Chapter Text
If Buck is pretty sure he knows where Chimney is driving them after ten minutes, he’s all but certain after he turns them onto the 405. He looks over to Eddie in the passenger seat to confirm his suspicions and Eddie keeps his eyes firmly straight ahead, despite Buck trying burn a hole through the back of his skull with his glare. The traitor is clearly in on it.
It’s just that Buck knows this route. He’s been driven along it dozens, if not hundreds of times: from the station, onto the 405 towards the Valley, exit off at the Ronald Reagan Freeway where Tommy would joke that he hoped the bastard was rolling in his grave knowing that they were using his namesake road to go on their gay little dates, and then it was only a few turns more until you were at Whiteman Airport where Tommy keeps his helicopter.
It’s hardly the most convenient airport - it’s out of their way and, it’s constantly been under the threat of closure for the entire time they’ve known each other, but Tommy got fast-tracked for a tie-down spot by one of the guys he served with who went to work for Serco after his last tour, and he’d still had to wait for years to get a permanent hanger space. And he wasn’t giving that up, even if he could afford a better place.
Which. He could. Even after all this time, Buck’s still a little sketchy on exactly where Tommy got the money he used to set up his life post-army: the house, the helicopter, the medical bills. There was a payout, he knows that much. A big one. Tommy’s not really supposed to talk about it. All Buck knows is that his helicopter crash happened while he was flying a sanctioned mission is a very unsanctioned area. Chim had joked that it was hush money when Tommy had talked vaguely around the issue, but that’s probably not far from the truth. Buck doesn’t ask.
Honestly? He thinks it’s kind of hot, that Tommy takes his promises so seriously. Theres nothing sexier than a reliable man who means what he says. But he keeps that to himself.
Well. Himself, and he’s pretty sure Tommy’s figured it out by now. The night they said their vows in that surprisingly tasteful Vegas chapel, Buck had practically dragged him back to the unsurprisingly ostentatious hotel room they’d splurged on, and shown Tommy just how much he appreciated his words: I love it when you make promises you can keep babe, now tell me how many times I’m gonna come tonight. And Tommy’s never failed to follow through on that particular promise. God, but Buck is still as into him today as he was the day they met. More, even, since now he’s not just stumbling blindly through sexual revelation; his stomach swooping all over the place, directionless. He loves Tommy so much. He doesn’t want him in any danger.
They exit off the highway, and Buck watches the very familiar buildings flash past his window and he stews. Chim indicates for the next expected turn and Buck rams his knee, hard, into the back of his seat. Chimney doesn’t even snark that he hadn’t realised he’d bought Jee and her restless toddler legs into work today, so at least he knows he’s on thin fucking ice.
Ahead of them, a helicopter hovers in the sky; white, with two thick strips of yellow and black mostly along the tail. And Buck remembers: LA County Fire Air Ops fly out of Barton Heliport. Barton Heliport, that backs up onto Whiteman Airport. LA County Fire, who Tommy has no association with other than occasional friendly banter when he runs into their pilots on the ground or in the parking lot.
LA County Fire, who are not the LAFD, but they’re close enough that Buck gives himself a few blissful, delusional minutes to believe that they’re going to them and not to Tommy for this.
He’s going to kill Chim. If they don’t all die in a hurricane first.
********************
They turn into Whiteman.
“You called my husband to fly us into a hurricane?” Buck growls, as if it’s brand new information and not something he’s been brooding over for the past 40 or so minutes. He’s angry all over again, so it may as well be. Knowing what was happening and actually being here for it to happen are two fundamentally different experiences.
“No.” Chim replies, paying very strict attention to finding a parking space in the largely empty lot. “I called your husband to ask if he knew anyone who would fly us into a hurricane. Tommy volunteered.”
Buck tamps down on the little leap of his heart that threatens his bad mood. It hasn’t been all that long, really, and he still gets a thrill whenever someone says it: “your husband”. It’s easy enough for him to say, “and this is my husband, Tommy”, but he still feels some sort of way when it comes from anyone else - having other people know that he has a husband; that he has someone who chose him, that he has somewhere he he belongs, and someone he belongs with. It’s even better when it’s the other way around. When he meets someone new, and one of the only things they know about him is “oh, you’re Tommy’s husband?”. He feels...seen. Understood.
It’s like: it took Buck a long time to come to the label ‘bisexual’. He still doesn’t use it a lot. Especially not now that he’s got a much better one in ‘Tommy’s husband’. Tommy, Tommy, Tommy’s. He’d lived like that for months, unexamined, after the first time Tommy kissed him. He’d been so comfortable with Tommy that he hadn’t realised that it was something he should examine, and he’d coasted along on that easy and giddy feeling of freedom for far longer into their relationship than either one of them should have let it get without talking about it.
It had crashed head-on into harsh reality the night of their six-month anniversary, when their waiter had flirted with him and Buck had completely blanked. And when Tommy had told him he was allowed to look, Buck had said that he didn’t even look at other men.
And he’d said it fun and flirty, the way he used to tell his girlfriends that no, honey, he never looked at other girls; the way that everyone knew was just a sweet little lie that you were supposed to tell. But Tommy had known that it was true in a way that Buck hadn’t meant. That he didn’t consider other men. Because he hadn’t really considered men at all.
Even though he’d always used to look at them. Even though he always used to notice men. Even though he checked out guys, sometimes. Buck had known that before he knew anything else, that men that looked like Tommy turned his head, and it wasn’t a big deal because who wouldn’t take the time to appreciate someone who put that much effort into their body? And it hadn’t meant anything, because he didn’t want it to mean anything. It was just…incidental noticing.
And then he got with Tommy, and he started feeling weird about it; itchy and guilty, and he’d written it off as feeling weird about checking someone else out when he was in a relationship. But maybe he was just being weird about the fact that his noticing wasn’t entirely platonic admiration.
He’d tried doubling down; on the joke, on the comfortable Tommy of it all, laughed and tilted his head and blinked across the table at him through his eyelashes in the way that he knows Tommy likes, said that maybe it was just Tommy. But all it’d gotten him was a grimace, a devastatingly sad and scared twist of Tommy’s mouth when he said that maybe Buck needed space and time outside of their relationship to figure himself out. And Buck had been hurt and confused and it had very nearly been the end of them.
Except that Tommy had only been half-wrong. Buck hadn’t needed space. He hates space. When he has it, it’s the only thing he can think about. Space makes him go a little…the opposite of cabin fever. Prairie madness, but in the city; in his pokey loft apartment; entirely in his own mind. Too much time to spiral.
So he hadn’t needed space. But he had needed that push out of the new relationship honeymoon bubble to really know what he was ready for, and who he was ready to be. He’d been so all-in on Tommy right from the very start that they’d both thought that he’d just sort of speedran his sexuality crisis, but instead what had happened was he’d somehow managed to subconsciously trick himself into believing that Tommy was so perfect for him that it didn’t matter that he wasn’t actually attracted to men. Not beyond Tommy, very specifically. And he’d used Tommy as a shield against the implications of it all - I’m not dating a man, I’m dating Tommy, and he’d let how comfortable Tommy made him cover up the fact that while he was coming out in a time where it was safer and more understood and less of a big deal, he hadn’t exactly grown up in one and that had sat deep and quiet in his mind; waiting. The first time Tommy had kissed him, Buck had promised that he’d put in the work to really know himself. And then he’d spooked when he’d gotten too close.
He’d turned up at Tommy’s three days later, worn out from the last shift before his block of off days but determined to see him, and Tommy had taken one look and bundled him off to sleep for a few hours and bought him lunch in bed. And they’d talked: in circles, in tangents, in flirty little distractions and asides until it was time to dig in or get out. And Buck - he didn’t think he’d ever be able to get out. Not intact.
So he’d done the research. He’d done the late-night Wikipedia deep-dives and the “Am I Gay?” quizzes that Tommy read out to him and the forums; God, the forums. There was so much out there that Buck had missed. So much he had avoided looking straight - pun intended - in the face. So many labels and sub-labels and micro-labels and they’d had their second almost-breakup when Buck had sifted through as much information as he could shove into his brain all at once and hadn’t found the community that fit him exactly. There were just so many out there, and so specific, and they described every single human experience possible, as far as Buck could tell. And what did it say about him, if he didn’t feel like any of them fit? What did it say about him and Tommy?
Was he even attracted to men at all, or had he just been so drawn to Tommy that he’d mistaken it for something other than platonic admiration? Was he the worst person alive, sitting there next to his sleeping boyfriend, with his laptop perched on the lame little stable table that Tommy bought him so he could comfortably Google in bed because Tommy was one of the most careful and thoughtful and attentive people that he had ever met, and Buck was just, what? Leading him on?
Tommy deserved more. Deserved everything, for the way he always made Buck feel like he was worth everything.
Eventually he’d woken Tommy up with the hitch in his breathing as he worked himself up into a panicked spiral; because how, how, was he supposed to let Tommy down gently about this, when Tommy had already done that once and Buck had talked him back around with pretty, desperate, lying words? All that, just so he didn’t loose Tommy’s attention?
And Tommy had eased the very unsexy laptop and stable table combination off of Buck’s lap and onto the ground and very thoroughly reminded him exactly how much Buck definitely was attracted to him. To men.
Afterwards, Tommy had pulled him up and over and tucked his head under his chin and apologised into Buck’s curls: said it was all his fault; that he hated that Buck was doubting himself; that Buck didn’t need an exact label; that he didn’t need any label; that he didn’t need anything to understand himself except to walk into his life with his eyes wide open; that maybe this was the point in his journey where he got offline and he did just that. Deliberately. On purpose. Own it.
And that was– that was all well and good except that Buck thought he had been doing that until it turned out he wasn’t, actually, and it almost ruined everything; his unintentionally constructed avoidance blowing up in his face. It bothered him, now that he thought about it, that the few times people - Maddie, Eddie, Tommy - had tried to talk to him about what dating Tommy meant for him, he’d freaked and called himself an ally. And then he’d been so transparently happy in his relationship that they’d stopped asking and written it off as some funny little quirk of his. Even Buck had done it - convinced himself that he was dismissing Tommy being a man as being any sort of problem for him because he was just super cool and progressive. Not because he was ignoring what it meant for him.
It had bothered Tommy a lot, actually, even though he didn’t make a big deal about it. It took until then for Buck to realise that Tommy really didn’t like to make a fuss.
And it was different for Tommy. What, historically, happened to you when you a fuss too, yeah, but. Labels. Sexuality. Easier in some ways, because there was no question of what he was, once he let himself admit it. If Buck had been blissfully unaware for 30 years of keen interest in men’s fitness until Tommy had as good as kissed the bisexuality into him, then Tommy had had the opposite experience: spending most of his life to that point hoping against hope that any woman would come along and inspire some latent heterosexuality in him. Because it had been so much harder, in every other way, and Tommy had been forced to look ‘gay’ in the face years before he had been ready to. Decades too early, really, for him to have been safe with it. And then it had been the spectre dogging his steps through puberty, through the army, through coming back and trying to adjust to making his own decisions again.
There was this urban legend that started going around when Buck was fifteen, turning sixteen, and all his classmates were learning to drive; a spirit that sat in the back seat of your car, close enough to touch, nails long and sharp enough to slit your throat when it reached around your headrest. Sometimes you’d catch its eye in the rear-view mirror, watching you, just there, just waiting. And you were fine, as long as you ignored it. But if you turned around to look, you were dead. You could live your whole life pretending it wasn’t there, if you wanted to. It was acknowledging the horror that killed you.
‘Gay’ had felt like that to Tommy for years: a senseless, vengeful ghost haunting his back seat, and he still had to drive that car every single day, out to see people who would want him dead just as sure as the spirit if they looked close enough. Every day; until he couldn’t, and he’d turned around. And the only thing looking back at him was himself. Real. Proud. Free.
It’s a journey that Buck never went on. He was just straight, and then the next moment he was kissing a dude. Begging a dude to kiss him, in everything but words. It was embarrassing, is what it was. Embarrassing that that was where he left it. Embarrassing, and he’d hurt Tommy, scared him into thinking that Buck would never be able to mean it the way that he did, because he’d never tried to understand what it meant.
So Buck had done what he did best: spiralled. Overcompensated. Asked Tommy to move in with him before they’d even had a single conversation about their future. Before he ever said “I love you”. While they were at Tommy’s house. Just after Tommy came back in the room after checking on Nimbus, and Buck’s apartment at the time didn’t even allow dogs. And then it had been Tommy’s turn to spook, their third almost-breakup, briefly convinced that their whole relationship was just Buck chasing some crazy impulse that he would get over eventually when he realised that Tommy wasn’t what he wanted.
Which was so stupid that Buck couldn’t even get worked up about it. If they’d proved anything that day - proved just hours ago, even - it was that the one thing that Buck did know for certain that he wanted was Tommy. He may still have been searching for himself, but Buck knew how it felt; to be in love.
And well, they say bad news comes in threes. Which is true enough, because after that they’d committed to what they both knew would be forever. Consciously. Promised each other that they’d work through whatever came between them. Buck decided on a label. Bisexual. Kinsey 1. Probably 2, if he really wanted to push it, but he didn’t. Doesn’t. Mostly women, but some men. Men who looked like Tommy - masculine, confident, strong in a way that looked effortless but Buck knew the amount time and dedication and self-disciple it took and he found that all hot as fuck. Which; Buck had sort of known the whole time, he’d just never sat with it and acknowledged it. Never wanted to. And he’d never needed to because it was all just…background noise until he met Tommy and it was all he could think about. So. Bisexual, yeah? But, mostly just “Tommy’s”. Not in an “I’m not queer” way. Just that. He likes guys, sure. But Tommy is his guy. If they lived in less cynical times, he’d say Tommy was the one. That Tommy had- had transformed him. That he’s Tommy’s, and Tommy is his, his, his. That’s how he wants to be known.
Anyway. All of that is to say that Buck has a husband. It took him 30 years, give or take, to find him. They’ve had three years together. And now Chimney wants Tommy to fly them into a hurricane.
“How would you like it if I asked Maddie to do something like this?” Buck snaps.
“About as much as you’d like it, probably.” Chim replies, calm.
“Well that’s just not fair.” Like it wasn’t Buck’s gotcha attempt in the first place. “I’d never put my sister in danger.”
“And I’d never put my brother-in-law in danger.” Chim seems to have decided between the many available parking spaces. Buck smothers the very warm feeling in his chest at Chimney calling Tommy his brother-in-law. They’re a family. “Luckily for Cap and Athena, Maddie and I aren’t actually married yet or else you wouldn’t be here either. Just poor me and Eddie, swimming to the Gulf of Mexico.” Eddie snorts, and Buck wriggles one of his legs free from the footwell to kick him in the arm.
“Tommy’s a civilian. He doesn’t do this kind of stuff.” Buck protests, and then immediately feels terrible because he’s never thought Tommy was less capable or brave than him just because they have different jobs. And it’s not even true, because Tommy has been doing volunteer work with the LAFD for longer than Buck's been employed there. He can look after himself. But a hurricane is a hurricane.
“He wasn’t always.” Chim pulls into the parking space. “And he’s a great pilot.” Fuck that. Tommy’s the best pilot.
“It’s dangerous.” Not that Tommy’s actual job is all that safe, statistically speaking. Tommy’s safe, but the 118 could probably fill an entire day with nothing but calls from people doing DIY and falling off ladders, or getting stuck on roofs, or not properly ventilating their rooms while working with the old and mysterious cans of paint they found in the back shed. And that’s just average Tommy-adjacent accident opportunities - not even mentioning the days when he goes into active construction sites.
“It is.” Chim turns off the ignition, plants a hand on the passenger seat headrest so he can twist around to look back at Buck, eyebrows raised. “So do you think he’d ever forgive me for letting anyone else do this, with you here? Hell. What would Maddie say?”
********************
Tommy’s helicopter is already out of the hanger; a hulking marvel of engineering that, if Buck’s being totally honest, he was a little intimidated by the first time he saw it in person. She’s just a machine, sure, but she has a presence in glossy black, three-blade rotors wide and still and poised, the front windows like two big, dark eyes watching him approach. But Buck knows her better, now. Knows her secrets. They have an understanding.
Tommy jumps out of the cockpit looking stupid-handsome with his dorky little headset, the sleeves of his flannel rolled up to his elbows. He’s in the thick denim cargo pants with the silver reflective strips that make him look like he duct taped them back together. He was on a construction site today, Buck knows - some half-finished office building for a co-working space or a tech startup or something equally interested in meaningless buzzwords that talked endlessly about wanting to make their office space “welcoming” and “fun”. Tommy always rolls his eyes when they call him up to consult, as though the right paint job in the right lighting could wipe away all the soul-crushing problems with Corporate America. But they pay offensively and obscenely well.
Buck hates it when he takes those kinds of jobs. Construction sites are so unsafe. There hasn’t been a year in the last 10 and more where the construction industry hasn’t been top 5, of not outright top, in work-related fatalities on just pure weight of numbers. Buck doesn’t worry when Tommy’s at someone’s house, but there’s so many variables on an active worksite. He knows it’s hypocritical, that he doesn’t have a severe crush-injury leg to stand on, but he still pouts every time Tommy agrees to see an unfinished space.
That morning Tommy had kissed it away, quick pecks to his ready and waiting lips. “Well, someone has to keep you in the lifestyle to which you’ve become accustomed.” He’d joked. “And a public servant’s salary’s just ain’t gonna cut it.”
“Oh, I’m sorry? Which one of us is it that owns a helicopter?”
“And which one likes going for ride-alongs in the helicopter?”
“Mmm.” Buck had stretched, slow, his back arching, Tommy watching the blanket slip down Buck’s stomach the more he shifted, watching the hand Buck dragged down his chest, and his eyes were hungry. “Expensive tastes.” Buck agreed with a smirk. “You really raised my bar.” Waggled his eyebrows, more than half an innuendo. And to think, there had been a time when he’d gotten by with nothing more than he could fit in his Jeep. His life really was so full. His life, and other things.
Eventually they’d both gone to work: Tommy to his consult and Buck to the station. And now they’re both here, on the tarmac at Whiteman Airport.
Eddie and Chimney both turn to watch him slip out of the car, and he can only imagine that they’re waiting to see whether he’s going to kiss Tommy hello or yell at him. Well, he’s not going to give them the satisfaction of either. “Tommy.” He acknowledges when they’re close enough together, firm and professional.
“Evan.” Tommy matches his tone beat for beat, but he gives himself away with the way his eyes sparkle, and the funny little straight-line smile and nod he does when he’s trying not to laugh at something he finds charming and ridiculous. Buck calls it his Muppet smile - soft eyes; soft and fuzzy everything.
Personally he’d never watched the Muppets as a kid, but when she was around two and a half Jee had caught an episode and become obsessed, and then a month later Tommy had had to go away for a week that became just over three after his Aunt died during due-date-extension tax season and his cousin couldn’t handle all that plus the funeral plus the bi-annually recurring stress-hives. So Tommy had gone out of state and Buck had stayed behind because he’d already used a huge chunk of his PTO earlier in the year when Tommy had flown him and Sal and a few guys he knew from work up to Alaska for what turned out to be a yearly fly-fishing trip, of all things. There’s something there about how you’re always learning new things about the people you love. Buck had gotten a lot of reading done. He didn’t see half as many bears and he would’ve liked to. Eddie had asked if he could come along the next time. Always learning new things about people.
So Tommy had gone and Buck had stayed and he hadn’t been thrilled about being left behind but he’d had his work and his family and it was only going to be for like a week, max. But then Tommy’s return date kept getting pushed out and Buck had started stress-baking to stop himself from bothering Tommy’s family with constant calls and texts and slightly risqué post-workout selfies. They already didn’t like him, and Tommy had already been so on-edge about having to spend any extended time around them, and Buck hadn’t wanted to make it worse. And then in the second week Maddie had left Jee with him as a sort of double-down on the distraction, and halfway through making buttercream frosting Buck had sighed and run greasy fingers through his hair and Jee had giggled and called him Uncle Beaker, and she hadn’t let up for the rest of the day. By the time Chimney arrived to pick her up again Buck had managed to tame his curls just a little, but not Jee’s instincts for jokes. She’s her father’s daughter, for sure. Chim had taken one look at him, frazzled Uncle Beaker, crossed his arms appraisingly and agreed that he could see the resemblance.
That night Buck had FaceTimed Tommy, to hell with Tommy’s family disapproving. Tommy didn’t approve of most of them, either. And Tommy had smiled that same, silly Muppet grin while Buck ranted at his face, and Buck was so in love with him.
Is so in love with him, all cool and confident and indulgent, and willing to throw in with Buck and the 118 based on nothing but a hunch. He wonders what Tommy said to get out of his job early. Those kinds of employers, the can’t-afford-Silicon-Valley type, they were notoriously inflexible for all their promised great corporate culture. Probably he told them that he had a family emergency. Because they’re a family. All of them. God, but Buck loves that, too.
“Hen not with you?” Chimney calls out from behind him.
“Nope.” Tommy’s smile widens.
“Must’ve gone to Harbor.” Chim and Eddie pass Buck on either side to dole out high-fives with Tommy. They’re all so bro-y. It’s no wonder Hen doesn’t want to be seen with them.
“You know, I think I’m offended.” Tommy laughs, smile somehow still growing, eyes glittering.
“That’s why Hen is my favourite.” Buck snarks overtop. Tommy and Chimney keep grinning at each other, giddy and unrepentant like they're actually excited about their upcoming jaunt into insanity. And normally Buck would be right there with them, but there are extenuating circumstances. On Tommy’s other side Eddie at least seems a little sorry that Buck’s upset, so Buck knocks him back up to second favourite colleague.
Third, really. Bobby’s done nothing wrong, except have terrible taste in honeymoon destinations. Buck and Tommy had gone to Peru - where Buck had shown off his old haunts and as much Spanish as he remembered - and then on to a 12 day Galapagos tour - where Tommy had shown off…basically everything in a very small Speedo. And no one had needed rescuing at all; except, nearly, for basically every single person on the boat with them who had all looked at Tommy for a little too long, and Buck had contemplated pushing into the ocean.
Point is. Buck hadn’t done it. So Chimney sure as hell better be spending their whole ride praying that he shows the same restraint today.
********************
They make it into the helicopter with only one further incident, when Buck gets his hands on the passenger door handle and Chimney tells him absolutely not, they’d like to make it to Cap’s cruise ship intact thank you very much, and they can’t have Tommy getting distracted. Which is pretty fucking rude, actually. Tommy’s a professional. He flies Buck around regularly, totally incident-free. And despite what apparently everyone believes - if Eddie’s badly-smothered guffaw is any indicator - Buck can actually keep his hands to himself. Besides. He could be plenty distracting from the back seat, if he wanted. It’s a little insulting that Chim seems to think otherwise.
Buck stalks to the pilot’s side back-passenger door, slides it open, pauses. There it is: one of Tommy’s helicopter’s secrets. A small, simple sketch of a bird, just above the latch. There’s one on each of the doors; carefully drawn, but not something you’d notice unless you were paying attention.
But Buck had been paying such close attention, the first time Tommy had given him the helicopter tour - fully prepared for Tommy to give him a surprise pop quiz when it was over. Buck loves those pop quizzes; loves them the way Tommy loves teaching him; loves that smug little smirk Tommy gets when Buck shows off everything he’s learnt: the one that says “my man’s so smart”. It’s the headiest, most amazing feedback loop of Buck’s life.
So Buck had been getting the tour, and Tommy had opened the pilot’s door, and Buck had been paying attention so he had seen the bird, wings a delicate curve, poised to take off of unyielding metal and into the clear, blue skies. Tommy had smiled, soft, when Buck asked about it.
“It’d da Vinci.” He’d explained, pressed his thumb to the sketch and quoted: “The Earth is moved from its position by the weight of a tiny bird resting upon it.”
“Oh.” Buck had breathed, awed. “That’s beautiful.”
“Yeah.” Tommy’d agreed.”It’s– He did all these sketches, you know? Of, like, early helicopter and ornithopter designs?” Buck did know, actually. To that point he’d been pretty hit-and-miss on anything art related, but he had known about that corkscrew that was somehow supposed to fly. He thought Karen might have mentioned it once. He nodded.
“He made…thousands of folios; notes and sketches and blueprints for all sorts of ideas and inventions, and back when I started thinking about taking being an artist seriously they were, umm, safe art. For me.”
“Safe?”
“Yeah. It’s, uh, it sounds stupid, but– but everyone’s seen the Mona Lisa, yeah? Or the Last Supper? They’re so famous that no one would question you for knowing about them, so when I started, that was a safe entry point. And he has other paintings, of course, but most of what he left behind where these observations about the world. And I used to tell myself it was okay to look at them, even though–”
He’d cut himself off an ugly laugh, so out of place on such a lovely day, and Buck had felt wounded. Wounded and confused, the way an animal feels when it’s hurt but doesn’t understand where the pain is coming from; he’d known Tommy was in pain, but he couldn’t see the shape of the hurt to fix it.
“I used to tell myself that it was okay to look at them, because they weren’t gay. Because– because they were full of diagrams, so it was more like looking at a car maintenance manual than art. And da Vinci was one of the most influential artists that ever lived, so if his stuff wasn’t gay, then it didn’t make me gay that I wanted to be an artist too.”
Not for the first time, Buck had wished he had Tommy’s ability to just go with the flow and appear comfortable in any conversation. But Tommy had given him that very slightly condescending - and all the hotter for it - “you’re so sweet” smile that he only levels at him when he thinks Buck is being adorably naïve. And maybe he had been, but he honestly hadn’t followed the thought process. There’s not even seven full years between them, but someone it feels like he and Tommy have lived in two completely different worlds.
“This little guy,” Tommy had tapped the bird again, “is from a manuscript called ‘Codex on the Flight of Birds’. When I finally admitted that I needed to stop lying to myself about who I was, I wanted to do something to acknowledge, I guess, how far I’d come. And those birds, they did kind of move my whole world.” He’d put a hand on Buck’s elbow and stepped them backwards to show him the second bird sketch, tucked up above the latch on the pilot’s side passenger door. “There’s one on each door.” He’d said. “I wasn’t ready to come out to anyone else at that point, but I wanted to do something just for me. And for da Vinci too, as much as I could. I mean. He probably was gay, actually. Or something, anyway. Whatever they would’ve called it in the 15th century, which makes it he whole thing even more embarrassing.”
Buck had pulled his arm up, Tommy’s hand dragging all the way down until Buck could tangle their fingers together, squeeze Tommy’s hand tight. Tommy had smiled at him, easy, like the clearly open wound didn’t even hurt anymore.
“He used to buy caged birds from markets and set them free. He dreamed about how people would be able to fly one day, but the world just wasn’t ready for his inventions. It felt like the least I could do, to make sure these birds got up in the air.”
“Tommy.” Buck had choked out. “That’s– Tommy.” And he’d spun them around, bullied Tommy back until he was sprawled awkwardly across the seats, laughing, and Buck had kissed it out of his mouth. Tommy’s just so…he’s just…he’s always so surprising. He blows Buck’s mind, constantly, the way that Buck couldn’t even achieve through hours spent scrolling through Substacks. So Buck had shuffled down onto his knees in broad daylight in a public airport, and done his best to blow something else just as thoroughly.
The next time Tommy had taken him flying, Buck had asked if he could do something, and he’d pressed his thumb to to the little bird, the way Tommy had, and pulled out the quote he’d memorised the night before: “the human bird shall take his first flight, filling the world with amazement, all writings with his fame, and bringing eternal glory to the nest whence he sprang.” He’d stood there for a moment, staring at his thumb, his throat tight and suddenly very aware of just how intense that must have sounded. The idea had seemed romantic, when Buck first thought of it, half-delirious with sleeplessness in the middle of a long shift, buzzing with nerves at the thought of seeing Tommy in the morning: he could show Tommy that he had been listening to him, that he was interested in the things Tommy was interested in, that he’d gone home and put in the effort. But in that moment it had seemed…a lot. Too much. He’d scare Tommy off, sinking so much time into something he’d mentioned just the once. Like, yeah, Buck listened. Listened, and then forced himself into memories and conversations that had nothing to do with him.
Except that when he’s looked over, Tommy had been watching him like Buck was the most wonderful thing he’d ever seen. And they’d been late taking off then, too, but they’d flown through clear skies. Again.
So Buck’s done it every time they’ve flown since. He ran out of quotes about birds pretty quickly, moved on to wings and flight and some pretty dry stuff about the nature of air before he thought to hell with it and got his hands on a translation of ‘Codex on the Flight of Birds’ and started reading from it; sentence by sentence. Tommy said that da Vinci dreamed of flight, and Buck had this idea that he could pull those dreams from his text, put them all into Tommy’s helicopter with his words so she would always carry them safely. That’s their understanding: Buck keeps feeding her hope, and she keeps bringing Tommy back home to him.
He doesn’t always get his dick sucked about it, but Tommy never gets less smitten, and they always make it back to solid ground. Buck’s very own little good luck ritual.
And Tommy’s not superstitious, yeah? He’s the biggest control freak Buck knows, and Buck knows himself. Especially with things like this - Buck can’t even say for sure the last time he drove them anywhere. Tommy likes to be behind the wheel. He believes in choices and practise and skill. He’ll text Buck things like
Quiet day, going to take the bird up this afternoon
and not worry about the universe taking it out on him. But every time he follows it up with a video of himself, pressing his thumb to the bird behind the passenger-side door and reciting the next line from the ‘Codex’.
Buck keeps them all; three years’ worth, in a folder that’s just called “safe”. He had to buy a new phone halfway through year two with a bigger storage capacity, and Tommy has to do an annual touch-up of the bird sketches. Sometimes, when they’re not on a call, Buck will go up onto the roof of the firehouse to watch the videos and look out for pigeons, flying around effortlessly, and he’ll tell the universe that he needs Tommy to be just as free and easy up there.
It’s da Vinci’s bird he’s looking at now, though. He can’t not do it. It’s not the time to test whose approach to life and luck is correct; especially when Buck knows it’s his. But Eddie would think it was dumb, and Buck can’t take that at this moment. And Chim would appreciate the safety ritual of it all, but he’d also want to know the whole story and quite frankly it isn’t any of his business. So Buck does it in his head; brushes his hand against the sketch as he climbs in the helicopter and thinks, hard: “feathers shall raise men even as they do birds towards heaven”. It’s not the right quote - he didn’t have the time to look up the next sentence while he was too busy trying to pretend like he wouldn’t need it. But it’s also not the right bird, so Buck doesn’t think it really matters. He…doesn’t think it’s even actually about birds or flying. The rest of the quote is something about letters and quills so he’s pretty sure it’s really something about, like, the power of the written word. But still. Buck likes it. It’s one of the first quotes he learnt.
He settles into his seat, shoves Chim to the side a little on the pretence of buckling up. There’s a surprising amount of room in the back of the helicopter, but three grown men - artificially sized-up by their turnouts - do manage to fill a space. Chim doesn’t complain about the shoving, so he’s aware that he’s still on the shit-list even if he and Tommy had been palling around. Buck is the one who keeps track of all their lists, after all. Tommy’s just his sitcom husband, who blindly bitches about whoever Buck points him at. Buck loves being married to him so much.
Tommy’s voice floats into his ears over the intercom. “We right to take off? Everyone said everything they need to, before we fly to our probable deaths?”
“Yes.” Chim and Eddie chime back at him, too used to Tommy’s doomsday sense of humour to question it.
“Yeah.” Buck confirms. “Good to go.”
“Alright.” Tommy agrees. “Hold onto your butts.”
********************
Chim waits until the skids have left the tarmac.
“Hey dad,” he whines over the intercom, smirking, his legs kicking. “I need the bathroom.”
“You had your chance” Tommy’s voice growls back.
Eddie snickers, obligingly. Buck tries his best not to let on exactly how much Tommy using that tone, directly into his ear, does it for him.
Maybe it is good that Buck can’t get his hands on him right now.