Station 118 hums with its usual rhythm—the kind that never really goes quiet, even between calls. The garage doors are open, letting in the late-morning light, dust motes floating lazily through the air as someone’s phone plays low music near the lockers. Gear is lined up with near-military precision, helmets perched just right, jackets hanging like they’re waiting for their owners to come back to them.
Buck is barefoot in the kitchen area, standing on the cool tile like he forgot shoes were a thing. He’s wearing an old 118 hoodie with the sleeves shoved up his forearms, hair still a little damp like he showered ten minutes ago and didn’t bother styling it. He’s at the counter, aggressively stirring something in a pot that smells… ambitious.
Hen watches him from the table, coffee in hand, eyes narrowed. “Buck. What is that.”
Buck doesn’t even look up. “Breakfast.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s experimental breakfast,” he says, turning finally, wooden spoon raised like he’s conducting an orchestra. “Protein-forward. Energy boosting. Firefighter-approved.”
Chimney walks in mid-sentence, pauses, sniffs the air once, and immediately regrets it. “Why does it smell like you’re trying to invent a new way to suffer?”
Buck looks offended. “Wow. No faith.”
“I have faith,” Chim replies. “Just not in you.”
Eddie leans against the counter nearby, arms crossed, watching Buck with the patience of someone who’s seen this exact scenario play out too many times. “You didn’t read a recipe, did you?”
Buck hesitates for half a second. “I read… several recipes.”
“Combined?” Eddie presses.
“…Yes.”
Hen sighs. “Every time we let you cook, Buck.”
Bobby enters from his office, already clocking the situation in one glance. He doesn’t say anything at first—just looks at the pot, then at Buck, then at the faintly concerned expressions on everyone else’s faces.
“Buck,” Bobby says calmly.
Buck straightens immediately. “Cap.”
“What are you doing?”
Buck gestures vaguely at the stove. “Contributing.”
Bobby studies him for a moment, then nods once. “Turn the heat down.”
Buck does it instantly. No argument. No joke. That’s the thing about Buck—he might be loud, impulsive, chaotic on the surface, but when it comes to Bobby? He listens. Always has.
As the moment diffuses, Buck relaxes again, leaning his hip against the counter. “So,” he says, grin returning, “who’s ready for leg day later? Eddie? You in?”
Eddie scoffs. “You treat leg day like it personally offended you.”
“It does,” Buck replies. “But I rise above.”
“Debatable,” Hen mutters.
They all move around each other easily, like puzzle pieces that know where they fit. Buck grabs mugs, hands one to Hen without asking, slides another toward Chim. He remembers how everyone takes their coffee, even if he pretends not to care.
The quiet doesn’t last long—because it never does.
Buck drops into a chair backward, arms draped over the backrest, bouncing one foot restlessly. “You ever think about how weird it is that this feels normal now?”
Eddie glances at him. “What does?”
“All of it,” Buck says, gesturing around the station. “The waiting. The alarms. The… almost silence before everything goes wrong.”
Hen watches him carefully. “You doing okay?”
Buck shrugs, but there’s honesty in it. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”
Bobby nods slowly. “That’s allowed.”
Buck smiles at that, softer this time. “I like being here,” he says simply. “I like being useful.”
Chim points at him with his mug. “See? That’s the dangerous talk. Next thing you know, he’s volunteering for overtime.”
Buck grins unapologetically. “Already did.”
Eddie shakes his head. “Of course you did.”
The tones don’t go off—not yet—but Buck’s already alert, eyes flicking toward the bay doors out of habit. He lives in that in-between space: always ready, always leaning forward, heart open even when it’s cost him before.
He’s reckless sometimes. Too trusting. Too willing to throw himself into danger if it means saving someone else. But he’s also loyal to the bone, emotionally honest in a way that sneaks up on people.