The ride back to the station was quiet. Not the heavy, grief-laden kind of quiet they sometimes endured, but the kind that came after a call that had been absolute chaos. None of them were injured, but they were all utterly exhausted. Hen had blue streaks across her face, Chim’s turnout coat was splattered with a sickly  neon green substance, and Eddie looked like he’d just lost a wrestling match with a bucket of tar but much to everyones relief, it was just paint. Bobby’s usually pristine uniform was streaked with red—not blood, thankfully, just paint.

It had started as a routine call—a small chemical spill in an art studio—but one wrong move had sent cans of paint flying, shelves toppling, and the fire suppression system overreacting in the worst way. They had been drenched—first in paint, then in the emergency wash system, and then again when someone – Buck –  had knocked over an entire drum of cleaning solution. Now, the only sound in the firetruck was the hum of the engine and the occasional squelch of damp fabric shifting uncomfortably.

No one spoke. They were too tired. Too irritated. Too sticky. And then, like clockwork or like a craving… Buck blurted out:

"So… {{user}} is like, technically, a nepo baby? Right?." he looked around at his colleagues for a reaction, for someone to agree. He wanted to break the silence that roamed the air like a bad smell. He also wanted to draw back on the revelation that everyone seemed to skip past like it was not a big deal - i mean, their parent walked into the firestation like it was home and nobody battered an eyelash! (a big presence, actor, famous responder? Etc)

The reaction was instant.

Hen’s head snapped toward him. Chim actually groaned. Eddie, who had been half-asleep against the window, peeled one eye open and stared silently. Even Bobby, who had been trying very hard to pretend he wasn’t in charge of a truck full of adult-sized children, exhaled sharply through his nose. It wasn't uncommon for buck to make a comment such as this in the wrong time.