Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Crystal-blue skies stretch across Tommy’s vision as he scans the city below. Up here, in the cockpit of a helicopter, he’s weightless. Floating cloud to cloud, the only sounds those the machine makes, steady as the breath in his lungs. Blades churn above, the engine hums in rhythm with his heartbeat.

It’s calming. Quiet. Closest to what he believes can be called holy.

When Tommy joined the Army, it was after a childhood of screams and slammed doors from a father that never loved him, and a bottle of Beam that earned more of Senior’s time than Tommy. He’d never cared to salvage the parts of his soul that went missing before kindergarten. Being a cog in the machinery of the military felt more like home to him than anywhere else.

Sergeants barking in his ear commanding respect, demanding perfection, calling out “Kinard” like a number in a line-up.

It’s all he ever thought he deserved.

But as he moved through the ranks, he finally earned enough respect to be considered for specialty training, and the lure of a pilot’s seat sang to him like a Siren. The first time he took a flight on his own was the first time he understood love. The open air, the vast sky – freedom without misery, safety in her wings.

He earned his license quickly, stacked promotions one on top of the other, until an injury discharged him two months early. He couldn’t heal fast enough. That was the first time temptation whispered from the bottom of a bottle and one night chasing his father’s ghost scared him sober.

He’d rather die than become the man his Senior was.

And he almost did.

After a brutal probation in one of L.A.’s coldest firehouses, Tommy finally earned a spot that felt closer to who he wanted – hoped – to be. Still, he was too far, always at arm’s length, the tunnel too dark to see out of on nights it felt hardest.

It wasn’t until he collapsed in a strip mall – confusion fogging his mind and clouding him with exhaustion, dragging him closer to the afterlife – that he realized what he was missing.

Howie Han saved his life that day, in more ways than he’ll ever know.

Growing in confidence and earning his keep collided with the desire for more, and when the sky called out to him once again, he couldn’t resist her melody.

He never could stay grounded for long.

Transferring to Harbor was the best decision of his life. He was happy there – settled, confident, assured. Surrounded by people who had his back, a life filled with friends that formed jigsaw pieces, fitting perfectly with one another.

It was enough. It would’ve been enough forever.

Until the crash.  

The helicopter carrying him, his co-pilot, their medics, and a patient plummeted straight from the sky deep into a hell Tommy feared he’d never escape.

Now – floating across aquamarine skies, spotted with tufts of ivory white – he can relax. Breathe. He’s one with the machine he inhabits, so in sync the blades become an extension of his own body, movement so natural it’s like a second skin.

It’s picture-perfect. Serene.

Suddenly, the blare of alarms on the panel tear through his chest. Lights flash cherry-red, tangerine-orange between shrieks and shouted numbers. His headset fills with dispatch, his captain’s frantic shouts, his crew’s desperate prayers. The patient wails behind him, screams louder than the dying machine.

Tommy calculates, executes, reacts faster than thought – carrying out commands with muscle memory built through years of experience. He thinks of his deadbeat dad, frustrated he can’t tell him off to his face before he dies.

Thinks of his neighbor who won’t be able to reach her smoke detector to replace the battery without him. Thinks of next week’s pick-up basketball game, how Teddy won’t be there, how they’ll have to forfeit.

They were so close to winning it all this year.

Smoke thickens in the cabin, alarms sear straight into his brain, sharp and demanding. Screams fill the gaps between it all like horrifying kintsugi in surround sound. The ground rushes up faster than Tommy can pull them away.

Between one breath and the next, they collide with it, and the world goes black... 

Tommy jolts awake to the sound of his alarm, shrill and insistent, a cold sweat beading across his brow. He’s used to it now, or should be, the worst day of his life projected in grainy reels each time his eyes close.

Heart pounding against his ribs, nausea curling in his gut, adrenaline spiking as he flees the nightmare – they’ve become as routine as brushing his teeth. Still, it wrecks him.

Sheets ensnare his legs as he drags himself free. His spine cracks, his knee twinges, pain lances into his hip. He drags his hand over his face and wipes away the lingering marks of a fitful sleep, willing his body to get it’s shit together.

It’s been six months.

Today he’s supposed to show up at the 217, shake hands with people who know exactly how he failed. Failed to save the lives of a patient and one of his medics. Failed to protect the very person he was supposed to save.

Engine failure. Rogue drone. Murmurs of ‘it’s not your fault’ spread beyond hospital walls and Internal Affairs. It doesn’t matter.

He may not have caused the crash, but he was at fault for the lives he lost in it. He was the one that woke up in a hospital bed days later when two others never did. He would trade his life for theirs in a heartbeat.

Some nights, he thinks about trying. Ending it on the altar of grief too heavy for anyone else to carry. Howie has pulled him back from that very ledge more than once. Figuratively. Literally.

Tommy’s not sure if he owes the guy a beer or a right hook, but he’s good for it either way.

Howie will be there today. Said he’ll bring his wife and daughter, that he’s proud of Tommy, even.

Tommy’s curled over the bathroom sink with a toothbrush in his mouth as the nausea crests and he barely makes it to the toilet, puking up what little remains of the toast he’d eaten for dinner last night.

He’s earned a medal for his failure. The thought makes him sick every time. He’s waffled more than once, certain he’d never show his face at this thing, but he’d promised Howie. Gave him his word he would at least try.

And Tommy’s nothing if not a man of his word.

*

*

The ceremony goes quickly but still too slow for Tommy’s liking. He ends up bolting out of his seat as the Chief makes his closing remarks. Out the side exit, against the sun-warmed brick, he fumbles a cigarette from a crumpled pack. His hands shake too much to light the damn thing, until finally it catches.

“You okay, man?” Howie’s voice startles him, reels him back into his body, wrapped in smoke that curls around his shoulders.

Tommy nods, forces a ghost of a smile, and takes another drag.

Howie holds the medal in his palm and when Tommy glances down, the sun glints on it in just the right angle, blinding him. That growing pit of sickness Tommy lives with expands and jolts, the sight of it nearly taking him out at the knees.  

“You saved two lives, Tommy.”

“I lost two,” Tommy snaps back, angry at the suggestion that luck being on his pitiful soul’s side somehow warrants the thing.

Howie only shakes his head, leans against the wall and plucks Tommy’s cigarette free, taking a drag before handing it back. Tommy offers the open pack for Howie to take his own, but he refuses.

“I’ve got a kid and a wife to think about,” he says.

Tommy manages the smallest smile at the image of Jee giggling on his lap inside, Maddie sneaking him a piece of cake with a sparkle in her eye.

“You think you’ll come back?” Howie asks.

The answer is out before Tommy knows it with a shake of his head. A small tear dries in the sun before it can make landfall. It still burns.

“I don’t think…I can’t.”

Howie only nods, a tight smile winding up his mouth as he presses his palm to Tommy’s shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. “I get it.”

“Yeah.”

It’s quiet for a few beats, the distant echo of a car alarm dancing between buildings and fluttering birds escaping skyward the only noise breaking the stillness. When Tommy glances up to watch them leave, the sun stabs into his eyes until pain flares in his skull. The flash of pain grounds him.

“Eddie – Diaz, with the 118 – mentioned a friend of his is looking for a bodyguard.” Howie says it like it isn’t absurd. Like Tommy belongs in sunglasses and an earpiece, protecting sleazy men that don’t deserve it.

He huffs a laugh. “A bodyguard?”

Howie shrugs and grins. “You’re big and strong. You look like a movie star. I think that’s all that’s required.”

Tommy arches a brow.

“I don’t know, it just seems like,” he exhales, and Tommy can’t tell if he’s exhausted or amused. “It seems like you can deal with being a well-paid hunk of man meat on the ground for a while.”

Another drag of Tommy’s cigarette burns harsher as he inhales, the sharp smoke seeping into his lungs. “Like…a glorified security guard?”

“Yeah,” Howie nods as he pushes against the wall to stand. “I think it’d be pretty easy. Here–”

Howie snatches Tommy’s phone from his pocket and taps something into it. Eddie’s number, Tommy assumes.

“You really need a passcode,” Howie mutters with a chuckle.

“There’s nothing on it,” Tommy deadpans. “If someone wants my calculator my captain’s missed calls, they can have it.”

“That’s sad, man.” Howie doesn’t even try to hide his disbelief before he gives another friendly squeeze to Tommy’s shoulder. It’s so gentle and considerate, even the small amount of empathy feels unearned to Tommy. “Let’s hang out sometime, yeah?”

“Long as it’s not at one of these things,” Tommy nods his head, gesturing to the polite crowd milling just behind them and Howie laughs.

It’s bigger, a little more playful, and Tommy feels a spark of something warm in his chest that’s been missing since the crash.

“Scout’s honor,” Howie says, half-mocking, half-earnest.

Tommy chuckles, waves him off and glances at his phone. There’s a text Howie already sent to Diaz from his phone – It’s Chim, on Tommy Kinard’s phone. He’s your next hot bodyguard.

Tommy rolls his eyes, pockets his phone, finishes his cigarette, and steels himself for a last round of goodbyes before heading back to his dark, empty house.

*

*

“Kinard,” the guy says, chewing on the name with a heavy East Coast accent, the r swallowed in the back of his name. “You’re a friend of Eddie’s.”

“Friend of a friend,” Tommy corrects. “I used to work at his station. We’ve got some people in common.”

“Ah. Anthony. Nice to meet ya,” He pivots down a narrow hall, the sad beige walls giving way to worn brown carpet. “Small place. My brother Scott and I run it. Just a handful of us, but we stay busy.”

“What kind of, uh, clients do you serve?”

Anthony smirks, expression unreadable, some blend of unimpressed and amused, but keeps walking until they reach a cramped office at the back. He drops heavily into a chair behind the desk and gestures for Tommy to take the one opposite.

“We handle a lot of small-time stuff. Stalkers. Pre-trial assistance. Local celebrities who need someone to keep the riffraff away.”

The office smells like lemon-scented chemicals and mint gum, the bitter tang of coffee braided into the air. Somewhere nearby, a man barks into a phone. It’s one-sided but loud enough to make Tommy wonder who’s catching heat on the other end.

“How does it,” he sweeps a hand across the office, “all of this – actually work?” Tommy asks.

Anthony reaches into a drawer and pulls out a flimsy pamphlet – it’s the kind that looks like it should be warning kids not to smoke, to try an after-school club instead. Pixelated photos of bulky men in slightly oversized suits and tough-looking women crowd the cover, with blocky bullet points scattered down the page.

• Perform sweeps of meeting places
• Transport executives to business locations
• Check vehicles for explosives
• Keep a watchful eye for potential attackers
• Provide protection while traveling

“Here’s the gist,” Anthony says, tracing the list with the chewed end of an old ballpoint. “Depending on the client, we can be on call for an hour, a day, or weeks at a stretch.”

Tommy nods like he understands and knows what the hell he’s supposed to be looking for, though the setup seems straightforward enough. Nothing here screams danger, and he doubts this little outfit skirts action beyond the occasional hothead with a few years of bar fights under his belt.

“You guys carry?” he asks, flipping the pamphlet between his hands.

“Tasers, cuffs, sure. We’ve all got permits to carry firearms if someone asks.”

Tommy’s handled weapons, trained for far more than just flight in his time in the military.

It feels kind of absurd, the idea that protecting someone now could soothe the guilt of losing people under his watch. Still, the control appeals to him. A chance to tip the scales. To balance karma. To somehow right his wrongs.

Not to mention the practical reason. He can’t go much longer without making some money, his meager medical coverage won’t do much beyond keep a roof over his head and his savings are dwindling.

He sets the pamphlet down and looks back up at the burly man in front of him. “When can I start?”

Chapter Text

“We’re so excited to have you here,” Hannah says, broad smile stretching into her cheeks. She’s bouncy, giddy with the excitement she’s (unsuccessfully) trying to contain when she guides Dr. Kay toward the exhibit.

As Associate Curator, Hannah has been deeply involved in research and collections at the Getty, but this is the first opportunity she’s had to own a project of this magnitude.

“I’m glad to be here,” Dr. Kay smoothly replies, her own smile soft and warm. She’s already unique, her style attracting the eyes of many in the field, but her accomplishments far outshine her vintage tees and classic Doc Martens. Hannah glances at her again, eyes skimming her tattoos – sleeves filled with hyper realistic illustrations of animals wielding weapons – and her smile grows.

Dr. Judy Kay is a new Guest Scholar at the Getty Research Institute, specializing in Illuminated Manuscripts & Material Culture of the Late Middle Ages – a mouthful to some but fascinating to Hannah.

There may or may not be a picture of Dr. Kay on Hannah’s desk that she’s tucked away to avoid embarrassment. But she feels like she knows Dr. Kay as more than a scholar, given how often she’s turned to her bright face for advice over late night research dives.

Known for challenging old assumptions about authorship, gender, and symbolism in manuscript culture, Hannah’s used her textbook in recent coursework - Ink & Power: Women Scribes and the Politics of Devotion, 1250–1400 – and has her TED talk “Saints, Scribes, and Soft Power” nearly memorized.

“Y-You know,” Hannah says, stepping into the elevator and holding the door, “Your paper on blending traditional scholarship with digital tools inspired us to create an app for the library.”

Something like surprise flitters in Dr. Kay’s eyes, and Hannah nods rapidly, “It-It’s incredibly popular, we already have well over 150 subscribers.”

“That’s rad,” Dr. Kay smiles as she offers a friendly fist to Hannah. Hannah bumps it excitedly, and when their skin collides, she’s certain she’s never washing that hand again.

“It is rad,” Hannah beams.

The elevator dings and deposits them into the special collections library and Hannah can barely contain her bubbling energy as she leads the way. “We’ll start here and move through special collections – my personal favorite – before we head back to the archives. I want to make sure you stick around.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Dr. Kay replies, eyes scanning the massive collection as they work their way through the aisles. “I could live here if you’d let me.”

“If it were up to me,” Hannah says, “I’d build you a house in here myself.”

With that, Dr. Kay laughs, full throated, and Hannah feels like she’s earned a Nobel – it’s warm and mirthful, filling the stacks with childish wonder despite the ancient words the books hold.

“So. Tell me, Hannah, what are you interested in – what did you study?”

Hannah’s pulling back another door and leading them deeper into the collection, towards the oldest and most precious works – housed in a special room that pulls oxygen from the air and keeps them protected.

“Portrayal of disability in medieval literature,” Hannah boasts, “Your work has been eye-opening in reassessing the works of the time. Fascinating, really.”

Dr. Kay nods and finds Hannah’s eyes. They shimmer with a glint of gold tucked between the bands of green. “I’d love to hear more about it, when we have the time.”

Hannah’s fairly certain her stomach freefalls in the moments between that request and the next, and her heart races over the thought of someone like Dr. Kay being interested in anything she has to say.

When the door shuts behind them, cutting off the rest of the library from the small room, the vacuum of silence fills the space, and Hannah’s pulse reaches her ears as she nervously fidgets.

“Thank you,” Hannah says quietly, turning toward the room and shaking free from her awestruck expression. “Um, here we have the special collections – it’s where we house rare and unique materials in art history and visual culture, including archives, manuscripts, architectural materials, rare books, prints, and photographs.”

Dr. Kay nods, waiting for her to lead the way to their destination, eyes widening with excitement. Hannah steps forward, and the jolting and familiar feeling of unsettled ground erupts, shaking with what seems to be an earthquake. Hannah reaches for Dr. Kay and pulls her free from the smaller room, out to a nearby table, crouching beneath it as the shelves start to rumble.

The sound of cracking concrete and scraping metal fills the air, shattering glass sending glistening shards around the larger room they’re encased in.

“Heavy duty glass and door,” Hannah explains. They remain intact while the rest of the casing collapses, “to protect the collections.”

“And us, apparently,” Dr. Kay shouts over the loud rumble of shifting metal. The loud echoes of crumbling rock shoot through the air causing the pair to huddle closer together beneath the table, protecting each other until the ground settles.

When they emerge, the room is in shambles and Hannah’s heart nearly cracks out of her chest. Hundreds of years spent collecting and restoring precious works falling apart with one shift in the earth’s crust. Tears spring to her eyes before she has a chance to stop them, burning behind each blink. When she turns to Dr. Kay, however, her thoughts are stalled.

Drops of crimson blood emerge from a gash across Dr. Kay’s head, slicing her eyebrow and oozing lazily into her eye.

“Oh my god,” Hannah says, removing her scarf and pressing it to Dr. Kay’s temple. “You’re bleeding. Are you okay?”

Dr. Kay’s eyes roll up, seeking the wound that’s pulling tacky liquid from her skin and down her neck. She’s shaken free from her shock and nods, “I’m fine. I didn’t even notice.”

“Must’ve been a piece of glass,” Hannah’s eyes scan the room searching for the culprit of the injury. “Or maybe a piece of wood or metal or something – are you in pain, Dr. Kay?”

“Judy, please,” she replies with a gentle smile, “and no, I promise I’m fine. Should we go check on your colleagues?”

Crawling out, Hannah emerges from beneath the table and offers a hand, pulling Judy to her feet and keeping a tight hold on her elbow, eyeing the gash where she presses the scarf to her temple.

When Hannah moves to the door, though, something stands in her way. A shelf collapsed and fell across the entrance, well over eight feet of steel sprawled across open books and documents, glass cases shattered between the metal.

“There’s just one problem,” Hannah says, turning back to Judy. “I think we’re trapped.”

*

*

“So you’re saying there’s a chance,” Chim says, eyebrow quirked as he jogs up the stairs with Hen in tow.

“Over your dead body, Chim,” Hen laughs loudly, circling him when they reach the top where he stops, mouth agape in feigned shock.

“I won’t soon forget this,” Chim says, hands on his hips with a fierce glare. A smile grows on her cheeks as she makes her way to the kitchen island where Buck is chopping carrots, Ravi behind him drying dishes at the sink.

Buck feels another small piece of himself settle, those loose jagged pieces still hanging freely in parts of his brain since Bobby died. Plenty of moments still happen where those pieces fray happiness, cutting deeply into new memories formed without his laughter, but Buck takes the tiny wins with the painful losses.

Things are starting to bloom again in the garden he thought had withered away after the lab. The 118 is still under Gerard’s captaincy, but he’s less cruel than he used to be. He mostly keeps to himself, grumbling with occasional arguments about how things were “back in the day,” but he’s harmless. Something Buck is grateful for despite the desire to have another leader at the helm. One that pushes the team to greatness, draws their courage together within themselves and builds family bonds easily – with kindness.

With the birth of baby Han – Bo, a piece of Bobby but still too painful a reminder to wear his namesake so loudly – Chim was on paternity leave and Eddie re-joined, filling in as paramedic in his absence.

It shakes things up enough that Buck feels tethered again to the 118, but doesn’t tug on the painful parts of his past that are too raw to sew back together. And Eddie’s great at it – him and Hen are calm and confident, and their bedside manner is compassionate and caring.

Truly, Buck doesn’t mind, sticking with Ravi in the engine, a bond formed between them in the wake of Bobby’s death that Buck feels incredibly protective of.

Thoughts of Daniel occasionally flood his mind, wondering if he would’ve been a big brother to him like he tries for Ravi. In their stead, Buck feels importance in carrying those thoughts forward, even if only for himself and the lingering memory of his brother.

“Whatcha makin’, Buck?” Chim asks as he deposits himself onto the stool next to Hen, plucking a piece of carrot from the cutting board before Buck has a chance to swat his hand away.

“Stir fry,” Buck replies with a roll of his eyes. Ravi snakes between the countertops and makes to set the table, the soft clatter of stacked dishes a quiet song of familiarity in the afternoon air. “Rav said he was craving it.”

Grinning, Ravi spins and faces the team before continuing to set the table, and Eddie nearly collides with him at the top of the stairs. His eyes are locked tightly onto his phone.

“Sorry,” Eddie mutters as he skirts Ravi and past the team, pulling out a chair near the pool table.

“Everything okay?” Buck asks, his eyes narrowed, tossing chopped veggies into a dish at his workstation. “You seem a little distracted.”

“Hm?” Eddie glances up and shakes his head dismissively, “Yeah. Just trying to wrap things up with the house in El Paso.”

Buck nods, fingers moving back to the cutting board, mincing and dicing falling into patterns easily with his well-formed muscle memory. “Find a buyer?” he asks, and Eddie nods slowly.

“Hope so – got an offer at least,” he says, still focused on his phone. With the shift back to L.A., Eddie’s been tirelessly working to close gaps – re-enrolling Christopher back in school, helping Pepa out with doctor’s appointments and follow-ups, getting his re-certification and tacking on a few courses as a paramedic. He’s been antsy, if not glad to be back, but Buck wishes there was more he could do to help.

“Let me know i-if you need me to hang out with Chris for a couple days, if you have to…” Buck gestures broadly, “you know, go back an-and wrap anything up.”

“Thanks, man,” Eddie finally looks up at him, mouth curling up into a genuine smile. “I appreciate it.”

Despite the excitement he has over Eddie and Chris being back, and the overwhelming love he has for the Han family, Buck still feels a pang of loneliness. It’s easier to cope with time spent in solitude when he can fill the silence whenever possible.

Hen coughs and he shakes the thought free, clearly distracted enough to call attention to himself.

“How was your date?” she asks teasingly, plucking another veggie from the bowl.

Letting out a throaty chuckle, Buck says, “She was gorgeous but we just didn’t click – it seemed like she was hung up on this ex of hers. Colin something or other.”

“She wouldn’t stop talking about him on the first date?”

“This was o-our third date,” Buck corrects, brows raised. “She brought him up – more than once I might add – every date.”

“Sounds like you dodged a bullet,” Chim pipes in as he reaches for another carrot. Buck gets him this time, slapping his hand away mid grab.  

“Guess so,” he says as he glares at Chim. “Dating sucks, though. I wish I could just skip all this a-and get right to the good stuff.”

Eddie’s brows raise and he nods, “Tell me about it. I went on a date with a woman last weekend that said she was spiritual – when I asked her more about it, she told me she practices Satanism.”

Buck and Chim chuckle at that, Chim’s hand finding his way to Eddie’s shoulder to offer a friendly squeeze.

“I’m lucky,” he says with a grin. “Maddie’s perfect.”

“Good answer,” Buck says as he tosses the chopped veggies into a skillet and starts warming them on the stove. “Eddie, you’ve got sisters right?”

“Don’t even think about it,” Eddie bites back, hopping off the stool and heading toward the couch. “Off limits, Buckley.”

Buck’s jaw drops and he scoffs, “I’m a catch!”

“You’re a liability,” Eddie teases before collapsing in front of the television. There’s a movie playing with some kind of car chase on screen; Buck just smirks and dismisses him with a wave.

“You’ll get there, Buck,” Chim says, his voice a little softer, still teasing but with the quiet edge of support Buck’s used to from who he’s come to call an older brother. “Don’t put too much pressure on yourself.”

“Easy for you to say,” Buck smiles. “But yeah, I’m sure it’ll work out.”

He doesn’t lie – not necessarily – but he’s held parts of himself at bay, settling into something steady – reliable for the others. What Bobby said they’d need. And it’s easy, really, he’s fine, not broken, not sobbing over three a.m. half-empty bottles of liquor, far removed from a metaphorical and physical ledge.

He’s just…fine.

Right as he reaches for a spoon, intending to give the veggies a stir, the dishes along the table start to tremor and the equipment downstairs shakes with a loud roar.

“Earthquake!” Chim shouts, calling out to the station, voice booming as the ground starts to shake with more vigor. “Protect your heads, everyone!”

Reaction times fast as a whip, the crew stabilizes potentially dangerous hazards. Buck tosses the knives into the sink to keep the blades from scrambling across the countertop and slicing into an unsuspecting victim.

It’s loud, the ground trembling underneath their feet, metal and steel clanging together as tools skitter along the apparatus floor. Despite the speed with which it passes, the station is in disarray, and the crew eyes one another, that familiar song from dispatch won’t be long – calls will be tumbling in soon enough.

Collecting the most critical pieces of equipment, propping tools back against the station walls and into their proper compartments, it doesn’t take long for the klaxon to erupt through the station, pulling everyone’s attention. The crew hurries to the engine and takes off, Dispatch alerting them of the need for the 118 to evacuate and triage the Getty along with the 122 and the 136.

The drive to the Getty is swift – sidewalks and side streets littered with helping hands and simple messes, neighbors helping neighbors to clean up patio tables and broken flower pots, car alarms blaring every block with a new symphony of disjointed disaster.

By the time they roll up to the museum, there are already scattered crowds, faces hung with frustration and annoyance, some speckled with blood and pain. Familiar fire engines flank the entry, cherry red in the afternoon sun, and when the 118 pulls in beside them, Buck hops out along with Ravi and Chimney, slinging his oxygen tank across his back and jogging up to Gerard to wait for instruction.

“Bukley, Panikkar, you’re with Terrence and Rhodes from the 122, you’re in the research institute,” he points at the massive circular building to the right of the main entrance. “They’ve got a few of the staff left in collections – fifth floor.”

Buck nods and reaches for Ravi, his hand colliding with his partner’s shoulder as they take off for the building, joining Terrence and Rhodes along the way.

On the fifth floor, they find two women, trapped in what seems to be a small library, a shelf tipped and blocking the front door of the room.

“Help! We’re in here!” A woman pounds against the glass, her eyes shining with fear. She’s got blonde hair, curls falling flat under the likely weight of her scrambling to find cover during the quake. “We have someone injured.”

Terrence and Rhodes shuffle behind Ravi, allowing Buck to take the lead, and he urges the woman to step back. “We’re gonna break this glass,” he shouts, “take cover!”

She nods and scurries away, heading back toward another person who Buck can’t see clearly, though its apparent from their legs they’re sitting or laying on the floor deeper into the room. Working quickly, they shatter the edge of the frame, broken glass raining over them, before they reach inside and attempt to shove the bookcase out of the way.

It’s heavy, too heavy, and the angle is off, but they finally get a grip on a corner and create a crawlspace big enough for Ravi to climb through. When he makes it to the other side, the leverage from his grip allows them to heave the shelf free, finally making entry.

“We’re here to help,” Ravi calmly tells the perky blonde, arm outstretched to steady her. “What’s your name?”

“Ha-Hannah,” she says, tears threatening to fall. “A-and this is Dr. Judy Kay.”

“Judy,” another woman says from just behind her, quiet smile on her lips. She’s leaning against the wall, palm pressed to her temple where a stream of blood trickles steadily down the side of her face. “We’re okay, we just couldn’t get out.”

“Let me take a look at that,” Buck reaches for the scarf covering Judy’s injury, sees purpling bruises bloom beyond a small gash in her head, but doesn’t spot anything too concerning. He has her follow his finger, asks a few questions, and it seems she’s okay save for the cut, stitches likely in her future.

Meanwhile, Ravi is checking on Hannah, scanning for injuries and asking questions to make sure she didn’t hit her head without realizing. The 122 worked on stabilizing the entryway while they checked the victims over, so they can make an exit without worrying about collapse. Buck calls out, directing the team to start to head for safety.  

“We’re gonna get you out of here. Everything will be okay,” Buck says with an easy smile. When Judy smiles back, Hannah nods shakily, and Ravi helps them to their feet. “Is there anybody else back here?”

Hannah blinks and suddenly her face drops, color draining from her pearly skin in an instant. “Oh my god! Alex, h-he usually is…he works down here, I-I think he was working today but…we-we didn’t see him. Oh my god, is he okay? Can you check and see? What if he hit his head? What if he–”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Buck assures her as Ravi helps Judy through the door and Terrence keeps a hand on her back, holding her steady in the rubble. “I’ll look, you go with my friend Ravi, and I’ll get him out if he’s back there. Rav?”

“Got it,” Ravi guides Hannah out behind Judy and Buck nods. “I’ll be right back.”

In the back corner of the room is a smaller sub-section, encased in another layer of glass, the shelves pristine despite the quake. A few of the books have fallen, but there’s no broken glass, no fractured furniture, not even a speck of dust.

Buck opens the door, eyes scanning for anyone inside, calling out as he enters, “L.A.F.D., anyone here?”

No response. Sound is vacuumed from the space, the room so quiet he’d be able to hear the tread of socked footsteps, would easily be able to hear someone calling out for help.

“L.A.F.D.! Alex, you in here?”

Still. No response. Just as Buck’s about to turn around and head out, let Hannah know Alex must’ve played hooky that day, a sudden, sharp hiss sparks behind him where the door clamps shut and the broken sound of an alarm blares between breaths.

Buck jogs back to the door, pulling on the handle and desperately trying to yank it free. “Ravi!”

Ravi, face filled with alarm, bangs on the door. Buck can’t hear what he says, but he sees Ravi’s eyes dripping with concern as he turns to the women, asking a question. Hannah shakes her head and looks at Buck, her eyes finding his. It fills him with an icy dread, a sickening rush of cold terror flowing through his veins at the sight.

She looks horrified, eyes shimmering with tears, arms outstretched pointing at different doors, stumbling back into the room.

The air feels thinner, the quiet hiss echoing in his ears, and Buck spots a sign just beside the door that makes his stomach drop.

“OXYGEN REMOVAL SYSTEM ACTIVATES IN CASE OF EMERGENCY”

Oxygen removal system. Buck’s read about this. The Getty has a small room that contains incredibly rare artifacts, books, and manuscripts, and the room is in place to keep dust, debris, and any humidity out. It maintains the items and reduces wear and tear, as well as activating in case of a fire to protect the books.

Fear turns to desperation as Buck slams his fist against the glass, his chest growing heavier, a wave of dizziness crashing through him. Lightheadedness, lips tingling, the edges of his vision pulsing with his heartbeat, it all gathers and builds strength – his lungs aren’t getting any air.

He’s breathing but it’s not getting him anywhere.

The crackle of the radio startles him out of his panic, as Ravi looks at him through the glass – determined.

“Buck, listen to me,” Ravi says, voice firm. “The oxygen removal system kicked on, but we have time, okay? We’re working on getting you out.”

Despite every urge to beg them to move faster, to claw at the glass until it shatters under his fingernails, Buck shakes his head with a small nod. “Get them out first. Get them to safety,” he says, words tight, pointing at Hannah and Judy. “Bring back equipment. How long?”

“An hour,” Ravi says with a heaviness they’ve shared since the door slipped between Buck and Bobby at the lab. “We have time.”

Buck nods and smiles, tries to keep his voice light, knows fear betrays him. “Plenty.”

Ravi nods and directs the others out of the room, glancing back at Buck before disappearing himself. Buck does his best not to spiral, hopes to God there’s a way they can get through the reenforced glass, the heavy steel frames.

Staggering to his feet, he starts to assess, starts to work towards escape. He looks for any kind of manual lever, a panel he can tamper with to open the door, a key hole or emergency button. He sees a small camera, but no wires, no standard vents, no outlets, and his panic only grows.

By the time he circles back to the door, it’s been nearly twenty minutes, and he starts to feel heat rise through his limbs, up into his chest even though the room isn’t warm.

Turnouts shed, brow tight with worry, clammy with sweat, Buck stumbles before sitting back against the wall. He thought he had more time, but the way he’s been working himself ragged can’t have helped, his breaths more desperate and ragged than they were only minutes ago.

His vision blurs around the edges, sounds dull and fade away, heavy and thick like hearing through water. A high-pitched ringing echoes in his ears and his hands start to tremble.

Buck’s breath becomes the loudest thing in the room, and the sudden crackle of radio static seems deafening at first, then far away. Sometime between one blink and the next, Ravi’s back at the door, shouting through the glass with a muffled roar.

Buck’s thoughts fragment. Words slip – when he tries to call for Ravi, to tell him he’s fading fast, he stumbles – his fingers don’t work quite right, he can’t remember if Ravi can hear him or not through the radio, can’t figure out exactly why he’s here.

Time warps, the whir of equipment and shouts from the crew lost behind inches of heavy glass, behind growing specks of darkness fading into Buck’s vision.

Terror hits hard – his body knows before his mind does that something’s wrong. But before he has time to do anything about it, it shifts to something calmer, an eerie sense of relief. As Buck collapses into a heap, a soft exhale leaves his lips and the relief consumes him. His body’s last calm before shutdown.

His eyes close and he succumbs to darkness, his last thoughts fluttering to Alex and the hope of him having a fun day off, beer in his hand, laughter in his throat, safe and protected far away from this mess.