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It started, as those things tend to, as a complete accident. The 118 was on a car accident scene, Buck and Eddie had just finished freeing two people from their totaled sedan, and were on their way to the engine to change tools, when they passed Hen, trying to calm down a victim, visibly hyperventilating.
And for some reason, nothing Hen tried seemed to work to calm them. The paramedic was about to sedate the victim, because at this point they were doing themselves more harm than anything else, when Buck heard what they were actually saying, “Je panique, je perds le fil de ma raison, parlez-moi en mesure, donne-moi l'oraison.” (I'm panicking, I'm losing the thread of my reason, speak to me in meter, give me some oration.)
Were those– “L’orai– Wait Hen, I can do that! uhm, let’s see,” and ignoring the incredulous looks his team sent him, he addressed the victim, “Prends quelques bouffées d’air, si tu me promets ça, quelques alexandrins sont là pour ton tracas.” (Take a few breaths of air, if you'll promise me that, some alexandrines are here to ease your troubled path.)
And it worked somewhat, they calmed themselves a bit, so he took that as a win, and so evidently, did Bobby, as he said, “Right, ok, Buck you stay with Hen and keep that woman calm while she’s cleared, Eddie with me.”
Buck didn’t reply verbally, but offered salute to his captain, even as he listened to the woman’s answer. He needed to concentrate if he wanted a chance to help. Those were not easy, and his French was rustier than he would have liked.
“Vous me voyez surprise d’entendre décliner, ces vers en ce pays. Quel en est le foyer?” (You see me surprised to hear these verses spoken, in this country, of all places — where do they find their home?)
Hmm, foyer, that means home right, so she probably wanted to know where he learned. Probably…, Right, so, “Encore une fois, respire, si tu veux tout connaître, d'un SEAL cuisinier, qui des vers fut mon maître.
Pendant mon entraînement, Anderson m’apprit, et quelle surprise ici, je m’en sers aujourd’hui!
L’histoire t'intéresse t elle? Je peux la raconter, tant que ton souffle reste, ici, calme et posé.”
(Once more, breathe with me, if you want to know the story, of a SEAL cook, who was my master in this art.
In my training days, Anderson taught me this, and what a surprise to find a use for it today.
Does the story interest you? I can tell it here, as long as your breath stays calm and steady.)
As he talked, Hen sent him a thumbs up from where she was taking the cardiac rhythm of their victim, so apparently, it was working.
“Tu ne peux pas savoir, à quel point je souris, d'entendre réciter, cet épatant récit. Et je te le promet, fort de concentration, de respirer pour toi, calme et plein d’attention” You cannot know how much I'm smiling now, to hear this recited — what an astonishing account. And I promise you, with full concentration, to breathe for you, calm and full of attention.)
Well, that was going to take some time, especially if he needed to tell it in French alexandrine verse . It took all his focus, and Hen was busy finishing, so it wasn’t until a few hours later, back at the 118, that he learnt that the entire scene had been filmed.
Chimney was actually the one who found the video first. Buck himself was helping Bobby in the kitchen, the rest of the team was seated around the TV, Eddie and Hen playing Mario Kart, when suddenly, Chimney practically crooned, “And what have we here?”
Buck ignored him, used as he was to the other man’s strange taste in social media. He had to look however when he recognised his own voice from Chimney’s phone, “Pendant mon entraînement, Anderson m’apprit, et quelle surprise ici, je m’en sers aujourd’hui!
L’histoire t'intéresse t elle? Je peux la raconter, tant que ton souffle reste, ici, calme et posé.”
“What the fuck, you filmed me?”
The man’s smile, if possible widened, “No Buckaroo, I did not. Nickzzz97, however, did, and shared it with the greater Los Angeles. The video is barely an hour old, but already has a little over 120000 views. You’re going viral brother.”
And Buck was at a bit of a loss then, opening his mouth to say something, even if he had no idea what, when an unexpected voice interrupted, “Who’s going viral? Bucky?”
And here was Christopher Diaz, getting through the last few steps of the loft staircase, and apparently, he heard everything.
“Diaz Junior! Indeed our Buck here is an Internet sensation! Here, “ And Chimney passed the boy his phone.
“What are you doing here Chris?” Eddie asked, already absently kissing the crown of his son's head.
“We were given a half day, somebody let out a few pigeons in M. Salas’ science class. Gregory’s mom gave me a lift here. You should have received the message dad?” a pause, then as Eddie took his phone out of his pocket to check, Chris turned towards him, “I didn’t know you spoke french Buck? What are you even saying? does all French sound so musical?”
“ah–” here he looked back towards Bobby who was watching the entire interaction as if it was his own personal soap opera, and the man just gestured for him to go on, so he did. He put down the salad spinner, and went to sit beside the son of his heart.
“The first thing you need to know is that while french can indeed sound musical, what I was doing there was speak in what is called Alexandrine verses. It’s basically poetry and work on the basis of two twelve syllable phrases that rhyme with each other. As for what I’m saying…” He took Chimney’s phone in hand, ignoring the paramedic’s aborted move as if to take back his phone, then restarted the video.
“So, here, Nadine, that is, the victim is saying something like ‘I’m panicking and losing my mind, speak to me in verse, give me some oration’”
The boy tilted his head, “Really? it sounds nothing like it, way less flowery in english too.”
“Fair enough, but well, English doesn’t have an immediate equivalent.I suppose the iambic pentameter could be it, but it’s not exactly used in the same context. You want the rest?”
At Chris's nod, Buck restarted the video, “so basically I’m telling her to breathe and calm down if she wants me to speak to her that way, and she asks me where I learned. To which I replied,”
The last few words were said with a teasing glance at the boy by his side, when Christopher let out a little snort at the turn of phrase, “To which you replied?”
“That I learnt from the cook in the training camp for the SEALs, I did talk to you about that, right?”
Christopher nodded, “You did. Then what?”
“Then I basically told her how I overheard the man speak in french verse under his breath and harassed him over the next week until he agreed to teach me.”
“Just like that? I mean French can’t be easy to learn, let alone in verse!”
“Oh no, I already spoke French then, but Master Chief Anderson taught me to do so in ‘Alexandrin’, which is an entirely different kettle of fish.”
There was a long silence, during which Chimney reclaimed his phone, and judging from the notification he heard from every other phone around, shared the video on the groupchat, when Christopher suddenly gave a determined nod, “Alright, it’s decided, I’m setting you up with a TikTok, ‘LA Cryptid firefighter’. Dad, I'll need your help!”
“Wait, what–”
They'd just come back from a call, and Buck would like to go back. Immediately. Why, one might ask. Well…
"And this is Firefighter B, our very own cryptid, coming back from a scene where he correctly diagnosed an allergy so rare that less than 1% of the population even knows they have it. Now, Firefighter Cryptid, what can you tell us about where you learned that?"
With a sigh, Buck deadpanned, "Why are you filming me, Chimney?"
"Ah, nah-ah-ah. You promised Chris you'd do this if you had any other strange scene that required your specifically acquired knowledge. We all promised the kid to film you, because, and I quote, 'dad's technologically illiterate'—" there was a faint Hey from Eddie, "—so Buck up, Buttercup, and answer the question!"
"Right, huh, I worked on a ranch in Texas when I was twenty-two." He shrugged. "That's why."
But apparently, that wasn't enough. "Your firefighter partner's Texan, B, and the man didn't know that. Give us some details, come on!"
"Okay, okay, so epazote is actually a herb common in Texas, used as a seasoning. It has a very strong, distinctive aroma — a bit similar to oregano or anise, only stronger. Mam Agnes was my boss's mom, and she made a mean brisket. She also used epazote in her rub, among many other ingredients, half of which I don't know, as it's a family recipe. Anyway, there was a potluck once, and one of the seasonal workers had an allergic reaction that looked practically identical to that guy we saved today — minus the ridiculous getup."
"That's more like it. The actual scene was probably filmed too, with the amount of cameras pointed at us. I'm sure Chris will do a fantastic edit."
Buck could only shake his head, remembering earlier that day — arriving at a Texan sandwich contest where one of the participants, literally dressed as a sandwich, had insisted on continuing to eat even as he developed rashes all over and could barely breathe.
"What I cannot believe," Hen began from her place at the table, "is that Eddie, a genuine Texan from El Paso, didn't know what Epa-whatsit was, when your pasty white ass did. Have you no shame, Diaz?"
Eddie only shook his head. "Epazote, Hen. And I know what it is — I just never tasted it, or knew it could cause allergies. Even in Texas, it's a very localized ingredient. That Buck knew is the anomaly here, or that this woman managed to get some all the way to LA."
Buck shrugged. "Well, Mam Agnes always said where there's a will there's a way, and that she'd never make her brisket without it. So I suppose if it's essential to the recipe, you find a way."
"Only you, Buckaroo!"
Later, Chris did in fact post the video, with an edit from the contest footage, just as Chimney had predicted. To Buck's surprise however, not only did the first TikTok of @LAFirefighterCryptid go viral overnight, but among the comments there was one from an '@AgnesAtHome' that simply read: "Epazote is essential, as I told you, Evan. Too much for a little thing like allergic reactions to stop putting it in."
"How is she doing?" Buck asked Chimney quietly. The whole shift had gone quiet, if only to avoid being glared at by those keeping it so for Hen's comfort. The paramedic had been battling a migraine for the past six hours.
She'd tried medication, she'd tried isolating in the bunkroom, and she'd hydrated herself thoroughly. She'd yet to get any relief. At this point she had given up and sprawled on the sofa upstairs with a towel over her face.
"Same, still hurting. I'm this close to giving her sedatives. You'd think that as paramedics, we'd have a bulletproof solution for a damn migraine."
"Hmm. You know what she needs." On those words, Buck left the inventory and went upstairs to the kitchen, where he started making a very concentrated ristretto.
On the way up, Chimney had pestered him, quietly, "No I don't. Where are you going, Buck? What are you doing? Is that coffee? She doesn't drink coffee! What—"
"Trust me, Chimney, will you?"
With that, Buck brought the cup to his friend and softly touched her shoulder. "Hey, Hen. I need you to drink this."
"Wha— Buck, I don't—"
"I know, Hen, but it'll help. Trust me?" The words were accompanied by the most pathetic puppy dog eyes he could muster, and for a wonder, it worked.
She visibly hated every sip, but drank the coffee in one go, shuddering at the taste. "Now go back to the bunks and try to keep your eyes closed. You should feel better in about half an hour."
"It's just coffee, Buck. Just because you live on the stuff doesn't make it a cure-all."
"I know. Trust me. Go on now."
With a sigh, she pulled herself up and went.
.
.
.
"Evan Buckley! How did you know it'd work?"
Buck looked up from his book at the sound of Hen's voice, smiling when he saw she was obviously better.
"Better, then?"
"Yes, I still have a bit of a headache, but it's significantly better. Why coffee, though?"
"Ah, well—"
"Wait, wait, wait." Chimney interrupted, "Is this another one of those things you learned in your ridiculously long list of places you've worked?"
"Huh, I suppose. Why?"
His brother-in-law shook his head. "You know why, Buckaroo. I can't believe you'd do Chris dirty like that!"
On those words, Chimney got his phone out and started filming, to the evident amusement of the rest of the shift. Buck could see Eddie muffling his snort into his own cup of coffee, and Bobby didn't even bother trying. "Now, here's another day in the life of LA's very own cryptid firefighter. The current scene involves one of our own—" there he turned the camera towards Hen's back, as she spun around the moment she spotted what Chimney was doing, "—who has been battling a migraine for hours. In the end, her hero was a barista masquerading as a firefighter. So, B," and the camera swung back to him, "did you learn the power of caffeine working at a coffee shop or something?"
"Ah, no, it's not a big thing really — there was this guy in a sleep lab, he told me coffee was a vasoconstrictor, that's why it helps. Did you know that doses of 100mg or more of caffeine have been shown to enhance the benefits of analgesics like ibuprofen in migraine treatment, and that—"
"Yeah, yeah, fascinating, B, but not what I asked. What were you doing in a sleep lab? Which sleep lab? How old were you? Give us some details, man!”
Buck held up both hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, calm your knickers, man!"
"Then answer the questions, perp!"
"Right, so I was twenty, and working in a small garage in Baltimore — mostly secretarial work. It didn't pay much, enough for food and everyday needs, but I needed some work done on the jeep. They'd agreed to do it at a discount, but I still needed more money than I had." He shrugged. "I came across a post saying Johns Hopkins was conducting a sleep study and needed participants, and it paid remarkably well considering all I'd have to do was sleep there. So I signed up. Except one of the requirements was a restriction on caffeine—" he trailed off as both Hen and Eddie could be heard saying oh no and that must have been torture for you respectively. He nodded solemnly before continuing. "Yeah, I got headaches pretty much like clockwork after that, and one of the other participants told me why. Strangely enough, I was also a lot more energised but had trouble focusing." He shrugged again. "But it paid for the jeep repairs, and a month later I could get back to my sweet, sweet coffee."
He ignored the exasperated looks Hen and Eddie shared at the focus tidbit. He did not have ADHD, and this wasn't any kind of proof.
"Anyway, that's how I knew. I'm surprised you didn't, though."
Chimney looked indignant. "We can't all be walking Wikipedias, B. I know plenty of medical stuff you don't!"
"Well, obviously, brother — you're the paramedic. It would be rather concerning if you didn't."
"Whatever." And with that, the man finally stopped recording.
The ensuing video, after Chris finished editing, became an instant sensation. Half the comments were people saying they'd try it the next time they had a migraine, and the other half were people insisting he had ADHD — which he didn't. There was one comment, from a Ch_SpringOfKnowledge69, reading "That's me! I'm the random dude from the study! I remember this, it was wild man!" and Buck found it genuinely hilarious.
By this point the brass had been made aware of the account, and LAFD PR had reached out asking to link it to his verified account, because apparently it was "good for the department image to have such a learned employee representing them." He still wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that, but he let it go. It wouldn't hurt anything.
"Alright, people! We don't have much detail on this one. It will be primarily a medical call, so Chim, Hen — it'll be your show. First though, we're waiting on LAPD to clear the scene."
They all acknowledged the order in their own way, and the ride to the scene was quiet for the most part, the paramedics trying to pull more details out of dispatch with limited success. Ravi was playing on his phone — which, why did he even have his phone with him? Buck could only hope for his sake that Bobby hadn't caught him with it.
"We're here!"
Buck climbed out, and he wasn't the only one confused to find the officers on scene gathered around the entrance to the victim's house, remarkably, and somewhat unnervingly, still.
Before Bobby could ask anything, Athena pulled up in her own patrol car, joined them, and started, "So, according to dispatch, the victim had been assaulted by what we initially assumed to be a close friend or relative answering to Millie. Turns out, Millie is in fact a very much illegal pet falcon, currently perched on the fool's entry table, between the entrance and the injured ignoramus who thought keeping a bird of prey as a pet was a reasonable life choice."
Buck knew he wasn't the only one thrown by the reveal, but Bobby kept his cool. "Animal control?"
"On their way, but their only falconer is tied up in Santa Monica. It'll be at least an hour before she can get here."
Hen took over then. "Depending on the injury, we may not have an hour — and we won't be able to assess him if the bird is between us and her owner."
Buck had to ask, "Do we know what species of falcon it is?"
Athena raised an eyebrow and took out her phone. "Here's a photo. Your guess is as good as mine."
"That's a peregrine. They're normally pretty even-tempered, unless stressed — at which point they can become territorial and aggressive." As he spoke, he caught some movement between Bobby and Ravi in his peripheral vision, but pushed it aside to focus on the actual crisis.
"And how do you know that, Buckaroo?"
"Right, huh — I worked at the Denver Zoo a few years back. There was a falconer on staff there, and he taught me a lot. If we're waiting on animal control, I might be able to help before she gets here."
Bobby reasserted control calmly. "You're our best bet, Buckley. Tell us what you need and we'll make it work."
"Okay, first I'll need some bait — raw meat of some sort."
Athena nodded, then turned to signal one of her officers. "Lopez, go around the neighborhood and see if anyone can spare a steak or any other raw meat for the bird."
"Yes, Sergeant." And the man jogged off.
"What else, Buck?"
"Hm—" he turned back to the engine to grab his turnout jacket, "this should be a decent substitute for a falconer's glove, which I obviously don't have. I'll also need something to serve as a hood."
Eddie was already unbuttoning his uniform shirt in the middle of the street. "Here, that should work." He handed it over without ceremony. "Grab my turnout too while you're at it? I'll wear that instead."
Officer Lopez got back to them remarkably quickly, all things considered. In the meantime, Buck had finally clocked Ravi with his phone out.
"Are you filming me right now? In the middle of a scene?"
The younger man looked up, obviously embarrassed. "Sorry, it's—" he cleared his throat. "It's a department phone. Bobby said I should keep it on me. Apparently the brass asked us to try to record you for @LAFirefighterCryptid when the opportunity came up, so long as it didn't endanger us or the patient." He gestured vaguely at the standoff behind them. "I'm pretty useless on this particular call, so — filming?"
Buck could only shake his head. "Really, Bobby?"
"Don't look at me, kid. The job comes first, obviously, but I've got my orders too." Bobby's expression remained entirely neutral. "It's your own fault, really — you shouldn't have been such a competence king. Now." He held out the package Lopez had returned with. "Here's your meat, Buckley. Go do your thing."
The next twenty minutes required Buck to apply everything Levis, the falconer back in Denver, had ever taught him, all the while quietly hoping that Millie would prove cooperative. Which, for a wonder, she did.
She was a gorgeous bird too — a mixture of brown and white, spotted slick feathers catching the light. She was also underweight, from what he could gather. He was far from a professional, but she seemed smaller than she should be.
That is, until he realised that Millie was more of a Miles. The owner hadn't even realised he'd acquired a male falcon. Buck wasn't generally one to judge their victims too harshly, but that one was a doozy, that was for sure. At least Hen and Chimney had been able to get the man to hospital. From what he'd overheard, the owner was already under arrest, and they were waiting on a warrant to check whether any other illegal species were being kept in the apartment.
And the whole time Buck had been dealing with the bird, Ravi had been right there, recording.
At this point Buck was leaning against the engine, Miles perched contentedly on his arm with Eddie's shirt draped over his head, just waiting. Fortunately, he could see the animal control van making its way closer, which meant he should be relieved of falcon duty fairly soon. His arm was getting tired — he could lift ridiculous weight on a daily basis without complaint, but holding perfectly, unnaturally still was an entirely different kind of strain, and he was beginning to cramp.
Later that day, from the Diaz couch with Eddie and Christopher on either side of him, he watched the final edit Chris had posted, and could recognize — at least here, with his family around him — that this particular call had been pretty cool. It was also the video that had gathered the most views in the shortest time, and the comments were still rolling in rapidly. One from @DenverZoo caught his eye: "Glad to see our teachings are still being put to good use, Buckley. Good job out there."
As Buck looked around himself, it was like sound had been turned off. Everything was muffled, as if under thousands of tons of water.
Then, he took a deep breath, and from one moment to another, stood straight as if life had been reinjected in him.
“Eddie, take Ravi and go check on Bobby and Chim.”
“Roger that!”
As he grabbed his radio to call for back-up, Buck could only be grateful for the faith Eddie put in him, because for all that his partner obeyed instantly, there was a small part of Buck that had expected to be questioned.
“Dispatch, this is firefighter Buckley of the 118, calling from the crash at the intersection of Figueroa Street and Florence Avenue, requesting Backup for upwards of 15 victims, including Captain Bobby Nash, and firefighter paramedics Han and Wilson. A twelve ton truck came around the corner and struck the engine mid-scene, pushing three additional vehicles. The 118 had been on scene for approximately two minutes when impact occurred. Truck cargo has yet to be identified, but warning stickers are visible on the rear, plate number 4HVT382."
"Buckley, we've got you. The 133 and the 147 are on their way with additional med units. How many men do you have field ready right now?"
"Three — Firefighter Diaz, Junior Firefighter Pannikar, and myself."
"Two, Buckley. Because right now, you're my incident commander."
And Buck had genuinely forgotten. But that was protocol, wasn't it — he was the most senior on scene. So he took that in stride as dispatch continued, "LAPD is en route as well to secure the perimeter. Hold on there, Buckley."
"Thanks, Dispatch." He switched channels. "Eddie, I need you to start triaging — have Ravi assist you." A pause, then, "Bobby?"
"He's stable, Buck. So are Chim and Hen, but they're not the priority right now."
"Roger that."
And as his partners began triaging and reporting back, Buck moved towards the back of the truck to check those stickers, all the while filing away Eddie's observations. He needed to know whether they could expect an explosion, or worse — but he still needed to know where to send backup the moment they arrived.
Once there, he felt some tension leave his shoulders, but checked that the truck itself wasn't damaged before switching back to dispatch. "Dispatch, news on the cargo — it's a Class 2 compressed gas, no current breach, but requesting hazmat assessment on arrival."
"Copy that, 118. The 133 is about a minute out, you should hear them already. 147 still en route."
"Thanks, Dispatch. 118 out."
He turned towards the incoming engine, but his own radio pulled his attention back. "Buck, if you've got a paramedic, car number three is priority one — infant in the backseat, unconscious, mother impaled, breathing shallow. Send a halligan to get them out."
As Eddie's voice cut out, Captain Mehta approached and caught the tail end of it. Buck didn't even have to ask — the other man was already gesturing two of his people forward.
"Back-up on their way to you, Eddie."
The moment he had finished with Eddie, he turned to Mehta with something close to relief. "Captain Mehta — five cars involved, plus the truck and a motorbike. After car three, the bike is our priority, and the truck driver hasn't been assessed yet."
"Alright, Buckley. We're on it."
As Mehta turned towards his people, Buck started to realise the man intended to go with them.
"Wait — you're not assuming command?"
The captain turned back, a small smile pulling at his lips despite the circumstances. "I believe you're IC, Acting Captain Buckley. Why would I do such a thing?" He pointed towards three patrol cars pulling up at the perimeter, their officers already moving towards Buck. "Buck up, kid. The cops need directing."
And then he was already moving towards the truck driver, leaving Buck to it.
Buck could feel the panic pressing in at the edges, but he knew that wasn't the time for it. So he took a deep breath and, for lack of a better word, bucked up.
The hours that followed were both the fastest and the slowest of his life. At some point Bobby and Chimney were taken to hospital in the same ambulance, and later, so was Hen.
The truck was cleared and its driver arrested. As the last victim was released with advice to see their GP if they felt any repercussions in the days following, and the scene was handed over to the police, Buck could feel the tension that had been building in him slowly begin to fade.
The engine was a loss, which left him without an obvious way back to the station. From the corner of his eye he could see the press still clamouring for an interview, but Buck left that to those higher up the food chain. He was contemplating asking Captain Kane of the 147 for a lift when Officer Lopez — the same man who had helped source raw meat for a falcon a few weeks ago — approached.
"Hey, Buckley. Need a lift?"
"YES — I mean, yes please."
"It's alright. Come on, man."
The drive to the 118 was quick — there was a reason they'd arrived first, before even the police had secured the scene. Buck headed straight to Bobby's office, absently waving at McKay who'd been the man behind that day, and started filling out his preliminary report. Then the one for a replacement engine. Then the sick leave forms for half of A shift. Then a request for substitute captain and paramedic to cover for Bobby and Chimney.
It took hours, and by the time he'd finished there was barely half an hour of shift left on the clock. When he looked up, Captain Braham from B shift was leaning in the doorway.
"Get out of here, Buckley. And send back news on Nash and the rest of your crew, would you?"
"Yes, Captain."
He didn't waste a second following that order. As he passed her in the doorway, she put a hand briefly on his shoulder. "You did good today, kid. Now go."
He nodded and didn't linger. He grabbed changes of clothes for Eddie and Ravi on his way out, then he was in the jeep and on his way to the hospital in record time.
In the end, Hen had only a concussion and was already in Chimney's room with Maddie and Ravi, keeping him company through his broken ribs, broken left tibia, and minor concussion.
Eddie was with Athena in Bobby's room, which was where Buck went first. And there was nothing on this earth that could have kept the tears away.
"Fuck, Bobby. Don't do that to me."
His captain turned from his conversation with Athena to direct a smile his way. "I can't make any promises, kid, but I'll try."
Buck nodded. Then, "So what's the verdict?"
"Grade two concussion, right arm broken, and the shoulder was dislocated — but that's been remedied. I'm fine, Buck. So breathe."
The last of the tension finally left him as he collapsed onto the sofa beside Eddie. "Easier said than done. The past few hours have been exhausting."
"I don't know, Buck — I heard you were phenomenal." Catching the slight teasing in his captain's voice, Buck looked up from where he had his head in his hands, only to find Bobby clumsily pointing his phone at him with his off hand, wearing a small smile. "I promised Christopher. You stepped up today, kid — you did the job, and you did it well. Wherever did you learn such a thing?"
Buck couldn't help the deadpan. "You should know, pops. What I didn't learn from you, I got from the academy. The city invests a lot of money in the education of its firefighters — you know that."
Bobby nodded slowly. "I do." He lowered the phone. "Now come here, kid."
And Buck didn't even hesitate before folding himself into the awkward embrace. Broken arms weren't conducive to hugs, but Bobby made it work, and it wasn't long before both Athena and Eddie joined in.
Later, he would call his therapist, because he damned well needed to. Later, he would be teased mercilessly by his team as they watched the whole thing play out on the news. Later still, he would watch Christopher's edit together with him, quietly marveling at the comment from @LAFD_Official: "Firefighter Buckley is the definition of a great firefighter and a pride to his department. We expect great things from you, Buckley. Keep it up."
For now though, he could only bask in the warmth and safety of his family's embrace.