#fic event

You can read it on AO3 (1,6k words)

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He’s been roaming Earth for over eight hundred years by now. He’s one of the oldest ones, even had a few interviews in various soul bond specialized magazines throughout the years. 

There are a few older than him, who’ve been around since the pyramids and waiting for their soulmates to appear, or reappear, while they watch their counter stays at 00 on their forearm. 

He made his peace with it after he turned two hundred years old, and now he’s just taking it as it comes. Empires and countries have risen and fell in front of him. He’s seen the worst and the best of mankind and took part in both. 

He’s been living in the United States for the past 120 years now, and he finds it pleasant enough. Staying in Los Angeles allows him to meet a lot of people, and his job helps as well.

Still, he hasn’t met the one yet. 

The one that will finally have the counter on his wrist starts; who will complete the bond that exists between soulmates, and which is celebrated and proven true by the numbers growing on their arms after they meet.

He wonders how old his soulmate will be, if he’ll be a long timer like him, hundred of years old and the cynicism that goes with it or if he’ll be a young one, maybe even one that looks like his real age instead of having stopped aging at some point while they wait to meet their one. 

He doesn’t care.

He just wants to meet them. To have his father's words be lies; that somebody could love Tommy. Because if not his soulmate, who then?

Not that he expects love at their first meeting, but if his mom could grow and love his father, somebody could grow and love him as well, right? 

And if it doesn’t work out between him and his soulmate, at least he’ll finally be able to live and complete his life and leave that cycle of living through decades after decades, centuries after centuries. Not that he’s exhausted of living per se; it has been an interesting experience, but being rejected by the person made for him and that he waited so long for would probably hurt in ways he doesn’t want to think about.

His maudlin mood is interrupted by his phone ringing as he gets ready to start his shift. He pulls it out of his pocket and sees the name on it. He taps to accept the call and answers it as he finishes zipping his flight suit.

“Hello, Howie,” he says with a smile. 

“Hey, Tommy, tell me, are you at Harbor right now?”

“I am. Shift starting in 30, why?”

He listens while Howie explains the situation at the 118: Bobby and his wife missing, Hen suspended but with a hunch and a crew in need of assistance.

“Alright, I can help,” he says.

He doesn’t hesitate. He’s owed Howie for a long time, and sure, he did help the man a few times, but there isn’t really a way to repay somebody for saving your life, or at least saving you from a very long and painful recovery. 

And Tommy has time, anyway. 

He only ever has time.

He leaves the locker-room with his cellphone in his pocket, one of his favorite recent inventions, he must admit. Pigeons, horses and trains can only go so fast. He’s very much enjoyed the modernization of humanity’s ways of communication compared to what he grew up with in 13th-century Italy.

It doesn’t take long for Howie’s car to appear and stop a few feet away from him where he’s waiting for it outside of Harbor, away from the prying eyes of his team. 

He watches as it stops and three doors open. Of course, he recognizes Howie immediately, and the man speed-walks toward him for a quick one-arm hug before the two others join them.

“Thank again, Tommy,” says Howie before pulling away. “Tommy, meet the new 118. New 118, meet the original 118,” he adds with a smile.

“Eddie Diaz,” says one, moving his hand forward and grabbing Tommy’s.

“E-Evan Buckley,” says the other one with a nod, before thrusting his hand quickly toward Tommy, as if he can’t wait to shake it.

Tommy just raises an eyebrow at the enthusiasm and shakes his hand with a smile. Both men are handsome, although the one with the birthmark over his eye has a puppy-like sparkle in his eyes that makes Tommy want to praise him, to pull him forward against his chest and see if he can have the man’s face turn as pink as his mark.

“Tommy Kinard,” he says, his eyes looking from Evan to Eddie before Howie clears his throat and Tommy realizes he was still holding Evan’s hand.

He lets go and turns around. He will not blush. Tommy is too old for it.

His cheeks heat, nonetheless.

He listens to Howie explaining the situation again, going all the way from why Hen was suspended in the first place and the whole sudden honeymoon cruise for Bobby and Athena. He hopes no one will ask him to repeat anything that is said to him right now; his mind fighting the urge to turn around and look at the two behind him. At one specifically.

He’s met attractive people before. Hell, he’s met them for centuries now, fucked a bunch, dated a few. Still, his fingers are still tingling from a hand softer than any firefighter’s should be. 

It doesn’t take them long to reach the chopper he prepared before going to wait for the 118.

“Everyone on board!” he says, sliding the back door open.

He tries to look away when Evan jumps in, bending down a bit, his pants following the curve of his ass and his thighs. He fails. But he’s better at ignoring Eddie when he gets in as well. Not that he’s not attractive, but something seems to have suddenly bewitched him to Evan. 

There is probably worse fate, he supposes.

“Try to stay quiet, and if anyone comes and asks what you’re doing…. Uh… lie?” he says lamely before sliding the door shut and going back to the hangar to wait for Hen.

She doesn’t take much longer to arrive. He’s been waiting for her while looking at the sky and watching the sun begin to set slowly. He hears her when she talks to Melton, who’s been assigned to flights’ distribution that day. And he intervenes before the man has time to poke too many holes in Hen’s story.

She’s confused by his intervention but follows him outside to the chopper and finally relaxes when she sees the rest of the 118 at the back of the chopper waving at her when he opens the door.

Tommy’s has been flying for years, decades really, since as early as he could, which in his case was almost as early as the creation of flying vehicles themselves. He very rarely did it in hurricanes, though. Let alone one so close to the high end of its category. 

But he had heard all the stories about the 118 surviving crazy stunts, and tonight it seems that their luck has rubbed off on him enough to allow them to find and land on the cruise ship. 

It takes them a while, longer than he’s comfortable with, to get the survivors out and have the support of other helicopters from Harbor and the Coast Guard. But in the end, they bring back everyone and he can enjoy Bobby and Athena’s reunion.

He watches as they embrace each other and he can’t help the way his heart squeezes at the sight. For all that he’s used to being alone, loneliness has been creeping around a lot more lately. With dating apps and reality TV about finding people’s soulmates, it feels like those not finding theirs are defective these past few years. 

He’s seen so many at Harbor finding theirs, counters starting on their arms, proudly shown to everyone.

It sometimes infuriates him how millions of people can have their bond start each year while his remains dormant. He finally looks away when he feels Evan’s hand on his shoulder; he turns toward the man and smiles at him before watching him join his captain and sees as the rest of the 118 reunite. 

The trip back to Harbor is a lot more peaceful than the trip from it, and soon the 118 separates: an ambulance for Bobby and Athena, and the rest of the 118 jump in Hen’s and Howie’s cars, leaving Tommy behind at Harbor. 

Alone again. But at least he did something good today.

And now his shift is over, and he can finally go home to sleep for the next three days.

The locker-room is empty when he goes there and pulls his clothes from his locker to change. 

He unzips and pulls his arms out of the suit to free himself, letting it drop on the ground so he can grab his pants when he sees it. There. On his arm. Where a 00 has been etched there since his birth, it now shows 7:23. 

He looks at it for so long that it reaches 7:32 before he gets his pants on.

He has found his soulmate. 

And the blue of the counter looks quite familiar. He rubs the numbers on his arm with reverence, smiling to himself before finally walking quickly to his car. 

He wonders if the members of the 118 went back to the station or left for their respective homes already.

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