Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s been months – years – since Eddie was last buried deep in desert heat, sand freckling his cheeks beneath the harsh glare of a firefight. And yet, somehow, he’s back. Darkness surrounds him as bullets rain down. Helicopter blades roar above, whipping wind and grit against his skin, the sting sharp where blood clings to his uniform.

It’s confusing – chaotic – shouts from his unit tangling with cries of enemies growing closer. Calls for help. Snapped bones. Unconscious comrades littering the metal and sand surrounding him. He reaches out, calling for them, familiar names slipping between his lips as beads of blood erupt between his teeth.

But he never makes it. Arms outstretched, fingers grasping air, always just inches too short. Their eyes meet his, desperate, fading whimpers and pleas to take care of loved ones emptying into the abyss of the aftermath.

Eventually it’s just him. Alone. Bleeding and broken in the sand, tears falling freely down his cheeks as he calls out for someone – anyone. They’re gone. They’re all gone – there’s nobody left…

He wakes with a jolt, screaming into a different stretch of dark, “They’re all gone!”

His legs catch between the sheets, trapping and ensnaring him as he sobs between broken breaths. His chest is tight, heart racing not with the pain of injury flaring behind his ribs but that of loss. Of guilt and sorrow too profound to part with.

“Hey, hey, hey,” a quiet voice calls beside him, weaving through the wreckage of a war-torn memory. “Just breathe.”

Blinking through burning tears, hands trembling with fear, dreams drip into reality. A warm hand settles gently on his shoulder, another skims across the knuckles gripping the sheets too tight.

“That’s it,” the voice says again, soft but sure. “Deep breath, Ed. You’re okay. You got it.”

He gasps for air, lungs stuttering, tears burning hot down his cheeks. Ghosts of dust and sand still simmer along the surface, the feeling etched into his skin – tattoos of tattered time across his flesh.

“I…” Eddie chokes out, voice ragged and raw.

The hands press gently, grounding him. A palm rests over his heart, steady and warm, and Eddie closes his eyes. The panic starts to fade, just enough.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs, “I’ve got you.”

Brian. Always steady. Solid, patient, unwavering – grounded in ways Eddie hasn’t been able to name, loving in ways he can’t fully explain even if he tries.

Brian’s fingers trace slow circles along his spine, the other hand still firm over his chest. As Eddie’s breathing evens out, he finally lifts his eyes, still glistening, and offers a small, weary smile.

“Thanks,” he whispers into the stillness, the silence gentler now, no longer empty. “Sorry, I…that hasn’t happened in a while.”

Brian shakes his head, voice calm. “Doesn’t mean it’s gone. They’re still a part of you.”

Eddie nods, throat tight. He’s grateful Brian’s been through this with him before, soft secrets shared in the days of getting to know one another. Traumas torn open like ruptured stitches, sewn back together with each other’s delicate touch.

And Brian’s right – despite the pain of loss and the guilt that came with it – Eddie can’t loosen them from his bones. Their laughter, their pain, their fierce, stubborn loyalty. They knew Eddie better than anyone had before, saw him at his worst and still called him a brother.

Exhaustion tugs at him, and he leans into Brian’s chest. Arms curl tight around him. Fingers brush tears away with infinite care.

“Tell me about them?” Brian asks softly, pulling the blankets over them both.

Eddie shifts closer, wrapping a leg around Brian’s, leeching heat from his boyfriend as he smiles softly. He’s always happy to share memories of people he once called family, glad to remember them in days beyond the bad.

And as he begins to share, voice low and thick with sleep, his eyelids start to fall. The nightmares slip away, replaced by laughter and stories that light the darkness, soft and golden in his mind.

He's not sure – can’t be, really – if he’s dreaming. The sharp smell of antiseptic burns his nostrils and the steady beep of a heartbeat echo around him, suggesting otherwise, but...

He’s been here before. Many times. And each time, it wears on him – another round in the spin cycle – confusion comingling with pain and exhaustion, dragging him toward whatever version of recovery waits this time.

Somewhere between a broken arm at ten and his heart stopping on top of a ladder truck, Buck lost count. Falling into a coma and out of reality, nightmares filling dreams after the tsunami, and time fracturing after the lab – after the loss of…

Yeah. Buck’s been here before.

But it’s not the same each time. It never is. His mind plays tricks on him along with his body.

Pain dulled by medication or erased by unconsciousness? Voices speaking in hushed tones to calm or conceal?

His eyes remain closed as he takes stock – his ribs ache and his head throbs in tempo with the hiss of oxygen slipping into his lungs from a mask pulled tight across his face.

He feels more than hears the presence of someone at his bedside, a stoic stillness filling the quiet hospital room. A quiet presence beside the bed, steady, waiting.

A twitch of his fingers finds a hand. Familiar. Calloused in the way comfort sometimes is. He opens his eyes slowly, blinking up into a too-bright light, the world shifting around him in hazy pieces.

“Evan?” Tommy murmurs, voice uncertain – hushed and soft, filled with worry.

“Mm,” It’s the only sound Buck can manage. Words tangled behind his teeth, beneath his ribs, twisted up in the rasp of each breath.

Plastic legs of a chair scrape gently against linoleum as Tommy’s hand leaves his, and Buck stretches his fingers instinctively to hang on.

“It’s okay,” Tommy assures him. “I’m right here.”

The lights dim. Tommy’s hand finds his again, soft skin against his own. His thumb glides across Buck’s knuckles, skimming around the IV sprouting from Buck’s hand.

Buck blinks against the pain and confusion, reality sharpening with each breath. When he turns his head, eyes locking onto Tommy’s, something deep inside him finally settles.

That familiar shade of glacier blue, creased with worry, but soft. Buck exhales, shaky with relief, his pulse slowing under Tommy’s gentle touch.

His brow furrows in confusion, trying to pull to mind how he ended up here, and Tommy seems to read him easily. He leans in, his grasp tightening just slightly, the other hand moving to Buck’s curls, threading through them carefully, mindful of tubes and wires.

“You were in a car accident,” Tommy says quietly. “You’re okay. No one else got hurt. Some idiot swerved into your lane, and you went off the road.”

Buck nods slowly, fragments of memory rising to the surface. Shattered glass, the Jeep tipping. Gravity turning traitor. The wail of a car horn echoing as everything faded to black.

“You’ve got a couple of broken ribs and a gnarly concussion,” Tommy continues, his eyes filling with quiet tears. “A rib punctured your lung. They had to operate, but they fixed it.”

He brushes a finger gently against the edge of Buck’s oxygen mask. “You gotta keep this on for a bit.”

Buck feels the pull of fatigue on his shoulders and doesn’t resist. He wraps his hand around Tommy’s with what little strength he has, trying for a reassuring smile. It comes out worn, thin, wobbles with his exhaustion.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, voice soft. “F’r bein’ here.”

“Not going anywhere,” Tommy assures Buck as he presses a soft kiss to his temple. “Get some rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

As Buck is pulled under again, tugged back into sleep, he knows that next time he wakes up in a hospital, things will be different.

But if Tommy’s there – hand in his, voice in his ear – then he can’t think of a single thing wrong with that.

The call comes in at 7:26 a.m.

It’s a Tuesday.

An ordinary day stretching between shifts. Sal is still sprawled across the bed, his soft snores echoing down the hallway as Tommy stands in the kitchen, brewing coffee and making breakfast.

It’s his ritual – most important meal of the day, Tommy, his mom used to say. After she died and his dad grew distant and cold, the familiar smell of bacon and eggs carried Tommy through hard days and harder nights.

With time, though, he’s been re-working his neurons, shifting smells of sorrow and heartache into ones of fondness and joy. He’s taught himself to feel love where there used to be loss.

But now the smell of burnt grease and scorched toast pull him into nausea, turning his stomach as he hangs up the phone, chest aching with emotions he can’t quite decipher.

Guilt. Regret. Shame. Pain. Joy. Relief.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, phone in one hand, spatula in the other, until the smoke alarm cuts through the silence and Sal rushes in, hair a mess, eyes heavy with sleep.

“What the hell? Hey, Tom –” Sal shouts, voice sharp with panic. He rushes to shut off the stove, throwing open a window as smoke curls up and out into the rising sun.

Sal’s gaze darts to Tommy, wide with worry as he grabs the skillet and tosses it into the sink. He’s unplugged four other appliances by the time Tommy feels Sal's hand at the small of his back, guiding him to sit at the table.

There was a museum in Tommy's hometown. One with dollhouses on display – tiny, fractured homes filled with miniature furniture, warped with age. Familiar, but deeply unsettling. Tommy feels like one of those dolls now. Hollow, disassembled, everything that once made sense now slightly off, out of proportion.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?” Sal asks, dropping into the chair beside him. He pulls it close, sliding his knee between Tommy’s, one hand rubbing soft circles over his leg, the other steadying him with his gaze.

When Tommy tries to talk, the emotions he’s been working to decipher spill out - hands trembling with fear, chest aching with sadness, tears sprouting with relief and something like pain.

“Talk to me, baby,” Sal urges, hand circling his hip while the other remains steadfast at his knee. “Are you hurt?”

Tommy shakes his head, then forces in a breath. “It’s, uh…it’s my dad.”

Sal stiffens, jaw clenching in the wake of anger. Tommy’s shared pieces of his past with Sal – the deepest parts of the darkest days of his childhood. Wounds stitched together with sarcasm and swagger, shared in quiet moments when the armor slipped.

Despite the pain his father put Tommy through, he can’t quite bring himself to hate the man – a witness to his pain in the wake of heavy loss, trauma burning through him like a wick to dynamite. Always a breath away from explosion, ever ready to ignite.

Couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to hate the man.

“He’s dead.”

Tommy sees the words Sal doesn’t say written between them like another plate at the table, but he’s grateful for the moment of emotional fortitude.

“I’m sorry, Tom.” Sal brings a hand up to the nape of his neck, pulling him close into a quiet hug. Tommy leans forward until there’s no space left between them, their knees tangled together, chairs creaking beneath the shift in weight. Smoke still lingers in the air, but neither of them moves.

“He was an ass” Tommy mutters, tears falling down his cheeks. They fall into Sal’s bare chest, the news so unexpected, he finds himself in nothing but his boxers at the kitchen table.

Sal snorts and nods, carding his fingers through Tommy’s curls. “Still your dad.”

“Yeah,” Tommy whispers.

Sal’s always done this – brushed his strong hands through Tommy’s hair. Long before their lips connected, Sal would pull Tommy in for a hug, fingers curling through strands of sooty locks, his touch always reassuring. Safe.

Now, whenever Tommy’s unmoored – disconnected from his own skin – Sal instinctively moves his hands, fingertips featherlight as they brush along his scalp. It’s soothing, full of comfort. Like care carved into muscle memory.

They sit like that, slotted together over plates of burnt bacon in a kitchen filled with smoke and sunlight as Tommy’s breaths even out.

Before he faces the reality of a funeral, of being an orphan far later than being left behind, Tommy closes his eyes and inhales, drawing strength from Sal’s familiar movements, knowing he’ll always be waiting to soothe Tommy in any storm.

A sharp wheeze skitters through the house as Sal toes off his boots, gently tossing his duffle toward the washer – right beside Buck’s. The house is dim, quiet.

Tommy won’t be home for another hour, called into a four-alarm fire at the tail end of their shift and finally heading back toward the station now. Sal feels a frown tug at his lips as he pads across the floor, trying to make his steps light – no easy feat for a guy built like a linebacker.

Eddie had texted earlier, Buck nearly collapsed during a simple medical call and Hen had sent him home. Viral infection, she’d said. Nothing serious.

Her message was assuring – Don’t freak out like you always do, he’s fine. Just needs rest – at least it was meant to be. Still, Sal’s been struggling with ants under his skin as anxiety wormed its way through his limbs since he got the message.

The sound of Buck’s ragged breathing filtering in from the bedroom doesn’t help.

Sal detours to the kitchen, filling a glass with water and turning on the electric kettle. Freeing from the plastic bag some over-the-counter meds Hen recommended, Sal tears off the packaging.

Everything in hand, he heads to the bedroom, heart breaking when he sees Buck. He’s curled into himself, long legs tucked into his chest with blankets drawn tightly around him. His cheeks and nose are flushed red from fever, mouth slack with sleep. The congested snores are thick and uneven as Sal leans over him.

He sets the water and pills on the nightstand, then brushes the back of his hand across Buck’s forehead. Heat radiates beneath his skin, but Sal can’t bring himself to disrupt Buck’s sleep. Dark circles beneath his eyes betray the need for rest.

Quietly, Sal closes the door behind him, shutting out the light from the hallway, and circles to the other side of the bed.

He pulls off his uniform and slides in beside Buck, gently working his arm beneath the blankets and pulling Buck toward him. Buck shifts without hesitation, instinctively pressing into the warmth, finding Sal like a lighthouse in a storm. His skin is burning hot, but his body melts against Sal’s easily.

Sal kisses at the top of his sweaty curls and lets his eyes drift shut, nearly dozing off himself, until the soft creak of the front door rouses him.

He hears familiar footsteps after Tommy takes off his own gear. They grow louder until the bedroom door cracks open, a silhouette framed in the light. Sal can’t quite make out his features in the dark, but he knows what Tommy’s face must look like all the same.

“He okay?” Tommy asks quietly as he steps fully into the room. He similarly removes his uniform before sliding in opposite Sal, their hands joining at Buck’s shoulder.

“I’ve just been lettin’ him sleep,” Sal murmurs. Buck coughs, low and raspy, then burrows deeper between them with a little sniffle. “Call go okay?”

Tommy exhales a shaky breath and tightens his grip, “I’ll tell you about it later. I’m okay now – that I’m here with you both.”

“C’mere,” Sal says, pulling Tommy closer, Buck wedged between them, still snoring softly.

“Love you,” Sal whispers.

“Love you, too,” Tommy replies, just as softly.

A few more hours, Sal thinks, they don’t have anywhere else to be.

It happens so fast.

One second Tommy’s laughing, bragging about the art he picked up at some flea market last weekend, and the next he’s bleeding, nail dragged along his palm after a misjudged swing of the hammer.

Buck doesn’t register what happens for what he assumes is a full decade. At least that’s what it feels like before he snaps forward, arms outstretched as he reaches for a nearby towel.

Tommy’s face drops and he stares at blood dripping onto the ground, gaze lost behind skin turned ivory white. Buck wraps his hand with the towel, pressing tightly to staunch the blood, hoping the shock of pain startles Tommy enough to snap out whatever frozen state he’s fallen into.

“Tommy,” Buck says evenly, guiding Tommy to a kitchen stool nearby. They’re both firefighters – see hell in everyday calls, bloodstains so familiar they have tricks to get them out of every kind of fabric. Buck’s scrubbed gore from his gear more times than he can count.

But it’s different when it’s you – when the blood belongs to someone you care about. It all becomes so much more real, so startling to see pain worn on faces that usually wear happiness.

“Hey, Tommy, yo-you’re okay,” Buck says, tone even and steady. Far from what the butterflies rumbling through his chest are causing beneath the surface.

It’s really not that bad, the bleeding is already slowing, and if Tommy can take a few solid breaths, Buck would feel a hell of a lot better about not calling for a medevac.

Tommy blinks through the haze, eyes clearing as he finally meets Buck’s gaze.

“Take a breath, Tom,” Buck says, inhaling and counting to four, exhaling and doing the same. Tommy follows his lead, shoulders hitching before they drop. “Good. I-I don’t think you’ll need stitches, but I need to take a look.”

Tommy nods, still pale, still jittery, his eyes flitting around the room like they’re looking for an exit. Buck lifts the towel carefully. The gash is red, angry, but no longer bleeding. It’s shallow. Painful, sure, but nothing serious.

“I think w-we can get away with a few butterfly bandages,” Buck says. “We’ll clean it, tape it, then m-maybe swing by the pharmacy tomorrow for a tetanus shot.”

He gently drapes the towel back over the wound and heads to the cabinet for the first aid kit. When he returns, Tommy hasn’t moved, his knee still bouncing with nervous energy, eyes trained on the ceiling.

“You okay?” Buck asks gently, pulling up a stool beside him.

“Yeah. Sorry,” Tommy mutters, not meeting his eyes. “I don’t know what it is about my own blood, but this always happens.”

Buck feels a sad smile worm onto his lips, Tommy’s quiet admission tugging at his heart. He can’t help but picture a younger version of Tommy – wide-eyed and overwhelmed by a scraped knee, a papercut, something small but still too much. That same panic, just tucked into a bigger body now.

“Well,” Buck says with a gentle smile, snapping on a pair of gloves, “lucky for you, I’m a trained professional.”

He works quickly to disinfect the wound and add the bandages, wrapping bloodied gauze in his gloves before tossing them into the trash, hidden from view.

He washes his hands, grabs an ice pack from the freezer and a glass of water, and returns to Tommy’s side. He presses the cold pack to the back of Tommy’s neck and slips the glass into his hand.

“Drink this,” Buck tells him, and Tommy does – not one to say no to much when Buck is the one asking.

Color returns to his cheeks little by little, and when the glass is empty, Buck lifts Tommy’s hand in his own. He presses a kiss to the bandaged gash, then another to Tommy’s cheek. Tommy’s eyes drift shut at the touch, breath soft and even now.

“Thank you,” Tommy murmurs as Buck leans back. “You’re right. I’m very lucky.”

Buck just smiles, thumb brushing over the back of his hand. And in that moment, it seems Tommy forgets he ever felt any pain at all.

Karen can’t remember the last night she’s spent alone – truly alone, her and the quiet. One without the stress of the kids – spilled glitter, tennis shoe scuffs and an ever-expanding hole dug out in the yard, all marking the hours between carpools and bedtime routines.

Hen’s schedule is hectic, that’s not new, but with Bobby gone, the 118 feels like it’s hanging on by a thread, and Hen’s shouldering more than her share. She may have turned down the captaincy, but judging by the dinner-table rants about broken gear and mangled shift rotations, her mind hasn’t gotten the memo.

Chim has been stretched thin too – a new baby, a brother-in-law crashing in the guest room, and Gerard stirring up just enough trouble to splinter the team even further. Eddie’s been around more often, time savored with Christopher sparking conversation over coffee and donuts on days Hen races through errands.

Karen is grateful – so grateful. She’s loved. She’s seen. She’s part of something real. A family she’d once only dreamed of.

But.

She just wants a goddamn glass of rosé and a bubble bath.

One night where her soundtrack isn’t permission slips and fourth-grade math, but soft music and the soothing silence of being alone.

They're in the kitchen – Karen ladling soup into Tupperware, Hen mid-rant about Eddie and some missing piece of equipment – when she finally cracks.

“I want a night without you,” Karen blurts before she can stop herself, words tumbling free completely unfiltered.

Hen freezes, hand on the faucet, eyebrows lifting in confusion, mouth agape with surprise. “What?”

Karen sets down the ladle and exhales, steadying herself before turning to face her wife fully. “I know,” she starts gently, reaching for Hen’s sudsy hands, “there’s been so much going on since Bobby died.”

Hen’s eyes glisten with unshed tears, her expression softening into a sad, knowing smile.

“But I want – no need a night. Just one night. Alone.” Karen admits, eyes pinched with worry. She exhales a quiet sigh of relief at the admission, the weight of expectation hanging so heavily across her chest she hadn’t realized how much it was pressing her down until she sets it free.

“Sweetheart,” Hen murmurs, leaning in and capturing Karen’s lips in a soft kiss. “Of course – I’m sorry. I’ve been so focused on everyone at work that I…I’ve been neglecting how much you do here.”

“I want to do it,” Karen rushes, quick to ensure there’s no confusion. “I’m happy I can take that burden off you, Hen. But if I have to watch How to Train Your Dragon one more time, my brain might actually liquefy.”

Hen chuckles and pulls Karen into a hug. It’s warm, grounding, heartbeat to heartbeat that settles the world around them. When she leans back, she presses another soft kiss to Karen’s temple as she sighs into Hen’s touch.

“Alright, come on,” Hen whispers, already slipping into action mode. “You’re off-duty for the rest of the night. I’ll call Chim – work on a babysitting plan.”

Karen lets herself to be steered to the couch where Hen drops her, pulling up her feet and wrapping her in a fuzzy, cozy blanket. She dims the lights and syncs her phone to the speaker, queuing up a playlist of soft jazz that Karen loves. She sinks down beside her and wraps an arm around her shoulders, holding her close.

Karen breathes in the scent of Hen’s perfume, the faint chime of her earrings mixing with the music in a soft symphony of familiar comfort. She pulls the blanket tighter and exhales, her body finally beginning to let go. Hen’s fingers trace slow circles along her spine, and it doesn’t take long before Karen starts to drift.

Wrapped in warmth, surrounded by love, she lets her mind float. For the first time in what feels like forever, she doesn’t feel alone in her need. Because Hen is there, not just beside her, but really with her. And this, maybe, is all she needed after all.

It takes a few minutes, bleary eyes squinting into the dark, sleep clinging heavy to his lashes, before Tommy feels consciousness pull him fully into the waking world. He rubs at his face and turns over, a tight, unplaceable knot twisting in his chest as he reaches across the bed for his boyfriend.

But Evan’s side is empty.

The sheets are a tangled mess, the blanket bunched around Tommy’s hips, a pillow shoved up against the headboard like it was thrown there in a hurry.

When his fingers graze over Evan’s usual spot, the fabric is cold. Missing the heat that usually rolls off Evan like a slow-burning coal furnace, radiating from him like a homing beacon, always guiding Tommy closer.

Tommy’s heart races behind his ribs, his mind hurtling images of Evan on the highway, Tommy and his shattered promises left behind in the dust. It flashes through broken bones and blood, breakdowns, booze, and every unsettling scenario elbowing its way forward as Tommy throws the covers off and stumbles out of bed.

“Evan?” Tommy calls out as his feet find the hall, floorboards chilly against his skin while he tugs a t-shirt over his head.

Popping his head into the kitchen, he finds it just as empty as the bedroom. His heart sinks when he sees Evan’s phone left out on the table, abandoned beside a half-empty mug, the bitter scent of coffee still hanging in the air.

By the time Tommy passes the empty living room and peeks into the cold and dark garage, his heart is threatening to escape his chest. His pulse quickens as his mind cycles through shift schedules and babysitting offers. Evan should be here.

But he’s not.

It’s only when Tommy opens the back door that his lungs finally unclench. A flash of familiar blue catches his eye, Evan’s hoodie standing out against the concrete. He’s hunched on the steps, motionless.

“Evan,” Tommy breathes, voice soft and fragile in the quiet of the early morning. “I was looking for you. Everything okay?”

Evan doesn’t answer, arms wrapped tightly around his torso as his knee bounces relentlessly. His eyes are fixed, focused across the yard, glassy stare holding pain behind tear-filled eyes.

“Hey.” Tommy moves closer, wrapping a hand gently over Evan’s shoulder, but Evan barely flinches. He lowers himself down beside him, fingers curling around Evan’s cold, trembling fists. The air is warm, the soft breeze bringing goosebumps to Evan’s clammy skin.

“Evan,” he murmurs again, softer.

It takes a few tries, Tommy’s hands squeezing Evan’s knee and brushing over his shoulders, quiet breaths beside one another as trembles soften. Eventually, Evan looks up at him, eyes seemingly clearer.

“I-I feel like…I don’t know – really know – if this is real,” Evan says softly. Tommy’s chest tightens again, worry brimming as Evan’s sad eyes paint pictures into his past.

Evan continues, muscles still tense, voice shaky with every confession. “When I got struck by lightning, I had this dream,” he says, eyes cast over the yard again. “Everything wa-was wrong – it was like I wanted it to be but…uh, Maddie was with Doug. I-I didn’t know Eddie. I wasn’t a firefighter even – a-and Bobby…”

His words taper off, voice faltering. The silence that settles there instead is sharp, and Tommy might not be that smart, but he’s not stupid either.

“He wasn’t alive,” Tommy finishes for him.

Evan looks up at him, bright blue eyes dulled by storms of quiet pain. He nods slowly as tears start to fall.

Since Bobby died, Evan’s sleep has been wrecked – past traumas and pain long forgotten relentless in their renewed revenge. Tommy’s held him through broken screams over 80-foot waves, skin scrubbed raw between cries of finding Chimney bleeding out and Maddie gone without a trace, burning agony through flashes of pain against flames tipping a ladder truck.

But this is new.

Tommy knew about the lightning strike, heard stories of time lost between it and resuscitation, three minutes from losing the love of his life before they’d ever met. Tommy doesn’t like to think about it – avoids the pain of possibility.

But the agony Evan’s in now – of a dream turned nightmare turned rotted reality – it’s far beyond what he’s dealt with before.

“I’m so sorry,” Tommy murmurs in the shell of Evan’s ear, unable to convey just how much he wishes he could change both the nightmare that found him and the premonition it became.

“I-I used to text him – make sure he was okay when I woke up every day,” Evan admits softly as his muscles tighten impossibly tighter. “A-And tonight I had a dream – like that one…that he was gone. When I woke up, I went to text him and…”

Tommy’s heart breaks for Evan not for the first time. A witness to his pain in the lab, an image Tommy wishes himself he could forget.

He doesn’t try to fix it. Doesn’t rush to tell Evan it’ll be fine. He just holds him tighter, pressing a soft kiss into his curls as the early light begins to stretch across the yard.

When Evan finally relaxes, just a fraction, Tommy turns to him and offers a gentle smile. He hopes his eyes show just how much he cares, how he wishes he could tear the pain from Evan’s heart and curl it into his own.

“Come on,” he says, standing up and extending a hand. “Let’s get a little more sleep. Later today we can go see Athena.”

Evan blinks up at him, a hint of something like relief flickering behind the sadness. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, I’m sure she’d love to get lunch. I know we’ve got a few good Bobby stories left to fill you in on,” Tommy says, interlacing their fingers as they make their way back into the house.

By the time they make it back to bed, Evan’s eyes are heavy with sleep, body sinking into the mattress in exhaustion after being wound so tight.

Tommy pulls him close and presses Evan’s head to his chest, right above his own beating heart. Evan exhales and wraps tightly around him, breathing steadier now.

Before the soft morning air carves a piece of time to tuck back into and drift off, Evan murmurs a quiet “Thank you.”

Tommy presses a kiss to his hair and whispers back, “Of course,” knowing he’ll carry Evan’s pain if it means he never has to feel alone again.

“Fuck,” Sal’s voice cuts through the house, tight, sharp with pain. Tommy’s heart leaps into his throat as he bolts through the halls, skirting past the kitchen and heading for the bathroom, where he’d heard the shout.

“Sal?” Tommy asks, worry stretching his voice between doorways. “You okay?”

There’s a soft clatter followed by the abrupt sound of the faucet shutting off, and what Tommy can only assume is a wet towel thrown against the door. Panic fills his lungs with every breath. He knocks quickly and calls again, “Sal, answer me, or I’m coming in.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sal’s voice echoes back. It’s stiff, Tommy can hear the way his shoulders are tense and hunched, his brow furrowed in pain and frustration. “I’m fine.”

There’s another soft huff, a drawer slamming shut with a resentful thud, and the quiet tumble of a lock at the door. Tommy waits for it to open, but after fifteen seconds of the doorknob jiggling, Sal mutters, “Fuck this.”

That’s enough to make Tommy twist the knob himself. The sight that greets him is pitiful. Sal’s arm, wrapped tightly in plaster from shoulder to hand, is tugged in a sling close to his chest. His hair is ruffled with sleep – a little too wild – and a five o’clock shadow glints sparks of salt and pepper in the soft fluorescent glow of the bathroom light.

His sweats hang crooked on his hips, barely staying up after a half-hearted attempt to adjust them. Dark circles fill the skin beneath his eyes, drooping tiredly behind his glasses – signs of sleepless nights spent in too much pain to find rest.

Across the counter, Sal’s toothbrush lies abandoned next to an open bottle of toothpaste. A wet rag is carelessly tossed nearby, and a loose razor rests beside a pair of contacts.

Tommy can’t help the sad smile that fills his face, reaching out for Sal to offer comfort as he stands there looking worn-out and ragged despite it barely breaking daylight.

It’s his first morning after being discharged from the hospital, and he laughed when Tommy asked if he wanted any help. Tommy knows Sal well enough that he predicted they’d end up here all the same. He’s just grateful the broken arm is still the only injury.  

“Yeah, yeah,” Sal grumbles, rolling his eyes as Tommy steps into the room. “Go ‘head, say it.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Tommy chuckles, nudging Sal lightly and pressing a kiss to his temple, gently guiding him to sit on the closed toilet lid.

“But you wanna,” Sal mutters, his voice a playful mimic of Tommy’s baritone. “I won’t say I told you so, Tory, but I will say I was right.” He gives a theatrical impression, his face pinched just right, and Tommy can’t help but laugh.

Tommy wrings out the washcloth in warm water, taking it along with the razor as he steps closer to Sal. He tilts Sal’s chin up gently, his hands soft and careful as he lathers shaving cream between his fingers, then smooths it across Sal’s skin. He’s tempted, briefly, to keep Sal laid-up for longer than necessary, if only to be able to care for the man he so fully adores.

“I think the scruff looks cute,” Tommy says as he draws the razor up, the scrape of the blade finding Sal’s bare skin beneath it.

Sal huffs again, skeptical. “Cute.”

“Yeah, cute.” Tommy works slowly, careful not to press too hard or skim too quickly, eager to keep the rest of Sal’s body held together firmly. He cocks an eyebrow in a playful challenge, knowing Sal’s far too romantic to resist. “You don’t think I’m cute?”

Sal scoffs, pulling Tommy closer by the waist. “You know I do,” he says softly, his fingers slowly tracing the knobs of Tommy’s spine, sending a shiver through him.

The only sounds in the small bathroom are the scrape of the razor against skin and their quiet, shared breaths, time suspended for only them.

Tommy’s dad taught him to shave – back ramrod straight, eyes forward, focused. Side by side in the bathroom mirror at thirteen. Precise lines and sharp razors made for many cuts, but Senior never cared for bloodshed. ‘Clean it up,’ he’d bark, words stern and cold against the bleached white tile.

Crimson drops that spilled across the sink always stood out against the ivory, whispers of pain in a house filled with only perceived happiness. When he’d told Sal about it, Sal’s eyes had burned with a protective anger that Tommy hadn’t expected, a reaction so fierce he couldn’t name it at the time.

But now, standing here in their cramped ensuite, surrounded by tossed towels, half-empty bottles of shampoo, and a toilet paper rack that sports a leg in fishnet stockings courtesy of Sal’s sister from a local flea market – ‘Get a load of this, guys. Isn’t she hot?’ – nothing feels suffocating.

It’s home. Spelled with the letters of his boyfriend’s name, carved into pieces of his routine and parts of his heart.

“Look at you,” Tommy says when he finally finishes, his voice warm, the stubble gone and skin soft. “Handsome as hell.”

“That’s what they tell me,” Sal says, gaze as soft and adoring as it always is when he looks at Tommy.

When he leans in for a kiss, it tastes like spearmint and shaving cream, Sal speckled between each heavenly breath. Sal pulls Tommy closer, wrapping his arm around him, and before Tommy can protest, he’s tugged down into Sal’s lap.

“Sal! I don’t want to hurt you,” Tommy gasps, instinctively reaching for his shoulder.

Sal looks offended, shaking his head as he pulls Tommy in even tighter. “You could never.”

“Let’s not try,” Tommy murmurs, brushing his fingers against Sal’s cheek. He pulls Sal in for another kiss, his thumb gently stroking the back of Sal’s neck. They share several more kisses, slow and soft, before Tommy finally stands and reaches a hand out to help Sal up.

“Thank you, baby,” Sal says, taking Tommy’s hand with a soft smile on his rosy cheeks.

“’Course,” Tommy says easily, smirking as he guides Sal out of the bathroom. “I won’t say I told you so, Tory, but I will say I was right.”

Sal groans, pushing him back with a playful shove. The door slams shut, and Tommy hears Sal’s voice muffled behind it. “You’re on time out,” Sal grumbles, and then the soft patter of footsteps fades down the hall.

Tommy chuckles to himself. Soon enough, he knows, Sal will come back for him. After all, it takes two hands to open the jar of pickles.

A jagged pulse of pain hammers at the base of Sal’s spine, a pounding doom echoing up into the hollow of his skull. His eyes squeeze shut, bracing against the slow, crawling throb that snakes through the crook of his neck and digs into his jaw.

The urge to scream lives just behind his lips, twisted down in a tense frown as pain spikes into the rooted nerves of his teeth. To say he’s familiar with agony like this would be a disservice to the feeling. It’s an erasure, a blanking-out of memory and meaning, leaving only the sharp flicker of nerves under skin.

He swallows, throat thick with the agony he’s working so hard to push down, shoving back stuttered breaths trapped between his ribs. Off-kilter and swaying, Sal folds forward, hands braced on his knees, as the world reels behind closed eyes.

Sal was born into grease – son of a mechanic – his father’s hands always smudged, cheek streaked with soot, eating bologna sandwiches over the kitchen sink. Sal’s known the language of engines since boyhood. Wrench to lugnut, bolts threaded into warped metal, machines bent into purpose.

Now his brain feels like an unfinished Cadillac. Wide, clunky, sprawling outside the frame it was built for. It leaks some essential fluid across metaphorical cement, leaving behind glistening trails of thought he can’t quite recover. He steadies himself with a memory, soft and rhythmic – the clang of tools in a box, rags worn threadbare, a symphony of iron and steel scored into his bones.

It’s been decades – lifetimes really – of painful pulsating and goosebumps painting his flesh. Sal can barely stand let alone open his eyes to the voice that's calling his name from the shore of something like stability.

“Sal,” the voice says again, warm enough to thaw the icy press that’s settled into the folds of his brain. “Jesus, come on, babe.”

Tommy.

He’s there, just outside the recesses of sharp and jagged cruelty, sitting beyond the agonizing ache that’s grown from neck to chest in a matter of moments. Sal inhales, searching for grounding in old lessons – phrases felt in the calloused grasp of his dad’s meaty paw guiding Sal’s too-small hands over crankshafts and timing belts.

When the piercing pulse fades, Sal stabilizes himself – back on land with the man sent out bring him ashore – he feels gentle fingers comb through his hair. The soft pads of Tommy’s touch fall across his scalp, soothing the ache that sits still just below the surface. Each press is warm, palm held against the nape of his neck before sweeping across his skull once more.

“You okay?” Tommy asks, voice soft with amusement, worry hidden behind the edge of a smirk Sal doesn’t need to see to recognize.

Sal cracks his eyes open against the midday sun, golden light pouring through Tommy’s lashes, turning his irises ocean-blue. He shoves Tommy half-heartedly, standing upright, rubbing sweat from his temple with the back of his hand.

“Jackass,” Sal mutters, smirking as he reaches out to pull Tommy back in.

Tommy grins, closing the gap with a kiss, his hand once again pressed gently to the nape of Sal’s neck. Right where it belongs.

Their mouths meet and Sal tucks his tongue between Tommy’s teeth, sweeping the roof of his mouth before pulling back and licking his lips over melted sweetness.  

“Mmm. Chocolate.” Sal hums, pleased. “Knew you’d go for a classic.”

Tommy laughs and lifts a small dish in offering. “You didn’t even wait for me to get mine before housing half of yours.”

Sal snatches the dish with mock offense, plunging the spoon into the perfectly rounded gelato and cramming a bite into his mouth. “Couldn’t resist.”

“That’s what you get,” Tommy nudges him as they wander toward a table beneath a sky so blue it puts the sea to shame. “You never learn, Tory. I’ve never seen you eat gelato without getting a brain freeze.”

“Pistachio sings a siren song, baby,” Sal sighs as Tommy sinks into the seat Sal pulls out for him. He leans down and kisses the top of Tommy’s curls. “Just like you.”

Tommy chuckles, scooping a bite of his own and smiling as the chill hits his tongue. “You’re lucky you don’t have to hear me sing.”

“Whaddya mean, Tommy?” Sal leans in, grin spreading. “You sang a cappella this morning and it was beautiful.”

A puzzled squint flickers across Tommy’s face before realization dawns. He kicks Sal under the table. “Keep that up and your sugar daddy keeps the sugar.”

Sal clutches his chest in mock betrayal. “I can’t live without my gelato, Tom.”

Tommy snorts. “You can’t live without the drama, either.”

Sal beams, settles back in his seat, and takes another bite. The sweetness lingers, cool on his tongue.

“Maybe,” he says, gaze drifting out over the endless blue. “But I think I'm doin' pretty good with both right here."

Buck’s third tequila soda goes down like gasoline, all burn and bite sitting at the back of his throat, the kind of pain that reminds him he’s still alive. Unfortunately. He’s been sulking – stuck on the way he turned on Tommy, let venom spill between them over a dick-measuring contest so stupid he wants to claw back time just to keep his mouth shut. Just to bite his tongue after tasting Tommy again, after wasting too much time, silence spread over banana bread and baked Alaska.

Buck doesn’t love Eddie – can’t, not like that. Not after seven years of riding shotgun through near-death experiences, silent treatments, and shouting matches bolstered by big egos between emergencies. They’ve been neck-deep in each other’s messy bullshit since day one, and Buck’s not trying to find out what kind of radioactive mess a romance with Eddie would look like. They bicker over everything from dirty turnouts to whether tomatoes count as fruit.

He loves him, loves everything about their friendship and what its grown into. Looking back, Buck can admit he found Eddie attractive in his early days at the 118. Time, and sex with men, have taught him to recognize it. But the heat faded, replaced by the steady warmth of someone who feels like blood, like home.

“Another?” The bartender – Atticus, as Buck learned around drink number two – leans in, nudging the empty hi-ball. Glossing the bottom of the glass, ice melts as the jukebox grinds out Springsteen and the low hum of bar patrons only fuels the fire blooming in Buck’s chest.

It’s been six days since Tommy walked out of his kitchen, fifteen days since Eddie left the state, and too long since Buck found a real reason to smile. He nods, slow and sad, and slides the glass forward with condensation dripping from the rim, tears shed in the neon cathedral of a WeHo dive.

By the time he’s downed another – and maybe a few more – the crowd has thinned. Blurred edges of the night shift between clouds of Marlboro smoke and sloppy sounds of a hookup unfolding at the end of the bar. Buck feels a flicker of envy, wishing he could rinse Tommy out of his mind and dive headfirst into something easy. But he’s teetering on the edge of the stool, and even drunk Buck knows 2:14 a.m. is when regret starts masquerading as opportunity.

He throws some cash across the counter and mumbles a thanks. Atticus lifts a brow. “You calling an Uber? Need a ride, man?”

“’M good,” Buck slurs, breath deep and uneven as he slips free from the bar stool. He wobbles across the floor, pool balls breaking behind him as he lazily salutes the bouncer on his way out.

The street is too bright. Harsh halos of streetlight glare against the sidewalk, and Buck figures he’s got forty-five minutes before the hangover pre-game starts and he pukes in some alley en route home. He pulls out his phone, squinting at the screen as he fumbles through the rideshare app, finally managing to request a ride. Seven-minute wait.

Before he can slip the phone back into his pocket and lean against the warm brick of the back alley of the bar, a force crashes into him, knocking the air from his lungs and slamming him to the pavement. His legs are pinned and a fist cracks across his jaw without warning. It’s heavy, sharp – nothing like the teasing sparring Tommy taught him between muay thai drills turned sweaty summer sex.

He scrambles, instinct kicking in as he tries to flip and crawl away, arm covering his head as he yells. A rough hand flies over his mouth.

A gravelly voice growls low and angry in his ear, “Shut the fuck up.”

Fingers yank on his jeans, pockets turned inside out, wallet, keys, and phone ripped away in an instant. Buck prays it’s enough, mission accomplished with trophies of Buck’s shitty credit score and seven dollars in cash.

His face is shoved into the concrete, ribs caught in a sharp kick that steals what little air he has left. Another slap sends his skull ringing, and the tequila churns hot and sour in his gut.

When it’s over, he pushes onto his knees, swaying. The man is gone, by the time Buck can breathe, the alley is empty. A crow picking at a garbage bag and a puddle of something sticky glistening under the streetlight.

Tommy jolts from a fitful sleep to the sound of fists pounding on his front door. The clock reads 2:39 a.m. when he squints at his phone, eyes blurry with sleep. Heart already racing, he swings his legs out of bed and shoves into a pair of sweats, dread pounding in his chest with every step toward the noise.

Being a firefighter – and frankly knowing any member of the 118 – means knocks at this hour are rarely anything but bad news. Tommy rounds the corner, dread hanging in his chest at the thought of a familiar face on the other side of a door with news of a lost life.

He opens the door, lungs hitching when he sees who's standing there.

Evan.

He’s swaying on his feet, barely upright, blood trickling from a gash at his brow. A bruise blooms across his cheek – deep, pomegranate red – and his jeans are torn at the knee. Dirt coats his palms. He’s shaking, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Tommy,” he exhales, voice shaky, fraying at the seams.

Tommy doesn’t hesitate. He reaches out, gentle but firm, guiding Evan inside by the elbow. He closes and locks the door behind them, steering him toward the kitchen – flashes of walks like this with a much different purpose fill his mind. A bag of frozen peas is fished from the freezer before he redirects them to the couch, catching more of Evan’s weight than he wants to admit.

It doesn’t matter. He’s too focused on making sure Evan’s okay to care about any of it – blood dripping onto the wood, scuffs across the tile from his shoes, figuring out the mess of whatever this relationship is. Evan is hurt. Here.

“Stay here,” Tommy says, steadying him with a hand on his chest when Evan sways again, even slumped on the couch. His eyes keep drifting, too slow to track movement. “Evan. I’ll be right back, okay?” Tommy raises his voice – not harsh, just enough to cut through Evan’s shifting focus. He watches his pupils, counts each breath.

Evan gives a jerky nod and Tommy only lets go when he’s confident Evan won’t topple over when he leaves.

He jogs to the bathroom and grabs the first aid kit, a couple of rags, his phone, and a clean pair of sweats along with a hoodie. When he returns, arms full, Evan hasn’t moved, eyes still full of tears that haven’t fallen, hands trembling with adrenaline and fear.

Tommy plants himself on the coffee table in front of Evan and pulls antiseptic and bandages from the kit, taking Evan’s hands into his lap so he can get to work.

“What happened?” he asks quietly.

Evan finally looks at him, eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed, but his pupils are even, clear. Tommy’s fingertips press against his pulse – it’s racing – but it’s steady, strong. No ambulance. Not tonight.

“I-I don’t even – I…” Evan exhales and swallows, breath heavy with the scent of tequila and lime, sweat dripping from his hairline and combining with the tacky blood that sticks to his temple. “I got mugged.”

Tommy sucks in a breath and stills. He looks up, emotions rising too fast to hide. He tightens his grip just a little, thumb brushing over the beat of Evan’s pulse. “Jesus, Evan. Shit. Where?”

He swallows back the swell of emotion he feels, overcome with the way his lungs tighten with the sharp reminder of how far he’s fallen for Evan.

“Jack’s,” Evan mumbles. “T-Thanks, I’m so-sorry I just – I shouldn’t have – I-I didn’t want to go to Maddie’s wi-with her Jee and her being pregnant, an-and Eddie moved, I told you that, right? S-So I j-just…I told the Uber…I didn’t even think about –”

“Hey,” Tommy says softly, scooting closer, unconsciously pulling his hand to Evan’s chest where he encourages deeper breaths. “Don’t worry. I was awake anyways.”

A wet chuckle tumbles out of Evan as he lets out a small sob, eyes shining as he looks up at Tommy. “Liar.”

Tommy smiles faintly. “I care about you, Evan.”

He gets back to work, passing Evan a tissue before wrapping his hands with gauze. Once that’s done, he moves to Evan’s face, dabbing away dried blood with a warm cloth, wiping away the sweat and salt and mess of the night.

“You can always call me,” Tommy says. “You know that.”

“I-I know.” Evan nods and takes a deep, shaky breath. He sniffles and looks deeper into Tommy’s eyes, their faces inches apart.

As Tommy mends Evan’s skin, Evan mends pieces of Tommy’s heart that were left fractured in the bright glaring sun of Eddie’s old kitchen. “I’m sorry,” Evan says quietly, words still slurring slightly under his late tequila haze.

Tommy’s face deepens into a frown, brows pinching in confusion. “For what?”

Evan showed up bruised and bleeding after getting jumped outside a shitty bar. What could he possibly need to apologize for?

“For wh-what I said that – I didn’t mean…have you met me?” Evan lets out a raw chuckle, the smallest smirk curling at his lips. “I say things before I think. But I didn’t mean you, Tommy.”

Tommy knows. Of course he knows.

“I know,” he says quietly, the hush of the late night hangs in the air, thick and dense between them. “We’re not that great at this whole thing.”

“Yeah,” Evan agrees, picking at his fingernails, something he always does when he’s anxious. Tommy’s seen it a hundred times. “What if we got better at it, uh, together?”

Tommy lets out a soft laugh, unable to fight the garden that blooms in his chest as Evan looks at him, hope shining in his tired, bruised eyes. He’s helpless to it.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, smile widening when Evan beams at him.

The grin pulls at Evan’s cheek and he winces, but it barely registers. He’s barely affected, stars speckling his eyes like Tommy gave him the world.

Maybe he did.

Looking at him now, Tommy knows, Evan certainly already gave it to him.