt. Perfect set-down, smooth as silk. He almost smiled.
The ramp dropped. The team spilled from his bird, dark shapes swallowed by darker ground. In the ghostly green of his NVGs, he tracked them. Hawk and Mace peeling left, Rookâs smaller form tucked tight behind, Torres a solid shadow in the center. And then Buckley, already sliding wide, a restless blur that made Tommyâs jaw tighten. Stay in formation, damn it.
Tommy eased the cyclic back, lifting the nose, tucking the bird behind a spine of rock that painted a jagged line across his goggles. His left hand hovered over the collective, ready to slam power if Torresâs calm voice called for it.
The first gun crack shattered the silence, sharp as a whip right next to his ear. Then three more. Then the stuttering chatter of belt-fed fire, a sound that felt like teeth grinding on metal.
âContact, roof, three oâclock.â Hawkâs voice was a flat, calm line in his headset, a direct contrast to the chaos outside.
âMoving left flank,â Mace snapped, and Tommy saw the corresponding shift of shadows in his limited field of view.
Then a curse, tight and breathless, ripped through the comms. Maceâs voice. âRookâs down! Leg⌠fuck, itâs bad, really fuckinâ bad.â
No.
âSay again?â Tommy barked into the mic, a reflex, a useless hope against the static-laced report.
As if in answer, rounds walked across the ridge directly above the canopy. He flinched as rock splinters ticked against the Plexiglas. Too close. He nudged the cyclic, shifting the bird two feet right, feeling the rotor disk bite into new air, buying a sliver of an angle.
Then a different voice, sharp and cutting through the panic. That voice. âIâve got him! Hawk, cover!â
Tommyâs gut clenched. Buckley. Of course. The swagger in the tone was unmistakable even through the distortion.
âYou break my formation, I swear to God,â Tommy hissed to the empty cockpit, and shoved the nose forward, exposing them.
His world narrowed to the green circle of his goggles. Muzzle flashes bloomed like toxic flowers. In the swirling dust, two figures broke cover. One was a limp weight. The other was Buckley, hauling Rookâs arm over his shoulder, stumbling across open dirt. Fire kicked up around their boots, each impact a punctuation mark to Tommyâs hammering heart.
âSuppressing!â Hawk barked, rifle snapping like punctuation.
âKeep moving, Buck!â Maceâs voice, raw with quiet panic.
Tommy dumped collective, slammed steel into dirt. The skids bounced once. The crew chief leaned half out, braced against the door frame, arms reaching.
Buckley shoved Rook forward with a shout. âTake him!â
Hands grabbed. Rook vanished into the dark belly of the bird. Buck did not hesitate. He vaulted for the skid, a round sparking off the rail by his boot. He swung up, boots thudding inside just as Tommy yanked them clear, rotors clawing air.
The valley blurred past in streaks of shadow and firelight. Door gun raked the ridge, brass spitting in long arcs. The crew chief yelled something, half lost under the roar.
âAll accounted for,â Hawk clipped, cool as if they hadnât just dragged one of their own out of hell.
Mace was cursing like prayer. Rook screamed once, cut short when someone pressed gauze deep.
Under it, Tommy heard Buckleyâs voice, low and steady, bent close to his teammate. âHey, look at me, Leo. Youâre fine. Youâre fine. Just a scratch. Weâve got you. Youâre fine.â
The words crawled under Tommyâs skin and stayed there.
Back on the strip, wheels kissed and rolled. Medics swarmed, pulling Rook out first, their voices clipped. The rest of the team spilled around, forming a loose perimeter of presence more than protection, eyes sharp while they watched their brother disappear toward triage.
Buckley staggered down last, blood streaking his forearm where a round had barely grazed him, shirt torn and blackened with smoke. He brushed off the first medic who tried to pull him aside, shoved Rookâs pack into their hands, then ripped tape with his teeth and started binding his own arm like pain was just background noise.
Tommy found himself walking toward him before his brain caught up.
âYou donât pull that shit on my aircraft,â he said, voice low, flat. No hello. No how bad.
Buckley didnât look up from his arm. âNext time Iâll let him bleed out neat so your approach looks pretty.â
Mace stepped past with a lit cigarette, blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth. âWas a good pull, Buck,â he said.
Buck tore another strip of tape, teeth bared. âYou donât like me,â he said, curious more than anything.
Tommy stared back. âYouâre green. And you think youâre special.â
Buck laughed. âEnlisted at seventeen. Pinned trident before I could legally buy a beer. Ask me what I think about special.â
The kid wasnât green. He was the heart of the pack, and everyone around him knew it.
And Tommy hated how much that scared him.
The hangar was half-dark, the air thick with grease and turbine exhaust, the kind of smell that never washed out of clothes. Tommy should have been in the ready room finishing paperwork, or in the chow line choking down something gray on rice. Instead, his feet carried him back to his bird.
Heâd told himself he was checking the machine. That was the line. A tail rotor panel couldâve taken a pebble, the skids mightâve bent on that slam landing. He was just making sure.
But his hands slid over rivet seams he already knew were clean, his fingers tracing metal as if the skin of the helicopter could answer questions he couldnât ask.
âYou sleep here?â
Tommy didnât turn. The voice was unmistakable, too young, too insolent, already lodged under his ribs. âYou get lost on the way to your own barracks, sailor?â
âJesus,â Buckley said, stepping into the spill of red light from the exit sign. His forearm was still bandaged, tape crooked and sloppy. He moved like the adrenaline hadnât worn off yet, all energy bleeding sideways. âAnd they say weâre the mouthy ones.â
He leaned a hip against the skid, casual as if he belonged in the shadow of Tommyâs bird. âYouâre mad because I didnât get killed.â
Red light from the exit sign bled across Buckâs face, turning the sweat on his cheekbones into war paint. He was still breathing hard, chest rising and falling like heâd sprinted the whole valley instead of two hundred meters of open dirt.
Tommy stepped in until the toes of their boots almost touched. Close enough to smell cordite in Buckâs hair, copper on his breath.
âIâm mad,â Tommy said, voice low enough the turbines outside couldnât steal it, âbecause you turned a clean exfil into a fucking circus.â The words came out sharper than intended, barbed with something that had nothing to do with procedure. âYour job is to get to the LZ. My job is to have the bird ready to fly. You go rogue, you make my bird a stationary target. You get my crew killed for an unnecessary risk.â
Buckâs chin came up. The grin was still there, but it had teeth now. âUnnecessary?â He laughed short and ugly. âThat was my teammate.â
âAnd Iâm the one who brings the whole team home,â Tommy shot back, stepping closer. His pulse was too loud in his ears. âNot just the one you are carrying. You risked all of it. So, donât. Donât make my choice about who gets left behind.â
For the first time all day, Buckâs expression shifted. The grin fell away, replaced by something harder, darker. âI donât leave my team.â
âNeither do I.â Tommy hadnât meant to confess it.
He took a step back.
The silence that followed wasnât empty. It was thick, charged, the hum of turbine blades left in the walls. Somewhere outside, a door slammed, boots crunching gravel. Inside the hangar, just the two of them and a machine that had already kept their secrets.
âYou think Iâm green,â Buck said finally, eyes steady, chin tilted. âYou look at my face and see a body bag waiting to happen.â
Tommyâs jaw worked. He didnât confirm it. He didnât have to.
âRookâs gonna keep his leg,â Buck went on. âSays he owes me a beer. Mace says I owe him one for scaring the shit out of him.â
Tommy should have ended it there. Should have shoved him out the door, walked away, rebuilt the wall brick by brick. Instead, he stepped forward again. Close enough that the kidâs grin came back, daring and dangerous.
Tommy slammed his hand against the bulkhead an inch from Buckâs head.
âStay off my deck if you canât follow orders,â Tommy said, voice low and stripped of pretense. âYou pull that cowboy shit again, I willâŚâ
âDo what?â Buck cut in, climbing the words like a ladder. His mouth curved, reckless. âYell at me? Write me up, Captain? Leave me out there so your approach stays clean?â
Tommyâs throat went dry. His pulse was a drumline under his skin. âDrag you in by your goddamn collar myself and end your fucking career myself.â
âSo goddamn dramatic, Ghost,â Buck murmured.
The last inch vanished.
Their mouths hit like a collision, brutal, uncalculated. Teeth, heat, a groan ripped from deep in Tommyâs chest before pride could choke it down. Buck caught the front of his flight suit and yanked, answering with the same ferocity, biting his lower lip until they both tasted copper.
It wasnât a kiss, not really. It was violence, desperation disguised as anger. Tommy shoved him against the bulkhead, metal rattling. Buck arched into him, meeting force with force, like heâd been waiting for this.
Hands landed hard on hip, ribs, throat, mapping territory, claiming without promise. Tommyâs body knew the rhythm before his brain did. This was the fight they hadnât finished on the strip. This was the war they werenât allowed to wage anywhere else.
When Tommy finally tore back, both of them were breathing like theyâd sprinted a mile. His hand still fisted in Buckâs shirt, his mouth swollen, blood on both their tongues.
âGet the fuck out,â Tommy rasped.
Buckâs eyes flicked over his face, searching, before he rocked back on his heels, he straightened Tommy's collar with one hand, then stepped back and threw up that same insolent two-finger salute.
âSee ya in the morning, Ghost.â
He pushed off the skid and walked out into the night, leaving footprints of dust across the hangar floor.
Tommy stayed frozen where he was. He told himself it was nothing, just stress, heat, a pressure valve blowing.
It would never happen again.
His hand slid down the seam of his flight suit. Once. Twice. The ritual betrayed him.
Months stacked like sandbags, each one indistinguishable from the last except for the tally marks carved into helmets, the scars deepening in skin, and the way the rituals rooted until they felt like laws of nature.
Tommy ran his hand down the seam of his flight suit, once, twice, before every lift. And Buck? Buck slapped the fuselage twice on his way up the ramp, a casual thump thump that settled in Tommyâs chest like a second heartbeat. It started as cocky habit. By month two, it was code. Tommy realized his body wasnât relaxing until he heard it.
They got a new body on rotation at the start of the third month. Not a kid fresh from BUD/S, which was what Tommy expected, but a stocky man in his thirties with close-cropped hair and the kind of nervous energy you saw in people whoâd been good at something else before the Navy turned them into something new.
âToto,â he introduced himself to the team, extending a hand that hovered a second too long in the space between offering and apologizing. âNameâs Anthony Totorelli. But everyone calls meâŚâ
Mace snorted. âNo relation to the Captain, thank Christ.â
Toto flushed, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. âRight. Yeah. Toto is fine.â
He stood a little too straight, boots too clean, pack straps tightened like heâd cinched them using a checklist. Older, yes. But green as desert grass.
Buck eyeballed him, head tilted like he was reading a manual only he could see. Then Buck stepped forward, bumped his shoulder lightly against Totoâs.
âYou stick near me,â Buck said, easy. âHawkâs the quiet sniper, Mace bites, and Rook talked too much until he stopped being here to talk. Iâm the fun one.â
Tommy felt the words hit the group like a small stone dropped into a still pond.
Toto was still processing the last sentence when Buck flashed that grin, too bright for a war zone, the one that made men overlook how dangerous he really was.
âFun is relative,â Hawk muttered.
Buck pointed at Totoâs overstuffed pack. âFirst lesson. Drop the weight. Youâre carrying half a CVS in there. You wonât need it.â
âI thoughtâŚâ Toto began.
âThinking is good.â Buck squeezed his shoulder. âOverthinking gets you killed. Come on.â
He stripped Totoâs pack apart in thirty seconds flat, tossing out duplicate bandages, an unnecessary second canteen, and at least three items nobody could identify.
Mace held up a sealed shrink-wrapped blister pack. âWhy the hell do you have foot warmers?â
Toto flushed again. âSomeone online said they help circulation in high-altitude jumps.â
Buck laughed. âBrother, weâre not going skiing. Keep one. Toss the rest.â
Tommy watched all of it, arms crossed. Buck wasnât supposed to be the one training the rookie. That was Torresâs job, or Hawkâs, or anyone with rank older than a decade. Not the loud dirty blond who bounced between brilliance and recklessness.
But Toto followed Buck across the tarmac anyway, footsteps syncing to Buckâs rhythm almost immediately. And when Buck smacked the fuselage twice before hopping up the ramp that night, Toto hesitated, looked at Buck, then did the same.
Thump. Thump.
The sound echoed strangely in Tommyâs chest.
The team leaned into it too. Hawk, deadpan: âCadence good. Weâre live.â Mace grumbled about âidiot superstitionsâ even as he tapped his own rifle stock in time. Even Torres, who never indulged in nonsense, allowed the rhythm to exist unchallenged. Toto picked it up instinctively, falling in step behind Buck like the sound meant safety.
It became their good luck. Their way home.
Tommy and Buck clashed still. That never went away. Buck would swagger in with a grin too big for the dirt on his boots, and Tommy would shut him down cold with one look. Theyâd bicker over nothing, how fast a turn in should be, who was crowding the ramp, the definition of âcover fire.â
But the edge dulled. The arguments slid into banter, a rhythm of their own.
Buck needled, Tommy growled back, and somewhere in the middle a truce lived.
By the fifth month, Tommy caught himself looking forward to it. The kidâs grin was too bright for a war zone, but it lit something in the team, and God help him, it steadied something in Tommy too.
The break did not come all at once. It came after too many nights of watching Buck lean into the team like he was their center of gravity. After too many ops where Tommy swore he felt Buckâs presence even through steel and rotor wash. After too many mornings where the fuselage slapped twice and his pulse settled because of it.
It came after a long night op that turned into a fourteen-hour clusterfuck. Ambush in a valley, too many civilians, too little intel. The kind of mission that left everyone streaked with grime and vibrating from the effort of not dying.
Back at base, the team dispersed. Hawk muttered something about showers. Mace hunted cigarettes. Toto limped off toward his bunk to crash. Torres disappeared like smoke.
Buck peeled away too, not toward the barracks, but to the far edge of camp. Tommy saw it from the corner of his eye, the tilt of blond head under low light, the dog tags spinning restless around his finger. He shouldnât have followed.
He did anyway.
The clerkâs tent was half-forgotten, canvas sagging, cot shoved against one wall. It smelled of dust, paper, and sweat. Buck sat on the edge, boots still on, spinning his tags like the metal could hypnotize him. He looked up when Tommy filled the doorway, blue eyes rimmed red.
âTorres has me sleep out here,â Buck grunted, âso he doesnât have to report the nightmares.â
Tommyâs gut twisted. He didnât answer. He stepped inside, the flap falling closed behind him.
Tommy shouldâve left. He didnât. He crossed the space in three strides. âYouâre too damn young to be this broken.â
Buckâs mouth curved into something smaller, darker. âBeen broken long before I ever was a frogman.â
The words werenât defensive nor were they dramatic. They were plain and offered without flinch.
Something in Tommy went still.
âWho did that to you?â he asked. It came out low, scraped from a place deeper than anger.
Buck gave a breath of a laugh, sharp and empty. âDoes it matter? I enlisted at seventeen. The Navy just put better names on the damage.â
His dog tags spun once around his finger. Tommy recognized the motion for what it was, a tic, a self soothing ritual.
âYou think whatâs out there is the worst Iâve seen?â Buck nodded toward the desert, the gunfire, all of it. âWarâs predictable. Makes more sense than home ever did.â
Tommy stepped closer without meaning to. âAnd what doesnât make sense?â
Buck met his eyes. Tired. Older than he should have been. âBeing safe,â he said softly. âThatâs the part I never figured out.â
âYouâre not supposed to be afraid of dying,â Tommy murmured. âBut you are supposed to want to live.â
Buckâs eyes lifted to his, blue, so fucking blue. âTell me how.â The words werenât a challenge. They were a plea.
Tommyâs hand hit the pillow beside Buckâs head, caging him in.
âYou donât run straight into gunfire,â Tommy grunted roughly. âYou donât haul every wounded man across open dirt like youâre invincible. You donâtâŚâ The last words chipped loose from the pit of desperation in his chest. âYou donât throw yourself away just because nobody taught you youâre not disposable.â
Buck swallowed, his breath catching. The room felt too small, the air too tight, the space between them charged like the second before a trigger pull.
Buckâs breath stuttered, shallow and unsure, like he was standing on the edge of something he had never been shown how to survive.
âTommy?"
That was all it took.
Tommy leaned in until their foreheads brushed. Buck tilted up to meet him like it was instinct.
Their mouths locked together, tongue and heat and the sharp taste of need. Buck fisted Tommyâs flight suit, yanking him closer, Tommyâs pulse hammered in his ears as his hand slid from the pillow to Buckâs jaw, grip rough, thumb dragging over stubble and sweat.
Buck arched into him, hungry, answering force with force until the two of them were breathing in the same ragged rhythm.
âYou donât know what you want.â
âI know what I need.â Buck leaned up so close the tags brushed Tommyâs chest. His voice dropped. âYou⌠you keep my head quiet. Thatâs enough.â
Tommyâs growled, eyes narrowing. âYou made me choose between you and the rest of them. Donât ever do that again.â
âYou think Iâm reckless. You think Iâm some kid with a death wish.â
âArenât you?â
âNo.â Buck leaned up, catching his mouth again. Tommy yanked his zipper down. Buck laughed breathless, then choked on it when Tommyâs teeth marked his shoulder. âFuck,â he gasped, muffling it against his fist. âFuck, yesâŚâ
âShut up,â Tommy growled, twisting Buck onto his stomach. He reached for the squat jar on the floor. Vaseline. Not meant for this. Used for this anyway. He slicked his fingers, pressed past heat until Buck shuddered, fists white-knuckled on the frame.
It wasnât gentle. It wasnât kind. It was need, rhythm pounded out like survival. Tommy pressed in slow enough not to break him, then drove hard, the cot rattling against the dirt floor. Buck met him every thrust, sweat streaking grime, Tommy's dog tags ticking between them like a fucked up metronome.
When Buck came, it was with his teeth sunk in his pillow, Tommyâs name torn from his throat. When Tommy followed, he swore into Buckâs nape, arms shaking with the effort of not crushing him.
Buck rolled onto his side, ankle tangled with Tommyâs. He was asleep before Tommy even caught his breath, body surrendering the way it never did.
Tommy stared at him in the dim light, chest heaving. The kidâs face, slack in sleep, looked too damn young. His finger traced the ink of the trident on Buckâs skin. He saw not a soldier, but a boy who had spent every year of his adult life in sand and blood and fire.
Tommy realized with a hollow, gut-deep certainty that Buck hadnât needed the fight, the sex, the burn. Heâd needed this. Something solid pressed against his chaos until the noise shut up.
Tommy lay awake under that truth, mouth still tasting like blood and Buck, every nerve buzzing with what he shouldnât want. He told himself it was the first and the last. That heâd draw the line again in the morning, build the wall back.
But his hand slid down his flight suit seam once, twice, because he knew better.
He was already the line the kid was tying himself to. And God help him, he wasnât going to cut the rope.
Idk how to bookmark it so I'm just quoting it I won't lose it also it's 3am bathroom trip I'm just taking a walk on Tumblr after with one eye open đ I shall go back to sleep and read all the 3 parts in morning hopefully
I'd love that like if I have a silver of chance that someone i know irl watching it I'd go talk to them I'm that obsessed like literally re reading because can't wait for Friday
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
scott and kip also have the waking up in the morning alone thinking your bf left but he's making breakfast in the kitchen to surprise you I WILL NEVER BE FREE
the only difference is scott has all the ingredients so kip didn't have to go to the corner store lol