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?”