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When Bobby recruits the new probie, he had a certain idea of what to expect.
Driven, the academy instructor had said. Clever, a good team player, reckless, but only about himself. I think he just needs a little...direction. And a lot of adrenaline. You were talking about wanting a heavy rescues specialist, right, Captain Nash?
There was a surprising sort of fondness in her tone as she talked about the graduate, a reluctant affection beyond the pride that academy instructors took towards newly-graduated recruits. It had bolstered Bobby, as much as all her other words did. Someone likeable, he concluded, and his exemplary records didn't hurt, either.
So that was what he expected out of Evan Buckley, when he first welcomed him into the firehouse. And he wasn't wrong, exactly. Evan -- Buck -- was compulsively likeable, impulsive and a little hardheaded, and takes criticism on the chin, most of the time. But then there are times--
Well.
"Bobby, I just think--" Buck's eyes dart towards the man hanging from wires, stranded in open air. Some sort of filming stunt gone wrong, they were told from the call. "I can get up there, get him out. It won't take as much time as having Chim go all the way up the adjacent building."
Bobby sighs. The mechanics of his words aren't wrong, technically speaking. If there were a way to get directly up to where the man is, it would be safer for him and less work for the team. But the only way up is with the same machine that hoisted the man up in the first place, and--
"That would involve us being able to work while suspended in wires," he says to Buck patiently. "And I know you were trained for rope rescues, but wire stunt work is a different thing."
Buck huffs, a childlike sound of annoyance that reminds Bobby, with a pang, of Brooke when she thought he wasn't understanding what she was saying. "But--" he begins.
Bobby sighs, and his words cut off. "Buck," he says, firm. "I appreciate that you want to help our vic down as fast as possible, but I am not gonna put my team through something that will make them at risk of not only slowing the rescue down, but putting all of them at more risk."
He looks at Buck, and sees the stubborn furrow of his eyes, the way he shifts like he still wants to say something. Reckless, he remembers. The instructor had assured him that it was only with himself, but sometimes kids don't realize the collateral damage of making a call you think will only harm yourself.
(Some part of him laughs, whispers hypocrite. He ignores it, there's no room for guilt when lives are at stake.)
Buck opens his mouth again, and Bobby puts up a hand before he can speak. "That's final, Buckley," he says. "You're here to watch and learn, not to force reckless judgement calls."
That gets Buck to quiet down, finally, his eyes tracking Chimney and Hen as they set up the ropes on the adjourning rooftop, carefully lowering themselves down enough to reach the structure that'll allow them to slowly make their way towards the victim. It's careful going, making sure that they're not tangled in or tripping on strong wire, but they're a good team, they've always been.
Buck just needs to learn to trust them, is all.
Afterwards, Buck sits in the engine quietly, mulling something over in his mind. Bobby watches from the rearview window as Chimney lightly kicks his ankle, grinning.
"Impressed, probie?" he asks, all anticipatory cheer. "That was a tricky one, not gonna lie."
Hen laughs. "Yeah, when we cut that one wire, I thought we were absolutely gonna have to lunge for the guy."
Buck tilts his head. "...but you did it anyways," he says, a little puzzled.
Hen looks at him carefully. "It was the best plan we had," she tells him, kind and patient. "Given our training and experience."
"But it took--" a frustrated little noise. Chimney rolls his eyes a little, fond and exasperated. A common emotion, Bobby was coming to learn, when it came to their newest member.
"It was our best chance of getting him out safely," he says, surprisingly levelly.
Having a younger probie was good for him, Bobby notes. Chimney's always been cheerful and laid-back, joking and a little sensitive. But the new probie is bringing out something in him that Bobby hasn't quite seen before, a thread of maturity beneath the cheer that can only make him better.
It was the same with Hen, who was always measured and careful and warm in the same way that waiting rooms are warm. Calculated to be just the right amount of friendly in a world that she could never quite trust would extend the same grace to her. Buck brought out something genuinely warm in her, a little childishness that she had previously only extended to Chimney, something that made her just a little lighter on her feet when she walked into the station.
Buck was good for them, is the thing. But that didn't mean that he was perfect. Or, perhaps, it was precisely because of his imperfections.
"And we did," Bobby adds, watching Buck's face through the rearview window, the confused lines of his brow, the stubborn line of his lips. One day, he'll make a good firefighter. Bobby has a feeling. "Because we all worked together, and we used the training we have, and we followed the protocol. That's what it means to work together, to rely on each other. That's what it means to work in a fire station."
It's not quite a reprimand, but he can see the way Buck quietly takes it to heart, absorbing the words with the same singleminded focus that he uses whenever he learns something new.
"...I guess," Buck says, a little discontent still but accepting it. Bobby watches his eyes, the little frown remaining on his face, and knows that this will probably be far from the last time they'll be talking about this.
Bobby's right.
"If I get in the car, I can reverse it, and we'll have more room for the rescue without all of them falling off the cliff!"
Bobby sighs, pinching his brow. "Buck, we don't have time for this."
"But, Bobby--"
And Bobby is willing to listen to Buck, usually. He really is. But there is a family half-balanced on a cliff over a rocky mountain, and he really doesn't have the time to get into an argument right now.
"Buck," he snaps. "We are not letting you get into that truck with a half-baked plan and a death wish. We are going to do this the right way, or not at all."
Buck stiffens, his shoulders in a tightly-wound line. It's too much, Bobby knows immediately, exacerbated by the Looks that he can see Hen and Chimney exchange as they set up the ropes. But Buck is being reckless, playing with a family's life, playing with--
His own life. Which, Bobby finally admits to some part of himself, is perhaps the more terrifying thing. The image of Buck, fingers gripping the steering wheel, trying to make an impossible maneuver on terrain that would be difficult at the best of times and falling, voice cutting off over the comms, flashes through Bobby's mind.
He should be more mad about the insubordination, he knows, but it's pointless to pretend that, just like the way he's started to change Chimney and Hen, he hasn't begun to shift something in Bobby, as well.
Bobby tucks the thought away for another time, another crash of guilt when he's alone in his apartment and needs to make another apology to the family that he's abandoned.
"Understood?" he asks instead, tucking the emotion where it can't hurt anyone but himself (hypocrite, hypocrite, hypocrite).
Buck looks at him for a fraction of a second, then nods, tight and furious and reluctant. "Heard, Captain."
They get the family out, in the end. It's a near thing, though, a small figure coming out on a blackboard and disappearing into the back of an ambulance. Bobby can feel Buck's eyes on the back of his head, at that, a silent accusation. Bobby closes his eyes, tired, fingers touching the pocket of his turnouts where he might have to write another line into the list of sins that he must bear.
But that doesn't mean he regrets his decision, is the thing.
Everybody is quiet in the engine back to the station, seeming to sense something tense in the air. When Bobby finds his way back into the loft, into the kitchen, he waits.
Eventually, he hears the footsteps, Buck loping in like a child unsure if they're allowed where their parents are. No, bad comparison. Bobby doesn't have the right to compare himself to a parent anymore, even like this.
Bobby keeps chopping, waits for Buck to speak first. After a few moments, he does.
"...Hen said that she looked like she would pull through," Buck offers. "The, uh, the little girl. From the call."
Bobby feels a little puff of air punching out of his stomach, aching. It's such a startlingly kind thing to say, a measure of consideration that Bobby hadn't expected, what with Buck's mood from before. It's also very Buck, Bobby is coming to realize. Someone unable to hold onto anger for very long, always finding his way to careful compassion instead. Still--
"Thank you," he tells him. "But that's not for us to know. We stop before the glass doors, remember?"
A little inhale like Buck wants to argue with him, then a long, slow exhale. "I just thought you might like to know," Buck tells him.
He would. He can't. "Thank you," Bobby says, in the way that Marcy used to tease was classic Minnesotan passive-aggressiveness. Buck, from Pennsylvania, hears the quiet undertone of his words, puts the topic away.
"I--" Buck's fingers twist together, his face looking down. He's wearing that baseball cap again, Bobby notes, turned backwards like he's a teenager instead of a full-grown firefighter. "I wanted to apologize, for arguing with you back there."
Bobby pauses in his chopping, a little surprised. He turns towards Buck. "You do?"
Buck looks up at him with a sincere expression. "Yeah," he says. "I, uh, I thought about it, and talked to Hen, and I didn't-- I wasted time that could've been used on the rescue, to keep going on about that stupid fight."
He ducks his head a little, sheepish. It's not-- it's not quite right, but it's a good step forwards. "It's good to be creative," Bobby tells him gently. "And it's good to want to help. You're excellent at thinking outside of the box, Buck, I know that." Buck flushes slightly, looking a little confused at the sudden praise.
"But," Bobby continues. "You have to learn to focus that energy, to know when is an appropriate time to push back, and when you should leave things to the people here who have more experience. Sometimes, what you think should happen isn't necessarily the best plan. As captain, I'm trained to understand my team's strengths and weaknesses, to build rescue plans based on that. I'm always gonna welcome suggestions, Buck, but if I say no, you have to trust that it's because I know what I'm talking about."
Buck looks down for a long moment, swallowing. "Okay, Cap," he says, small and quiet. "I won't-- I'll try not to get in the way, with, uh, you know. Stuff."
It's clearly a little bit difficult for him, so Bobby steps forward, puts a hand on his shoulder. "You're a good kid," Bobby says. "And your ideas aren't bad. Just-- try to keep things within the realm of reality in the future."
That makes Buck huff out a laugh, small. There's something a little like resignation beneath it, but Bobby chalks it up to him realizing his mistakes, understanding how to be a better team player. It would be nice, Bobby thinks, if Buck benefited from the 118 as much as they were benefiting from him.
"Want to help me prep lunch?" Bobby asks, a conciliatory gesture. Buck perks up, beams, nods. Bobby shifts to make room for him, teaching the kid how to hold a knife without stabbing himself.
Seriously, stunt driving. From a kid who doesn't even know how to chop bell peppers. Sometimes, Bobby has to wonder what was going on in that kid's mind.