Chapter Text
Buck’s been with the 118 for a little over two weeks, just long enough for Hen to start calling him “Buckaroo” and Chim to shove a cup of coffee in his hand every morning with a side-eye like he’s waiting for him to mess up. Bobby hasn’t yelled at him too much, but Buck’s been careful. He knows how to read people enough to know when he’s toeing the line.
So when Hen says, “You’re coming out with us tonight, Buckaroo,” it’s not a suggestion. Then Chim adds, “First rounds on you, probie. Oh, Tommy might swing by too.” and Buck knows there is no way out.
The bar they end up going to is loud with sticky floors, blue lights, and a jukebox caught in an endless cycle of ‘90s throwbacks. Buck downs his first whiskey sour way too fast and then another, chasing the burn with laughter at Chim’s ridiculous stories and trying to get Hen to admit she is the one who had put the picture of the golden retriever on his locker door.
It takes Buck a few seconds to notice the guy who’s walked up to their booth. Tall. Muscular. Tanned. Aviators tucked into the collar of his henley even though it’s 10 PM. Chim jumps up and claps him on the back.
“Tommy, this is Buck, the new golden retriever Bobby picked up from the academy to attempt to fill your place.”
“I’m not a dog,” Buck mutters, but Tommy’s already laughing. It’s a warm sound that settles in Buck’s chest like it belongs somewhere soft and warm, not here with the cold stale beer and harsh neon.
Tommy slides in next to him.
Buck takes a sip of his drink and glances sideways. Tommy’s close enough that Buck can smell the faint trace of cologne and something like engine oil, like he’d just stepped of a helicopter. There’s something easy about the way he slides into the booth, like he belongs right here next to Buck.
“So, Tommy, Chim said you fly?” Buck asks, trying to sound casual.
Tommy nods. “Medevac pilot. Mostly trauma runs.”
“Sounds intense.”
“It can be. But you get used to the chaos.” His eyes flick to Buck’s. “You probably know how that goes, kid.”
Buck huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. Two weeks at the 118 and I’ve already seen a guy try to deep-fry his own hand.”
Tommy winces. “Yikes.”
“It smelled worse than you’re probably imagining,” Buck says, and Tommy chuckles, low and real.
There’s a beat of quiet, just long enough for Buck to become hyper aware of how Tommy’s knee is brushing against his own beneath the table, how he hasn’t moved away.
“You settling in okay?” Tommy asks.
“I think so,” Buck says. “Still figuring everyone out. But Bobby hasn’t tried to kill me yet, so that’s something.”
Tommy’s smile softens. “He’ll warm up, especially since Hen seems to like you. She’s got a good radar for people.”
“She insisted on dropping me off the other day when my Jeep was at the mechanic,” Buck says. “Claimed it was environmental responsibility, but I think she just didn’t trust me not to wander into traffic.”
“From what I’ve heard so far, she’s probably right,” Tommy says, eyes dancing.
Buck laughs and shakes his head. He doesn’t notice how close he’s leaning until he catches himself moving even closer. There’s something about the way Tommy listens—like he’s paying attention, like it matters. Like he matters.
As his third drink is replaced with a fourth by Tommy, Buck learns more about flying medevac choppers for LAFD, which is “as cool as it sounds” and “also not the Top Gun fantasy you're picturing, kid.” Tommy calls him kid again, and Buck rolls his eyes hard enough it almost hides the blush.
By drink five, Buck is leaning into Tommy’s space even more and talking about traveling through the Caribbean by seaplane.
By drink six, Buck is feeling loose in his skin, talking fast and smiling too wide. He leans against Tommy’s side without meaning to, slurring a little as he complains about LA traffic like it personally insulted him.
“You’re not even from here, kid,” Tommy says, amused.
“Doesn’t mean I can’t hate it,” Buck replies, chin tilted, smile lopsided.
Tommy tips his beer bottle toward Buck’s chest. “You’ve got a little something right—” His thumb brushes near Buck’s collarbone, a soft suggestion Buck can feel through his shirt. “Nope, false alarm.”
Buck blinks. His heart skips for no real reason. Or maybe for a lot of little ones that he never even considered within the realm of possibilities.
“You always this friendly?” he asks, not quite meeting Tommy’s gaze.
Tommy shrugs. “I like people who don’t take themselves too seriously.”
“Well, good news for me,” Buck says, voice quiet now. “I wouldn’t know serious if it bit me in the ass.”
There’s a silence thick with something unspoken. Tommy’s eyes drop briefly to Buck’s mouth and then back up.
Buck stares at him. Tommy stares back. For a second, the bar noise fades under the sudden heat rising between them.
Eventually, Tommy says, “Come on, kid. You need air.”
Hen raises an eyebrow from across the table.
The parking lot is half-lit, half-abandoned. Buck stumbles out with a dramatic sigh and spins in a circle, arms out.
“This is great. This is perfect. Best idea ever.”
“You’re pretty drunk,” Tommy says.
“You’re pretty hot,” Buck counters.
Tommy snorts. “Jesus, kid, you are definitely drunk.”
“I’m barely buzzed and I mean it,” Buck says, stepping close. “You have this whole thing going on.” He waves his hand at Tommy.
“What thing?”
“Cocky, hot badass firefighting helicopter pilot thing.”
“I think that’s just me.”
“Exactly,” Buck says, grinning.
There’s a silence. Thick with possibility. Tommy’s eyes drop to Buck’s mouth. Buck sways forward, just a little.
“You gonna kiss me or what?” Buck asks, bold as hell, grinning. He wobbles a little and steadies himself on the side of a car.
Tommy doesn’t answer.
He just pushes Buck back gently until Buck’s spine hits cold metal — his own Jeep he realizes — and then leans in. Slow. Intentional. Just enough pressure to make Buck’s heart leap.
It’s careful at first. Thoughtful. Teasing. Curious. Like Tommy’s making sure Buck won’t regret this when he sobers up. Buck leans in, breath catching, and kisses back, sweet and slow and sincere and just a little unsteady. Like maybe he’s not as sober as he thought, or maybe Tommy’s intoxicating him more than the whiskey did.
Then Buck makes a soft sound in the back of his throat—needy, surprised—and that’s all it takes. Tommy slides a hand into his hair and kisses him harder, tilting his head, taking control like he’s done this a thousand times in a thousand cities with a thousand drunk idiots.
But this feels different. Like maybe Buck’s not just a hookup. Like maybe they’re starting something stupid.
Eventually, When Tommy finally pulls back, they’re both breathing a little harder.
“You’re trouble,” he mutters against Buck’s jaw.
“Actually, I’m Evan,” Buck whispers, pulling him back in.
Tommy huffs a laugh, then kisses him again. This time it’s firmer. More certain. One hand finds Buck’s waist, the other brushes his jaw. Buck makes a quiet, helpless sound, half-laugh, half-sigh, and pulls Tommy in by the shirt.
They kiss like the moment deserves it—like there’s something weighty in the air, something unspoken they’re trying to put off with warmth and lips and breath.
They make out like teenagers in the dark, pressed up against the truck. Tommy’s hands slide beneath Buck’s shirt, fingertips skimming warm skin. Buck hooks a leg around Tommy’s hip like he’s trying to climb him.
Tommy groans. “This is a terrible idea.”
“You’re still kissing me.”
“Yeah,” Tommy breathes, “that’s the problem. We should stop.”
Buck leans his head against the truck, eyes closed, lips parted. “Yeah. Probably.”
“You’re probably not gonna remember this.”
“Think I will,” Buck says quietly.
Tommy brushes his fingers across Buck’s cheek.
Hen and Chim eventually stumble out, mid-conversation about something Chim insists was a very controlled explosion and Hen swears almost killed them both. Buck and Tommy are still leaning near the truck, tangled up together, like they’ve just barely stepped far enough back to try to pretend nothing happened—except their kiss-stung smiles give them away.
Tommy looks back to Buck. “I think your handlers are here.”
Buck huffs a laugh. “I thought they were your friends.”
“They are,” Tommy says, smirking. “But they seem very invested in your well-being.”
“Well, I am charming,” Buck says. “And they’ve known me a whole... what, sixteen days?”
Tommy chuckles, low and warm. “Hen said that you’re an adorable menace. Chim said you'd probably climb into a dryer if dared.”
“They’re not wrong,” Buck says, grinning. “But hey, you still kissed me.”
Tommy leans in a little closer, his voice quieter now. “That might’ve been poor judgment.”
“Regret it?” Buck asks, casual on the outside, but his eyes are searching.
Tommy shakes his head. “Not even a little.”
Hen lifts an eyebrow as she approaches, catching the tail end of whatever that was. “You two good over here?”
Buck opens his mouth, but Tommy beats him to it. “Evan’s trying to convince me he’s not actually trouble.”
“That’s adorable,” Hen deadpans.
Chim raises his water bottle. “To hopeless optimism.”
Buck rolls his eyes. “You’ve known me two weeks.”
“And I’ve known Tommy ten years,” Chim says. “And I know that face. That’s his ‘metaphorically slapped in the face’ face.”
Tommy clears his throat. “Okay, well, on that note…”
Hen grins. “You leaving already? What, not sticking around for karaoke?”
Tommy backs toward his truck, smirking. “Tempting, but I’d rather not watch Chim try to hit the high note in ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ again.”
“It was one time!” Chim protests.
Tommy turns back to Buck before he goes. “Call me when you’re sober, Evan.”
Buck’s grin softens. “What if I text you instead?”
Tommy smirks, “I’ll need photographic proof it’s you.”
Buck raises a brow, tilts his head. “Shirt on or off?”
Tommy’s eyes flick down, then back up. “Dealer’s choice. Just make sure I know what I’m missing.”
Buck lets out a breathless laugh, flushed now for a different reason entirely, watches Tommy walk to his truck, lips tingling, brain short-circuiting, and knows—without a doubt—he’s absolutely texting him tonight.
Hen waits until he’s fully out of sight.
“So,” she says, dragging the word out like it’s been marinating in judgment.
“So,” Buck echoes, badly pretending to be unaffected.
“You kissed Tommy,” Chim says, like it’s breaking news.
“Technically, he kissed me.”
“In public,” Hen adds.
“Not that public—”
Chim grins. “You are glowing. I thought you’d lit a flare.”
“I am not—”
“You have the Look,” Hen says. “The dazed, smitten look. You are going to be insufferable, aren’t you?”
Buck throws his hands up. “Are you seriously giving me grief for kissing your friend?”
“I thought he kissed you, Firehose,” Chim says with a smirk. “We’re thrilled. You just made so many future gatherings interesting.”
Hen nods. “Thanksgiving’s gonna be chaos.”
“Just—can you not tell Bobby yet?” Buck pleads.
“We’ll see how you behave,” Chim says.
Hen pats Buck on the shoulder, mock-gentle. “Congrats, Buckaroo. You made an impression.”
Buck watches the empty street where Tommy’s car vanished and lets out a breath that fogs in the cool night air. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “So did he.”
Chim tosses him the keys. “You two better get a room next time. I don’t need to walk up on him sexing you up against anything.”
Buck hums to himself all the way home, tasting whiskey and Tommy and the sharp edge of something new.