Work Text:
0530 - The Shift Begins
Ravi pulls into the lot at Station 118 at 5:30 a.m.
There’s no real reason to be this early — not like anyone would call him out for walking in at 5:59 — but he likes the margin. The quiet. The stillness of a place before it fully becomes itself for the day.
The air’s cool, edged with fog, sky just starting to blue at the edges. The station looks half-asleep, lights low, bay doors shut. The engine sits like a giant holding its breath.
Ravi parks, kills the engine, and doesn’t get out right away.
He likes mornings. Not the way Buck does — not bright-eyed and brimming with serotonin and whatever self-help podcast he’s listened to on the drive over — but in a different way. Controlled. Predictable. The world hasn't started shouting yet. No calls. No chaos. Just a little quiet between the dark and the noise.
He slips out of his car, hoodie up, bag over his shoulder, and walks across the lot.
Hen’s already inside. Of course she is.
He sees her through the window in the kitchen, standing at the counter like a queen commanding her coffee kingdom. Posture sharp. Expression unreadable. She doesn’t look up, but he’s pretty sure she knows he’s there. Hen always knows.
Eddie’s in the bay, wiping something down that doesn’t look like it actually needed cleaning. That’s how Ravi knows it’s been a rough week for him — Eddie gets unnecessarily meticulous when he’s overthinking. Ravi nods as he walks by. Eddie nods back, minimal as always.
That’s one thing Ravi appreciates about Diaz: they speak the same language — Silence, with Occasional Grunts.
Inside, the warmth of the station wraps around him. Familiar smells — old leather, rubber, stale coffee, faint engine grease. It’s comforting in the way worn-out blankets are comforting: not soft, but dependable.
He moves through the motions:
Bag down. Hoodie off. Turnouts checked. Kettle filled. Mug out of the rack.
No one's said a word to him yet, and that's fine.
Ravi doesn’t need noise to feel like he belongs.
Some people talk to fill the space.
He listens to understand it.
The kettle starts to rumble. The overheads hum on as someone walks through the hallway. A locker slams in the bunkroom.
The day is waking up.
And Ravi, as always, is ready before it.
0900 - Brief Eddie Diaz-Related Chaos
Eddie's already halfway through his second coffee and has said a total of six words all morning. Standard Diaz Operating Procedure.
“Morning,” Eddie mutters, passing Ravi in the hallway.
“You look tired,” Ravi says, because it's true.
“You look like you iron your socks.”
“That is... not an answer.”
Eddie shrugs. “Christopher was up late watching some documentary about volcanoes. Now he wants to build one. With real lava.”
There’s a pause.
Ravi nods. “Let me know if you need sodium bicarbonate.”
Eddie stops. “Are you offering to help with a fifth-grade science project?”
“No,” Ravi says immediately.
“You’re absolutely going to help, aren’t you?”
“…Possibly.”
Eddie just gives him that small, amused smile — the one that says I see you without saying anything at all — and keeps walking.
Ravi rolls his eyes and heads to the truck bay before someone else starts a volcano in the kitchen.
1300 - The Ravi Files
They’re between calls. Buck is on the couch upside-down. Hen’s scrolling her phone. Chim’s heating something that smells legally suspicious. Ravi’s at the counter drinking tea, which he’s pretty sure is now part of his brand.
And then Buck says the thing.
“Hey, Ravi. What’s your deal?”
Hen: “Oh god, here we go.”
Ravi blinks. “Sorry?”
“You’re quiet,” Buck says, like that explains anything. “Mysterious. Like a character in a noir film who secretly knows twelve kinds of martial arts.”
Ravi sighs. “You’ve been watching late-night movies again, haven’t you?”
“Just answer the question,” Hen says, not looking up. “Ravi Fact, please. Give the people what they want.”
There’s a pause. Ravi knows how to sidestep conversations like this. He’s had practice. But something in him — maybe the tiredness, maybe the quiet part that likes being seen — lets it out.
“I played competitive chess until I was thirteen.”
Buck sits upright. “Seriously?”
Hen raises an eyebrow. “Let me guess. National level?”
“Yup.”
“Why’d you stop?” Buck asks.
Ravi shrugs. “Tournaments were on Saturdays. So was chemo.”
The kitchen goes silent.
Chim freezes mid-stir.
Hen finally looks up.
Even Eddie, halfway through refilling his water bottle, stops cold.
Ravi just sips his tea. “It’s not a big deal.”
“That’s a pretty big deal,” Hen says quietly.
Ravi doesn’t look at her. “It’s over. I survived. That’s what counts.”
“Still.” Buck’s voice is softer now. “That’s… damn. That’s a hell of a thing.”
Hen starts typing. “Ravi Facts List. Entry one: Chess master and cancer survivor. Jesus.”
“I hate this already,” Ravi mutters.
He doesn’t.
He stays in the kitchen for the next twenty minutes while Chim asks increasingly bizarre follow-ups, and Hen collects more facts, and Buck insists he might be a secret government agent. He even tells them the story about the goose.
It’s weird. It’s too much.
It’s also… kind of good.
He doesn’t know what to do with that.
2100 - Smoke Signals
The call is ordinary. Just a car accident. Minor injuries.
The location is not.
Children’s Hospital.
Ravi steps out of the rig and immediately feels his chest tighten. Not visibly. He’s too good at this for that. But it’s like being punched with air. Like walking back into a memory he never wanted to revisit.
The smell hits first. Bleach and hand sanitizer and plastic IV tubing. Familiar. Too familiar.
The kid they’re treating is pale, hooked up to oxygen, maybe eight years old. No external injuries. Unconscious but stable.
Ravi holds the C-spine steady. Keeps his hands from shaking by force of habit.
Hen’s talking to the paramedics. Chim is checking vitals. Buck’s making space for the gurney. Bobby is giving instructions.
No one sees Ravi freeze for a half-second when they roll past the ER doors.
No one sees the way his eyes trace the ceiling tiles — out of instinct — or how his breath catches when he hears the monitor beeping in the next trauma bay.
He gets back into the rig like normal. Says nothing.
He’s good at saying nothing.
2130 - Out Back
His hands had started shaking before he even realized.
The moment was brief. No one noticed. Not even Hen, which was saying something. They passed the kid off, got back in the rig, headed home. Buck cracked a joke about traffic.
It was over.
But Ravi was still stuck in that smell.
He slipped away when they got back. Walked past the kitchen. Past the bunkroom. Out the back door into the cold firehouse lot. The night air hit his skin like a slap — shocking, grounding. He leaned against the brick wall and let himself breathe.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
The same rhythm he’d used a thousand times, in a dozen rooms with plastic tubes and softly beeping monitors.
He didn’t even hear Bobby approach.
“You okay?”
The question was simple. Too simple.
Ravi startled, then immediately straightened. “Yeah. Just… getting air.”
Bobby didn’t say anything right away. Just stood next to him, not looking, not pushing. One hand in his coat pocket, the other holding a coffee he probably didn’t even want.
Ravi tried to find something light to say. Couldn’t.
Finally, Bobby said, “I’ve only seen you rattled twice.”
Ravi blinked. “Twice?”
“Once, when Buck asked if you were a secret CIA agent.”
“I wasn’t rattled, I was trying not to laugh.”
“And just now.”
Ravi’s stomach dropped. He looked away.
Bobby continued, voice quiet. “Hospital?”
Ravi nodded. “Smell got me.”
Bobby took a sip of his coffee. “That place has ghosts.”
“Yeah,” Ravi said softly. “Some of mine live there.”
Another silence. Ravi was good at silence — but this one felt less like avoidance and more like space. Like Bobby was letting him fill it, or not, without pressure.
So he did.
“I was in and out of that hospital for eight years,” Ravi said, voice low and steady. “I used to count the ceiling tiles in the radiation wing because it gave me something to do that wasn’t... thinking.”
Bobby didn’t flinch. Didn’t say I’m sorry. Just listened.
“I’ve seen that ER from every angle,” Ravi added. “Gurney. Bed. Waiting room. Recovery. Watching another kid code two curtains over.”
“That’s a lot to carry.”
Ravi let out a breath that felt like it had been sitting in his chest since the call. “I thought I’d grown past it.”
“No one grows past it,” Bobby said gently. “We just grow around it.”
They stood there a while longer.
Eventually, Bobby turned toward him and clapped a hand on his shoulder — firm, warm. “You did good today.”
Ravi swallowed. “Didn’t feel like it.”
“That kid’s going to wake up tomorrow because you kept his airway clear. That’s good in my book.”
Ravi nodded. “Thanks.”
Bobby gave a small smile. “You don’t have to talk about it. But you can. If and when.”
And then, just like that, he was gone — back into the building, coffee cup in hand, leaving Ravi alone with the cold and his breath and the slow, steady thud of his heart settling back into place.
He looked up at the night sky. It was too cloudy to see stars.
Still, he stood there another few minutes, breathing air that didn’t smell like antiseptic, and thought,
Maybe I am growing around it, after all.
0600 - Morning
The firehouse is quiet again.
The Ravi Facts list is now 14 entries long, including:
- Goose Incident
- Used to fence
- Owns 11 sweaters
- Once cried during The Lego Movie
Ravi’s tea is hot in his hands. The sun is coming up.
He’s still tired.
He’s still carrying things.
But Hen smiles at him as she walks past. Buck ruffles his hair for some reason. Chim offers him a protein bar.
And Bobby, passing by, just says, “We’ve got you, Ravi.”
It’s not loud.
But it’s enough.