Work Text:
Tommy stepped off the training helicopter at the Coast Guard helipad in New York, his shoulders tense and his jaw clenched. The urban air rescue training would last two weeks; for anyone else, it would just be work. For him, it was a respite. A break from Los Angeles, from the 118, from the station where every corner still smelled of Buck.
They had broken up three months ago. Not with shouting or broken dishes. With a conversation on the loft balcony that lasted fifteen minutes and left Tommy feeling like the air had been ripped from his lungs. Buck had asked him to move in together, but fear paralyzed Tommy. He was afraid Buck wasn't truly "ready," that his bisexuality would make him doubt himself someday, that he himself (Tommy) wouldn't be enough after years of hiding and being hurt by the closet. That "you'd end up breaking my heart without meaning to" he'd said to Buck when they broke up still echoed in his head.
New York was noisy, cold, anonymous. Perfect.
The first week was spent in drills, theory classes, and practice flights over the Hudson. The nights were long. Tommy avoided tourist bars and ended up in small, dark places where no one recognized him. On Thursday, after a particularly exhausting day (crosswind, zero visibility, instructor yelling in his ear), he went into the Kingfisher, a discreet gay bar in the East Village that a colleague had recommended. “Good beer, good music, no one bothers you if you don’t want to talk.”
He sat at the bar, ordered a neat whiskey, and watched the hockey game on the screen without really paying attention. The New York Admirals were playing Boston. He wasn’t a fan, but the background noise helped him not to think.
Then someone sat down two stools away. Tall. Very tall. Black jacket, baseball cap pulled low, shoulders that took up more space than they should. He ordered the same thing: neat whiskey. Tommy recognized him before the guy even took off his cap.
Scott Hunter. Captain of the Admirals. The first openly gay player in the NHL. The guy who'd kissed his boyfriend on the ice after winning the Cup and had broken the internet for weeks. Tommy wasn't into sports, but even the FDNY had been talking about it.
Scott turned his head, looked at him for a second, and smiled with that calmness that seemed to come from knowing exactly who he was and not needing to prove it.
"Are you running from something too?"
Tommy let out a dry laugh, surprised by the frankness.
"That obvious?"
"You have that look. The 'if I stay still for a while, maybe it'll stop hurting.' look. I know it well."
Tommy took a long sip. He didn't feel like talking, but something in Scott's voice—low, non-judgmental—made him stay.
“I broke up with someone. Recently. I thought coming here would help me… breathe.”
Scott nodded, as if he understood every unspoken syllable.
“I went years without breathing. Literally. Hiding. In the locker room, on the court, in my own house. When I finally came out… it hurt like hell. But at least it was real air.”
Tommy glanced at him. Scott wasn’t bragging. He was just stating facts.
“And was it worth it?”
Scott smiled, softly, almost sadly.
“Yes. Because now I can kiss whoever I want without looking over my shoulder. And because the guy I love waited for me. Not everyone is that lucky.”
Tommy felt a pang in his chest. Buck hadn't expected it. Or maybe he had, and Tommy just hadn't seen it coming.
Scott raised his glass in a silent toast.
"To those who dare to breathe even when it hurts." Tommy clinked his glass.
"I'll drink to that."
They talked for a while longer. About work: helicopters vs. roller skates. About fear: the closet vs. the fear of commitment. About breakups:
Scott recounted how he'd almost lost Kip for not coming out sooner; Tommy spoke—for the first time in months—about Buck. About how he loved him so much that he was terrified of not being enough. About how he'd let him go so as not to break him any more.
Scott listened without interrupting. When Tommy finished, he simply said,
“Fear doesn’t disappear. It just gets smaller when you face it with someone who truly sees you. If he saw you… and you saw him… then maybe there’s still time.”
Tommy stared at his empty glass.
“Maybe.”
Scott stood up and left a bill on the bar.
“If you ever come back to New York and need another whiskey… or someone to remind you that you’re not broken… I’m here.”
He took a business card from his pocket—simple, just his name and number—and slid it toward Tommy.
“It’s not an autograph. It’s just… a number. In case you decide to breathe again.”
Tommy took it. He said nothing. He just nodded.
Scott put on his cap and stepped out into the cold night air.
Tommy stayed a while longer, staring at the card. The game on the screen ended. The Admirals won. No one celebrated in the bar.
When he stepped outside, the New York air hit him like a slap in the face. Cold. Clean. Painful.
He pulled out his phone. He opened his messages with Buck. The last one was from two weeks ago: a picture of Christopher smiling with a new video game. Tommy had replied with just a thumbs-up emoji.
He typed. Deleted. Typed again.
Tommy: Are you free tomorrow night? I need to talk to you. I really need to.
He sent it before fear stopped him.
The reply came almost immediately.
Buck: Yeah. Sure. At my loft. Are you okay?
Tommy looked at the brightly lit city, Scott's number still in his hand, the whiskey still burning his throat.
Tommy: Not completely. But I think I can be.
He put the card back in his wallet. He didn't know if he'd ever call Scott Hunter. But that night, for the first time in months, he felt like he could actually breathe.
And that maybe, just maybe, he could still fly back home.