Chapter Text
He couldn’t say if he’d taken the job at the bar because he’d been interested in the LAPD, or if he’d decided to apply to the Academy because he was working at the bar. He had taken the job at the Stock and Barrell because it was close to the house he was sharing with Spud, and sported a rainbow flag in the window. It wasn’t glamourous, but it was welcoming, and gave him steady hours and regular pay, That it was close enough to two fires stations and a police station was a bonus; the regulars usually tipped well enough to keep on the good side of the staff.
It's only 10 am on a Saturday morning when a new face walks in. The bar isn’t busy given the hour, so Buck is working double duty as server and bartender until Camille and Jenna come in for the lunch crowd. Most days Buck manages the morning by studying, but something tells him he’s going to have to actually work for his wage.
“Rough shift?” Buck asks the man. Buck is taking a guess that the man was a first responder, but its obvious from the way he holds himself that he’s been in the service. Buck doesn’t comment on it, instead takes the man in. Dark jeans, white t-shirt, short hair and a cleft chin. His shoulders are broad, and his knuckles are bruised like he went against the bag without wraps or gloves.
“Last shift,” the man says with a grunt, sitting himself heavily on one of the bar stools. “Not by choice, and I don’t want to talk about it. Just give me whiskey, neat, and keep them coming.”,
Buck grabs a bottle of whiskey off the shelf, pours an ounce and a half by feel, and sets the glass in front of his new patron without a word.
The man takes the glass and throws it back quickly. He lets out a frustrated groan as he swallows. “Fuck, kid – I didn’t ask for the good stuff.”
Offering an innocent smile, Buck tells him, “You take it slow, order food, and tell me what’s got you throwing back whiskey at ten in the morning and I’ll keep your glass topped up.”
The man’s eyes narrow, considering. “You drive a hard bargain, kid. What’s your name?”
“Buck,” he tells him simply, moving to fill the glass again with another standard pour.
The man’s face pinches as he takes the name in. “What the fuck kind of name is Buck? What did you do to your parents to deserve that?”
Letting it roll off his back, Buck shrugs in response. “You’d have to ask them yourself. Full name is Evan Buckley, not no body has called me that in years.”
“Buck it is,” the man replies, raising his glass in a toast before taking a sip this time. He nods and hums in appreciation. “The name is Sal.”
“What kind of name is Sal?” Buck parrots back to him with a smile, turning away so his back is to the other man. He busies his hands, straightening up the liquor bottles on the counter. He can still see Sal’s reflection in in the mirror behind the bar; he’s staring morosely into the lowball glass. “Is it short for Salomon?”
He catches Sal’s lips twitch, not even the barest hint of a smile, but it’s something. It’s obvious to anyone with eyes that Sal has Italian heritage. He tries again, hoping to get a laugh. “Sally?”
Buck is rewarded with a wry smile, not enough to show teeth, but the corners of his eyes wrinkle in the most attractive way. Buck finds his own smile forming of its own volition, and he turns back around to face Sal.
“Close?” he asks, keeping his posture open and non-threatening.
Sal huffs, almost a laugh, and Buck’s grin widens. Sal shakes his head, and tells him, “No one’s called me Sally since elementary school. They were trying to bully me for saying I liked to help my Nonna in the kitchen.”
Buck’s heart melts at the mental image of a young Sal in the kitchen with his grandmother, making pasta from scratch. “What happened to make them stop?”
Sal finally smiles, wide grin matching Buck’s, lost in the memory. “My older sister beat them up on the playground the next day. Showed them there was nothing lesser about being a girl.”
“Damn straight,” Buck agreed with a grin.
Sal shook his head as if to dispel the memory, but the smile remains on his face. “You’re pretty good at this, kid.”
“Good at what?” Buck asks, eyes wide, head tilted to one side.
Sal shakes his head, smile turning sharp. “Don’t play coy. The whole bartop shrink thing. You’ve got it down pat. You a psych major in college or something?”
“Something like that,” Buck responds, forcing his expression to remain open. He doesn’t want to be on this topic any more. “You’re not vegetarian, are you, Salvatore?”
“It would break my nonna’s heart if I refused to eat her ragù alla Bolognese,” Sal replies, shaking his head at the use of his full name. “And don’t call me Salvatore. It makes me feel like I’m in trouble.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Buck says with a grin, and it isn’t obvious if he’s referring to the use of Sal’s name, or the dietary preferences. He punches in an order for a burger and fries for Sal, and tells the other man it will be ready in about 20 minutes. “Cook makes the burgers from scratch. The portabella burger is pretty good, too, but he insists on frying the French fries in lard, so you would have had to go with the salad if you were vegetarian.”
Sal grunts an acknowledgement and turns his attention to the news on TV, so Buck leaves him to it. Buck listens to it with half an ear, something about a restaurant burning down, expected to be a complete write off by insurance. The way Sal frowns adds a checkmark to Buck’s mental column for ‘Probably a firefighter.’
It takes their cook, Paul, thirty minutes to get the food prepped and plated. Since the servers haven’t made it in, Paul comes out and sets it down in front of Sal without a word. Paul gives Buck a nod before making his way back to the kitchen where he feels most at home.
With the bar straightened and the counters clean, Buck gives Sal some space to eat, and goes review academy manual. He’s got most of it memorized by this point, but the academics were never his strong point. He doesn’t want to be caught off guard if called upon.
Another group comes in. It’s two of their regulars, retired LAPD who like to quiz Buck on procedure when he comes to drop of their orders. The always get the same two light beers, so he’s able to pour them and bring them over as they’re getting settled.
“Buckley! Your name is popping up a lot around the academy,” Richard, the older of the men, tells him boisterously, eagerly accepting his pint.
The other man at the table, Carl, waits for Buck to set the beer down before wrapping his hands around it. “Word is there’s a lot of interest in you and the legacy candidate, West. You two are apparently neck and neck for top spot with this year’s graduates.”
Buck ducks his head, feels his face and ears heat at the praise. It doesn’t feel earned – the physical part of the academy has felt like a cakewalk, even with his old injuries. It’s been nice to have someone challenge him to push himself physically, but he knows he’s been capable of more. The rest of it comes from having no social life beyond chatting with the bar flys and sharing the occasional meal with Spud when they’re both home at the same time.
“They’ll assign me wherever I’m needed and they have space,” Buck points out, wanting to stop the gossip and speculation before it goes to his head.
“Wherever you go, we’re going to miss you here. The other staff can’t get our orders right!” Richard complains.
“That’s because you keep telling them to change things half way through cooking.” Carl slaps his friend lightly on the shoulder and leaves Buck with opportunity to escape back to the bar while the two men bicker. Carl is right – Richard tries to get them to make changes to the orders after Paul starts cooking. Buck had felt comfortable enough working there they he would tell Richard where to stuff it, and that seems to have eared Richards respect. He punches in the order for their regular meals, then looks back to how Sal is doing at the bar.
The whiskey is empty, and the food is untouched. Sal looks lost in thought.
“Come on, Tori,” Buck interrupts, drawing Sal’s attention back to him. “Deal was you eat the food and tell me what’s eating you.”
Sal snorts a breath through his nose at the new nickname.
“What?” Buck asks, guileless. “No one’s called you Tori before?”
“Not if they want me to answer,” Sal shoots back. “And the deal was I ordered food, you never said anything about having to eat it.”
“You’re following the letter of the law, not the spirit here, Tori,” Buck points out. He doesn’t move when Sal rattles his empty glass against the bar top. Sal narrows his gaze, hand around the glass, arm outstretched, silently demanding a refill. Buck meets his eyes, then pointedly looks at the burger with a raised eyebrow.
Sal glares, and Buck gets the impression Sal is used to people following his orders. At another time Buck could picture just rolling with it, but today Sal doesn’t need another yes man. Leaning back against the back counter, Buck crosses his arms over his chest and fixes Sal with a glare of his own.
They stare at each other for several heartbeats, and Buck makes a point of projecting the air of someone who could sit there all day.
Finally, Sal breaks, muttering “I should have gone to a different bar,” before picking up the burger and taking a large bite. He continues making aggressive eye contact as he chews, but the intent is lost when he practically moans around the mouthful of food.
“Fuck, that’s good,” Sal admits after swallowing, before going in and taking another bite. He moans again, savoring the bite, and Buck thinks the sounds are positively pornographic. Part of him feels like he should give Sal and the burger space, if only for his own sanity. He can’t remember the last time he got off with anything other than his own hand.
Sal clocks the way Buck shifts, and sets the burger down. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize how hungry I was.”
Nodding, Buck grabs the whiskey and fills Sal’s glass again. “You ready to tell me what has you drinking on an empty stomach at ten in the morning on a Saturday?”
“Let me finish the food, and if I still feel the need to drink after that I’ll give you my sob story.” Sal takes another bite, and Buck watches his tongue dart out to lick away some of the sauce that’s caught at the corner of his mouth.
Feeling bold, Buck extends an open hand to Sal. “You have a deal.”
Sal gives him an exasperated look, but grasps Buck’s hand to shake it. Buck feels the calluses and the warmth of Sal’s hands; a tingle of excitement and interest moves through his stomach, like little butterflies trapped under his skin. Buck pulls his hand back, telling himself not to get ideas about the customers. Especially ones that are most likely straight.
Buck backs away, gives Sal space, and goes back to his text book. He’s got a pen and highlighters stashed behind the bar, and takes great pleasure marking up the pages with notes and colours. The tactile feeling of dog-earing the pages, and putting pen to paper helps him retain the information. That it feels like a giant middle finger to the pristine books with uncreased spines lining the shelves in his childhood home is just an added bonus.
He keeps half an eye on Sal and his retired police while he studies. Jenna and Camille come in fifteen minutes before they’re set to start, giggling together. They wave at him as they head back to the kitchen, and Buck nods in greeting. The bar won’t pick up for another hour, but the lunch crowd should start to come in, enough to keep the girls busy while Buck acts as float and pours the drink.
Another group comes in, a table of four around Buck’s age, laughing and talking boisterously. Buck feels wistful when he tells them to grab a seat anywhere. He doesn’t remember ever feeling that young. Snagging some menus from the host station, he gets the table’s drink orders, and leaves them to look at the food. They don’t open the menus right away, so Buck figures they’ll be a while before ordering.
He fills their drinks, grabs refills for Richard and Carl, and feels Sal’s eyes on him the entire time. The man’s plate is nearly empty, a few fries left, but he’s still nursing the drink. Jenna and Camille come out onto the floor, taking over the new table, so Buck is free to keep behind the bar until it picks up.
Approaching Sal again, Buck removes the plate and sets it aside to be bussed away. He meets Sal’s eyes, looking more grey than blue in the lighting, and waits expectantly. Sal drains the last of his glass, and returns Buck’s stare, unimpressed. Once again, Buck doesn’t look away, and Sal breaks eye contact first.
“Jesus, kid, you’re like a dog with a bone,” Sal finally lets out, shaking his head in amusement.
“Not really a kid,” Buck feels obligated to point out, finally. It’s clear from the lines on Sal’s face that he has a few years on Buck, but he doesn’t want to be discounted for that.
Sal meets his eyes again, and makes a point of slowly looking him over with a smirk. “No, I suppose you aren’t.”
Willing his cheeks not to blush at the blatant attention, Buck adds a note to his mental column – Maybe not so straight after all.
“So, are you going to tell me what’s eating you?” Buck asks, leaning closer, placing his hands on the counter. “Or am I going to have to get on my knees and beg?”
Sal’s eyebrows shoot up, and Buck grins in response. Buck knows what he sounds like, and what he looks like – non descript t-shirt pulling across this chest with the way he’s standing. He feels Sal’s eyes on him, a little less deliberate this time, and winks, then steps back from the bar, giving the other man some more space. Sal’s definitely interested, but a little voice in the back of his head is reminding him, “You don’t shit where you eat.”
Huffing out a laugh, Sal relaxes back in his seat, the epitome of nonchalance. “It’s been the year from Hell. Icing on the top of this shit cake is that I was passed over for the captain’s seat at I house I’ve worked at for over 10 years, for some asshole from Podunk Nebraska, and the fucking mook tries to fire me within the first week.”
“Tries to fire you?” Buck asks, picking up on the choice of words. “You came in here with a storm cloud over your head telling me it was your last shift. What’s changed?”
“Turns out a few drinks and some food has me thinking a little more clearly,” Sal admits, tapping his empty glass in thanks, but not asking for a refill. “The union won’t let him fire me. A few phone calls, a little paperwork, and I’ll be back at the station making his life a living hell until he quits.”
It startles a laugh out of Buck, and he can’t help the wide grin that splits his face. “That’s your plan? What, malicious compliance until he get’s sick of you? It’s a risky plan – toeing the line of insubordination. You’ve got to hope he breaks before he’s able to find enough infractions to make a case to terminate you. You have to be on your A game the whole time.”
“We’ve done it before,” Sal points out without elaborating.
Buck shrugs. “You think it will work again?”
“So what’s your suggestion?” Sal asks, crossing his arms over his wide chest. Buck tries not to be distracted by the muscles in Sal’s arms on perfect display.
“Shop around for another station,” Buck tells him, plainly. “There’s bound to be somewhere that will value what you bring to the table, and provide room for advancement.”
“Buck, you are a genius,” Sal declares, standing up fast enough that his bar stool scrapes against the floor. “I need to make a few calls.”
“Grab the table by the kitchen,” Buck tells him with a smile and a shake of his head. “It’s going to be quieter there.”
Phone already in hand, Sal salutes him and walks to the free table. He turns on his heel and walks back to the bar. “You have any pen and paper?”
Bending down, Buck grabs a spare note book and pen they keep on hand for the servers and pass it over to Sal. The other man doesn’t even try to hide that he was checking out Buck’s ass. Buck raises an eyebrow, calling him on it. Sal winks in response, energized in a way that has Buck grinning in response.
“Good luck,” Buck tells him as Sal turns back to the table.
“Not gonna need it,” Sal calls back over his shoulder. “I’m gonna work some magic.”
Sal settles in at the table, and Buck makes quick work tidying the space he’d been taking up at the bar. The tables are filling up, the lunch crowd slowly filtering in. It’s about as busy as expected for a Saturday, so Buck puts his book and pens away under the bar, knowing he won’t have a chance to look at them again before he clocks out.
Jenna slides behind the bar and sets herself in front of the computer to enter her orders. She nods to where Sal has set up, phone pressed to his ear, free hand gesticulating wildly. “Friend of yours?”
Buck shakes his head, getting started on the drinks she’s put in. “Nah, just someone having a rough time.”
“Jerry’s going to be pissed you have him taking up a table on Saturday without ordering anything,” Jenna points out, eyes still on the older man.
“What’s Jerry going to do about it?” Buck points out, rhetorically. The manager was a bit of a dick, but he let Buck work the hours that fit his schedule, so Buck didn’t make too much of a fuss.
“I don’t really get what you’re still doing here,” Camille adds, joining into the conversation, snagging menus for a newly sat table. “Celine told me you guys get your full starting salary in the academy.”
Shrugging, Buck sets up the tray of drinks for Jenna to take to her tables. “I don’t do well sitting still, and I was already working here. Didn’t make sense to quit until I was done.”
“Only two months left,” Jenna tells him, bumping her shoulder into his arm. “I won’t tell Jerry about your table hopper. He’s easy on the eyes.”
“Sure, if you’re into that kind of thing,” Camille scoffs. Buck can’t blame her; she’s vocally advised she is only into women, and is very much in love with her partner, Celine.
Still, Buck enjoys teasing her. He and Jenna both chime in at the same time with “We very much are,” before breaking down into laughter that draws the attention from a few annoyed customers.
Jenna grabs her tray of drinks and slips back out from the bar to get back to serving.
“Give me something for your friend to drink,” Camille says with a sigh. “Gives him some plausible deniability if Jerry does come in.”
“Sure thing,” Buck agrees, knowing just the drink to make. “I’ll have it ready for you for your next pass.”
The lunch service continues, but Buck keeps an eye on Sal; he’s been scribbling on the tiny note pad, clearly having some heated conversations, but the volume of his voice never raises. He watches as Camille brings the highball glass over and sets it down on the table. Sal tries to tell her he hasn’t ordered anything, but she jerks her thumb in Buck’s direction, explaining where it came from.
Camille leaves the table, and Sal raises an eyebrow in his direction, taking in the cocktail. Buck just grins, and gives a small wave.
Sal takes a sip of the orange drink, and Buck waits for him to realize it’s a Shirley Temple. Sal’s face scrunches in a clear ‘What the fuck” expression, and his eyes narrow. Buck nearly laughs out loud at how expressive the man’s face becomes, but manages to keep his composure.
It becomes more of a struggle when Sal takes the cherry off the top of the drink. Sal holds in front of his mouth and lets his tongue come out and draw it into his mouth suggestively. It should be ridiculous, but Buck finds himself swallowing in response. Sal notices, and gives Buck a wink and blows him a kiss before turning to make yet another call.
“If he’s not a friend, he’s definitely interested in something more.”
Buck nearly jumps when Jenna speaks from beside him. He’d been so distracted she’d been able to sneak up beside him. His heart races.
Stepping back, Jenna raises her hands in apology. “Shit, sorry. I though you knew I was there. I guess the feeling is mutual?”
Head tipped to the side, Buck doesn’t look at Jenna, instead considering Sal. “He’s easy on the eyes, and fun to talk to, but I don’t hook up with patrons.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know your rules,” Jenna says with a roll of her eyes. She pokes him in the chest with a pointed finger. “But he’s not a regular, and you’re not going to be working here much longer. What’s the harm in giving him your number and seeing what happens?”
Huffing, Buck shakes his head. “Shouldn’t you be checking on your tables?”
“They’re fine, and don’t try to distract,” Jenna goes to poke him again, but he twists to dodge. “When was the last time you had any action?”
“I’ve been busy,” Buck grumbles before shooing Jenna out from behind the bar. Looking back at Sal, he considers it. The man’s been flirting with him, without doubt, and it has been a long time since he’s had the time. Even longer since it was someone almost as big as him. Shaking his head to clear the less than work-friendly thoughts, he nearly startles again when Jenna is still standing next to him with a knowing look on her face. “Jesus! Is this what it’s like to have a younger sister?”
Jenna laughs, light and carefree. “You would be so lucky, Buckley.”
“Eh, I could do worse,” Buck agrees. “Now scram! Table four is looking like they need something.”
Buck manages to survive the lunch rush without embarrassing himself or passing his number to Sal on a napkin like a cliché. Slowly, room clears at the bar, and Sal makes his way back. He seems pleased with himself when he takes a seat again.
“Everything taken care of?” Buck asks, interested in the outcome of Sal’s phone calls..
“Almost,” Sal tells him, waving his phone in his hand. “Should be getting a call from the chief in the next hour to hash out the details.”
“On a Saturday afternoon?” Buck’s voice is clouded with disbelief. None of the brass he knew would have been working on a weekend.
Sal gives him a cocky grin. “I’ve made it a habit to make myself a squeaky wheel. I have it on good authority word will have made it to Chief Alonzo that I’ve been rattling some cages. He’s going to want to deal with me sooner rather than later.”
“You think that highly of yourself,” Buck asks with a raised eyebrow. He’s not judgmental, but genuinely curious.
Sal seems to pick up on it, leaning forward on the bar, moving into Buck’s space. Buck doesn’t pull back. “I think I’ve been a firefighter for almost twenty years, and I’ve made a damn good name for myself in the time I’ve been with the LAFD. I think I’ve worked my ass off for the station, and I’ve done my job as union rep without complaint from the brass.
“I’ve passed the Captain exam three times only to be passed over because the station needs ‘someone with more leadership experience,’ like I haven’t been leading that team for the last two years.” Sal’s chest heaves, passion in his voice over what he’s saying, and Buck is drawn in. Sal’s eyes are determined – stubborn – when he finishes. “So yeah, I think that highly of myself.”
“Alright then, future Captain Deluca,” Buck agrees. “What are we drinking to celebrate your impending promotion?”
“You off soon and offering to join me?” Sal asks with a wink.
“Not off until four,” Buck tells him regretfully, “But I’m happy to get you started with something.”
“I’ll just take whatever beer you have on tap while I wait for my phone call,” Sal requests, not the least bit put out that Buck has turned him down.
Pulling the pint for Sal, Buck watches him thumb a quick text message on his phone before setting it face up on the bar. He fixes his attention on the TV, watching the baseball game that’s on, and leaves Buck to get on with his work.
Buck does the prep for the evening shift; makes sure there’s lemons and limes sliced, the bar is stocked, and brings out another keg because he knows Alanna, who’ll be manning the bar for the night, will struggle to get it set up on her own. He won’t deny he plays up the heavy lifting, enjoying the way Sal watches him, licking his lips before taking another sip of his beer.
If Jenna and Camille are also taking it in, quietly judging, he pays it no mind.
He’s getting the new keg hooked up, empty one waiting on the dolly, when Sal’s phone rings, vibrating noisily on the bar top.
“Deluca,” Sal answers, words clipped. Buck watches him take the call – sees how Sal’s eyes narrow as he listens to the voice on the other line. After a beat, he responds, “Thanks for calling, Chief Alonzo.”
He pauses to listen again, lips pursed, then scoffs. “Nash thinks that’s generous, does he? A suspension? Without pay? I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
Leaning back in the seat, posture relaxing, Sal clearly feels the conversation is going his way. “I’ve got banked PTO. I’ll take 6 weeks off, then accept a transfer to the 122.”
Another pause, and Buck watches Sal take a sip from his drink, watches his throat move as he swallows. Sal starts talking again. “I’ll admit, tempers were heightened. I’ll concede to seeing one of the department therapists… No, not Wells. I’ll book with Frank. If he doesn’t sign off, I’ll take the suspension without pay. There’s nothing impacting my ability to fulfill the lieutenant duties at the 122.”
Buck feels his eyebrows creep towards his hairline in surprise. It’s rare for people in this line of work to willingly accept the need for therapy, much less openly talk about it. It feels very progressive. He goes back to hooking up the keg.
“Yes,” Sal says, drawn out, and Buck can imagine him rolling his eyes. “I’m aware there’s a lieutenant vacancy at the 122, and that Captain Warren is planning to step down in the next year or so.”
There’s another pause in the conversation, Sal listening an nodding along. “Well, I’m glad we came to an agreement, Chief Alonzo. I’ll be by on Monday to sign the papers.”
It’s clearly the end of the conversation, and Buck is startled when Sal slaps his hand on the bar top with a loud smack and shouts “Fucking right!” Buck jolts, and hits his head on the counter with a loud thump.
“Oh shit,” Sal exclaims. “You alright down there?”
Rubbing his head, Buck stands and grins, chagrinned. “Just knocked a little sense into me. All good, then?”
“Best possible outcome,” Sal agreed, eyes bright, smile splitting his face. He looks Buck in the eyes, licks his lips, and then he’s reaching across the bar, grabbing Buck’s face in his hands and planting a kiss full against Buck’s lips.
Jenna wolf-whistles from across the bar, while Camille, standing a little closer, makes gagging noises. Buck ignores them both, parts his lips, and lets himself be kissed thoroughly. When Sal pulls back, Buck feels a little dazed.
Sal looks equally stunned, seeming surprised with himself. He steps back from the bar, face flush. “Sorry for laying it on you like that.”
“I’m not sorry,” Buck fires back with a wink. “Just a little surprised.”
“Kinda feels like you lit the fire under my ass to find a better path here, kid,” Sal points out. “Any other bar and I would have been six shots deep by noon and rolling myself into a cab.”
Buck feels… something at being called kid again. Contemplates saying something, but just stares at Sal instead, at a loss for words.
"He’s only got about 40 minutes left, if you want to wait for him,” Jenna offers helpfully.
Throwing his head back, Sal lets out a loud, barking laugh. He looks at Jenna and answers her, “I’m willing to wait around if that’s something he wants to ask me himself.”
“He didn’t want to presume,” Buck chimes in, speaking in third person. He says it jokingly, but there’s a kernel of truth to it. He would assume Sal would have friends or family to go out to celebrate with, or go home to. Buck was rarely someone’s first choice. He’d learned early and often that it was better to lower his expectations than deal with the disappointment.
Sal looks at him, meets his eyes, like he’s weighing his options and gauging Buck’s interest. He must find what he’s looking for. “Would you like to have dinner with me when you’re done, Buck? It would be a shame to celebrate alone.”
“I should warn you, I’m an early riser,” Buck tells him flatly, knowing it could very well be a deal breaker. “I’ll turn into a pumpkin if I’m up past 9 pm.”
“Kid, I’m getting off a twenty-four-hour shift,” Sal points out, leaning back against the bar. “At this point I’m probably running on adrenalin and spite. If I make it to nine, I’m going to be impressed.”
“Then it’s a date,” Buck confirms, whole face splitting into a grin. His body thrums with anticipation.