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“See you tomorrow, Captain.”
The co-pilot slips out leaving the cockpit door ajar. He pauses just long enough to throw a, “Nice work today, Buckley! See you tomorrow!” over his shoulder before he leaves.
Buck jolts a little, caught off guard. “Uh—yeah, thanks. See ya!”
Buck steps into the cockpit and lingers near the doorframe for a minute, leaning against it all casual, like he’s not doing it on purpose… but yeah, he totally is.
Tommy is still in the captain’s seat, seatbelt undone, tie slightly loosened. He looks up and gives Buck that familiar smile; warm and genuine, if a little tired. a smile Buck never saw directed at anyone else.
“Good work today, Evan,” Tommy says. “Smooth service. You kept the passengers happier than I did.”
Buck can’t help it—he grins, shifting closer as though there is a tractor beam pulling him towards Tommy.
“Just doing my job, Captain.”
Tommy catches the tone. His eyebrow ticks up—just a little—and suddenly the whole cockpit hums with something that has nothing to do with avionics.
Buck steps closer without hesitation, like this is routine—which, at this point, it sort of is.
“I, uh… wanted to ask you something,” he says, fingers lightly tapping the back of the co-pilot’s chair restlessly, itching to touch anything in here.
“Oh?” Tommy looks toward him, voice teasing and low. “Another question? You’re determined to make me earn my paycheck today.”
Buck’s grin widens. He’s not embarrassed—he’s enthused, eyes bright with that contagious curiosity. “Well, you’re the one who told me to ask if I didn’t understand something. So… here I am.”
Tommy gestures for him to continue, “Alright. Hit me.”
“So, I read something last night and I can’t tell if it’s actually how it works, or if the book’s just messing with me.” Buck steps closer, leaning in as he points toward a cluster of controls near the throttle quadrant — nothing specific, just the general area pilots spend half their time fussing over.
“This part,” he says, wiggling his fingers over switches he definitely shouldn’t be touching but absolutely wants to. “It was talking about how the plane balances everything during landing—power, descent rate, all that stuff—and how sometimes you adjust here instead of here.” He gestures between two controls, only half-remembering the diagram and hoping Tommy can fill in the blanks.
Tommy tilts his head, amused, like he can recognize the pattern; Buck comes in with half a question, a quarter of a theory, and a full tank of enthusiasm.
“Okay,” Tommy says, settling back in his seat like he’s preparing for a pop quiz. “I can already tell whatever book you’re reading is oversimplifying things, but yes—that’s the general idea. The systems talk to each other more than people think.”
Buck beams, practically vibrating. “So it is real? I wasn’t imagining it?”
“You weren’t imagining it,” Tommy says, then nods at the controls. "Here, let me explain."
He starts talking, his hands hovering over the controls as he points out which levers influence what, how the aircraft balances inputs, how the systems communicate — a conversation Buck is only just learning to understand. His voice shifts into that low, focused cadence he uses when he’s in his element, effortlessly confident.
Buck leans in to follow along, because that's just a default by now—he always ends up close when Tommy explains things. It’s like his body doesn’t know the meaning of work-appropriate physical boundaries when he’s around Tommy the way his brain knows safety protocols.
At first, he’s listening, taking in everything Tommy is saying.
Then something happens to his attention. It slips—not all at once, more like a slide—until Tommy’s words turn into a warm, steady hum. Buck knows this feeling; it’s happened a few times before, when Tommy’s answering yet another one of his hyper-specific questions, going into that calm, detailed explanation that always reels Buck in. The world goes fuzzy at the edges, everything narrowing down to Tommy and the space between them.
Without meaning to, Buck leans even closer, bracing a hand on the armrest of Tommy’s seat. Their shoulders almost brush. Tommy doesn’t move away—doesn’t even seem to notice, wrapped up in his explanation.
Buck does notice one thing though—the vein on the side of Tommy’s neck. It stands out just slightly when he talks—a sharp, perfect line pulsing with every word. Buck has no business noticing it, no business cataloguing it, as if he’s taking inventory of Tommy’s traits and characteristics, like some kind of human checklist, but there it is. Right there. Distractingly alive.
Tommy keeps talking, oblivious to what's happening three inches from his face, his voice still measured, patient.
Buck swallows, eyes glued to that stupid, unfair, beautiful neck, and for a second he forgets what the original question even was.
That gets Tommy. He leans back in the captain’s seat, clearing his throat, cheeks flushing just enough to betray him. He looks anywhere but Buck for half a second before forcing himself to meet his eyes again.
“Evan,” Tommy says quietly, voice a shade lower than before, “you listening?”
It’s as if he’s offering a crossroads without saying a word—step back and pretend nothing’s happening, or step forward and admit everything already is.
Buck stays right where he is. Then he steps closer—close enough that Tommy’s breath catches, close enough that the space stops feeling like distance and starts feeling like gravity.
He doesn’t think or second-guess it. He just moves.
One heartbeat, Tommy’s waiting for an answer.
The next, Buck is leaning in, closing that last impossible inch, and pressing his mouth to Tommy’s—soft, startled, absolutely inevitable.
It’s gentle, not hurried. The kind of kiss that feels like it was hovering between them for weeks, just waiting for someone brave enough to tip it off the edge.
Tommy freezes for half a second, his brain is buffering reality. Buck feels it instantly, like missing a step in the dark—weight dropping before the mind catches up.
His stomach drops.
“Oh my god—” Buck stumbles back a fraction, eyes wide, breath tripping over itself. “Oh my god, I’m so sorr— I didn’t— I shouldn’t have—”
He doesn’t even get the sentence out.
Tommy’s hand lifts, his fingers curling around the back of Buck’s neck, warm and deliberate. It’s a choice. A come here that doesn’t leave room for misunderstanding, and suddenly Buck isn’t falling away from the moment—he’s being dragged right back into it.
Before Buck even processes it, Tommy is pulling him in and kissing him, not a flicker of hesitation in the way he meets him. Like that one panicked apology was the last obstacle he needed gone.
Buck gasps against his mouth, the shock melting out of him in seconds. All he can think is —
Oh.
This was always coming.
Like every question he’s ever asked Tommy was just a breadcrumb leading them here.
Tommy’s thumb brushes the side of Buck’s jaw, anchoring him in place.
Buck’s breath hitches, his knees weakening. He moves without breaking the contact, slow and cautious, like he’s waiting for Tommy to push him away. Tommy doesn’t. He stays perfectly still, eyes locked on Buck like he’s studying a flight path he never expected.
Buck eases into the space directly in front of him, tall enough that the cockpit suddenly feels criminally small—two feet wide and shrinking by the second. He hesitates, trying to figure out what to do with his absurd six-foot-two, all-leg situation, then settles into an awkward crouch between Tommy’s knees because gravity has apparently given up on subtlety.
Buck moves to adjust his balance, one knee catching awkwardly on the edge of the seat. Tommy reaches out to steady him, but Buck misreads the contact, shifts with it, and that’s all it takes. His weight tips forward, Tommy’s grip tightens, and they crash together in a clumsy, breathtaking tangle.
His thigh knocks into Tommy’s, their shoulders connect, and Tommy’s chair skids an inch on its rails. Buck slaps a hand onto the armrest to keep from toppling, and Tommy’s other hand lands on his back like instinct—holding him steady, not letting go.
Yeah. He ends up on Tommy’s lap.
They collide in a way that’s more oops than suave— warm bodies pressed together, chest to chest, breaths mingling.
Buck freezes for half a second, startled by his own boldness, but Tommy doesn’t seem the least bit surprised anymore. His hands hover near Buck’s hips, fingers flexing with restraint. Buck leans down and kisses him again—slower this time, intentional— and Tommy’s hands stop hovering.
He anchors him.
One hand at Buck’s waist, the other firm at his spine, holding him there like Buck might disappear if he loosens his grip.
Buck pulls back just enough to breathe, lips still brushing Tommy’s.
“Uh- y-yes, I was listening, but I… guess that wasn’t really a question,” he murmurs, voice unsteady in a way he’ll deny later.
Tommy’s laugh is soft, incredulous, and so fond it’s practically dangerous.
“No,” he says, voice low and sure. “But I think I know the answer anyway.”
The answer hangs in the air between them, thick and undeniable. Buck doesn't need to hear it again. He leans down, and this time the kiss isn’t a question. It’s a statement. It’s a seal. It’s a goddamn landing flare, bright and hot, guiding him home.
Tommy meets him halfway, mouth opening under his, and the last shred of pretense burns away. It’s all heat and tongue and the soft, desperate sound Buck makes deep in his throat. His hand, which was braced on Tommy’s shoulder, slides up, fingers tangling in the short hair at the nape of his neck. He feels the shiver that runs through Tommy’s body, the way his grip tightens on Buck’s waist, pulling him impossibly closer.
The kiss breaks, but only by a centimeter. Buck’s forehead rests against Tommy’s, his breath coming in ragged pants. His eyes flutter open, and he doesn’t look at Tommy’s mouth or his eyes. He looks at his neck. At that stupid, perfect vein, pulsing with life, with the low rumble of his voice, with the rapid beat of his heart.
He ducks his head, pressing his lips to the spot. He feels the frantic thrum of Tommy’s pulse against his tongue when he darts out for a taste, all salt and skin. Tommy groans, a low, guttural sound that reverberates straight through Buck’s entire body.
Buck’s hips shift, an involuntary roll of his body seeking friction. He’s half-hard already, and the pressure of his own weight against Tommy’s thigh sends a jolt of pleasure so sharp it whites-out his vision for a second. He freezes, a wave of heat washing over his face. He was supposed to be… smoother than this. Less like a teenager fumbling in the back of a car.
He tries to pull back, to create some space, some semblance of control. “Sorry, I—”
But Tommy’s hand is a steel band at the small of his back, holding him in place. “Don’t,” Tommy pleads, his voice wrecked. He uses his other hand to guide Buck’s hips, a slow, deliberate press that drags their clothed erections together. “Don’t you apologize for that, Evan.”
Buck’s head falls forward, a broken moan escaping him. All the tension, building for weeks and weeks, snaps. He stops thinking. He just moves. He grinds down, slow at first, testing the angle, the friction.
It’s perfect.
It’s not enough.
He does it again, harder, and the friction is electric, a delicious drag of heat that makes his toes curl in his shoes.
“Yeah,” Tommy breathes, his head tipped back against the seat, exposing the long line of his throat. “Just like that, Evan.”
The sound of his name like that—raw and wanting—unmoors him completely. Buck’s rhythm finds itself, a steady, desperate rocking motion that’s clumsy and graceless but so, so good. The cockpit is filled with the sounds of them—their hitched breaths, the soft rustling of fabric, the low, encouraging noises Tommy makes in the back of his throat. Buck’s hand is still fisted in his hair, his other hand gripping the armrest for leverage. He’s chasing something, a coil of heat winding tight in his gut, and every roll of his hips pulls it tighter.
He leans in, mouthing at the vein on Tommy’s neck again, sucking a mark into the skin there, wanting to leave a piece of himself behind. Tommy’s hand on his hip flexes, his fingers digging in, urging him on, faster, harder. The chair creaks beneath them, a frantic, percussive beat to the symphony of their bodies coming apart.
“Tommy,” Buck gasps — a warning. He’s so close, right on the edge, the pressure building to an unbearable peak.
“Come on,” Tommy urges, his voice a low command. “Let go, Evan. I’ve got you.”
And that — that’s all it takes.
The coil snaps.
Buck’s body goes rigid, a choked cry tearing from his throat as he spills, the pleasure hitting him in a blinding, overwhelming wave. He shudders, his movements becoming jerky and uncoordinated as he rides it out, his forehead pressed to Tommy’s shoulder.
For a moment, the only sound is their ragged breathing. Then Tommy’s hands are moving, gentle now, stroking up and down Buck’s back. Buck can feel the hard line of Tommy’s erection still pressing against him, and a fresh wave of want—lazy and sated this time—washes through him.
He lifts his head, his eyes hazy and unfocused. Tommy is looking at him with an expression that’s somewhere between awe and amusement, his lips swollen and his face flushed. Buck leans in and kisses him, slow and deep, pouring everything he can’t say into it.
When he pulls back, he murmurs, “Your turn.”
Tommy’s response is immediate, a deep, rumbling sound of approval that Buck feels He kisses him again, and it’s nothing like the first tentative press or the second, claiming one. This is a devouring. It’s all tongue and teeth and a raw, desperate want that tastes like ozone and satisfaction. It’s a kiss that says I’ve been waiting for this, too. Buck meets him with equal fervor, his hands sliding from Tommy’s hair to his jaw, holding him in place.
The world shrinks to this—the tight space of the cockpit, the scent of Tommy’s cologne mixed with sweat, the overwhelming heat of their bodies pressed together. Buck’s brain is a staticky mess of pleasure and need. He’s still buzzing from his orgasm, but the fire is already rebuilding, stoked by the way Tommy is kissing him like he’s trying to memorize the shape of his mouth, inside out.
He shifts his weight, intending to roll his hips again, to give Tommy the same friction that Tommy so generously gave him. But in his enthusiasm, he misjudges the cramped space. His elbow, flung out for balance, connects hard with the sharp edge of the overhead switch panel.
“Fuck!” The word is a sharp yelp of pain. He jerks back, cradling his arm to his chest as a hot, throbbing ache radiates from his funny bone straight up to his shoulder. It’s not serious, but it’s a jarring, ice-water-on-the-spine kind of shock that slices right through the haze of lust.
He grits his teeth, trying to shake it off. “I’m fine,” he says, his voice tight. He leans back in, determined to ignore it, to reclaim the moment. His mouth finds Tommy’s again, but the magic is broken. The kiss is clumsy now, his mind split between the throbbing in his arm and the fading heat between his legs. He tries to move his hips again, but the angle is awkward, and the sharp pang in his elbow makes him wince.
Tommy’s hands, which had been roaming his back, still. He pulls back gently but firmly, his hands coming up to cup Buck’s face. His eyes are soft, the frantic want replaced with a look of fond exasperation.
“Okay, okay,” he says, his voice low and soothing. He thumbs away a stray tear of pain Buck didn’t even realize had formed at the corner of his eye. “We’re stopping.”
“W-What? No.” Buck shakes his head, a genuine pout forming on his lips. “Tommy, I- I’m fine. It’s nothing. Don’t stop.”
“We’re not stopping,” Tommy clarifies, a slow smile spreading across his face. “We’re relocating.” He glances around the cockpit, at the maze of controls and the unforgiving plastic and metal. “This place is a death trap. I’m not taking you on a flight deck, Evan. I have some standards.”
He gently nudges Buck off his lap, his movements careful. Buck stumbles to his feet, his arm still tingling, his body still humming with unspent energy. He feels ridiculous, towering over Tommy in the tiny space, his semi-erection a blatant and insistent reminder of their interrupted activities.
Tommy stands, adjusting himself with a wince that makes Buck’s stomach clench with a fresh wave of want. He reaches out and hooks a finger into one of Buck’s belt loops, pulling him close.
“I have a hotel room,” Tommy says, his voice dropping back into that low, intimate register that makes Buck’s knees weak. “A real bed. No sharp edges. And a door that locks.”
Buck looks at him, his pout slowly turning into a hopeful grin. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Tommy confirms. He leans in and presses a soft, promising kiss to Buck’s lips.
“Good,” Buck murmurs, but then he’s on him again.
He crashes their mouths together, a messy, desperate collision that’s all teeth and tongue. It’s not neat, it’s not practiced. It’s hungry. He nudges Tommy back until his legs hit the captain’s chair again, and Buck uses his momentum to push him down into it. Tommy goes willingly, his hands coming up to grip Buck’s hips, pulling him down to straddle his lap once more.
Buck’s shirt is untucked, his tie a loose, forgotten knot around his neck. Tommy’s is in a similar state of disarray, his collar open, revealing the sharp, tempting line of his collarbone.
Buck’s hands are restless. He yanks at Tommy’s tie, finally pulling it free and letting it fall to the floor. His fingers make quick work of the buttons on Tommy’s shirt, needing to feel his skin, to feel the heat of him. He gets it open, his palms splaying across the broad, warm expanse of Tommy’s chest, feeling the frantic thud of his heart under his hand.
“Evan,” Tommy gasps, his head falling back against the headrest. "We really need to go."
But his own hands aren’t idle—they’ve slipped under Buck’s shirt, tracing the muscles of his back, his nails scraping lightly in a way that makes Buck shudder.
Buck leans in, mouthing a path down Tommy’s jaw to his neck. He finds that spot again, that pulsing vein. He presses his lips there, a soft, open-mouthed kiss that feels more like worship than a claim. He feels Tommy’s pulse hammering against his tongue, a frantic, lively rhythm that matches his own heart.
Tommy’s hands tighten on his back, not urging him on, just holding on. He meets Buck’s next roll, but it’s slower now, less about chasing an edge and more about savoring the moment. The chair still creaks, but the sound is less obscene and more like a quiet, steady beat.
Buck pulls back from his neck, just enough to look at him. Tommy’s eyes are dark, his lips swollen, his face flushed.
He looks wrecked in the best possible way. Buck leans in and kisses him again, slow and deep, a thorough exploration. He kisses Tommy like he’s trying to learn the shape of his mouth from the inside out.
He pulls back again just an inch, their breaths mingling in the small space. A quiet, breathy sound escapes him, a soft, surprised "Oh."
It’s the sound of a puzzle piece clicking into place. All the times he’d felt this specific pull, this focused current between them, and he’d written it off as hero-worship, as wanting to be Tommy, as wanting his approval.
Oh.
It was never just that.
Tommy lets out a shaky breath, his hands stroking up and down Buck’s spine. “I think I have some ideas,” he says, his voice rough. He tilts his head, capturing Buck’s mouth for another kiss, this one softer, more deliberate. It’s a kiss that says I know. It’s a kiss that’s full of all the unspoken words, all the stolen glances, all the near-misses from the past few months.
The frantic energy has bled away, replaced by a simmering, intimate heat. The world outside the cockpit ceases to exist. There’s only the space between them, the taste of Tommy’s mouth, the feel of his hands on Buck’s skin, and the quiet, desperate sounds of them learning each other all over again.
And then—knock, knock, knock.
The sound is sharp, loud, and utterly jarring. It cuts through the haze of lust like a fire alarm.
“Captain?” A soft voice calls from the other side of the door. It’s one of the senior flight attendants. “We’re all done with the final checks. Ground crew is ready for us to disembark whenever you are.”
Both of them freeze. Buck’s head snaps up, his eyes wide with a mixture of panic and disbelief. Tommy’s hands, which had been gripping Buck’s hips, fly up as if he’s been burned.
“Uh—” Tommy’s voice is a strangled croak. He clears his throat, trying to sound like a captain and not like a man who was seconds away from getting off in his chair. “Y-yeah. Yeah, I hear you. I’m—” He glances at Buck, who is still straddling him, looking like a deer caught in headlights. “I’m just clearing some final, uh, details with the tower. I’ll be out in a second.”
There’s a pause. “Okay, Captain. See you out there.”
They hear her footsteps retreat down the aisle.
The silence that follows is somehow louder than the noise that came before it. It’s thick with awkwardness and the lingering scent of sex and ozone. Buck slowly, carefully, starts to climb off Tommy’s lap, his movements stiff and clumsy. His face is burning with a blush so hot he feels like he could power the plane.
He stands up, trying to smooth down his wrinkled shirt and tuck it back in. His tie is a disaster, and his pants are uncomfortably tight. He can’t bring himself to look at Tommy.
Tommy, for his part, is a flurry of controlled motion. He fastens his own pants, buttons his shirt with shaking fingers, and runs a hand through his hair, trying to restore some semblance of order. He finally stands, adjusting his captain’s epaulets like they’re armor.
He risks a glance at Buck, who is still staring at a spot on the floor, looking utterly mortified.
A slow, helpless grin spreads across Tommy’s face, despite the situation. He reaches out and gently tilts Buck’s chin up, forcing him to make eye contact.
“Hey,” Tommy says softly, his voice still a little rough. “Look at me.”
Buck finally meets his gaze, his own eyes filled with a mixture of embarrassment and lingering want.
“Hotel room,” Tommy says, and it’s not a question; it’s a promise, sealed with a quick peck to Buck’s lips. “Let's go.”