Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Buck hadn't liked the proposition of the Peru job from the start. His being a Malagosto graduate wouldn't matter much if the resources he had to work with were a couple of squads from a third-party contractor, and a cheapskate client. He hadn't argued, though. He wasn't quite a year out from his graduation. Even Cossack, legend that he had been, couldn't argue with the Board. So he'd gone.

He'd been Orca for the client: impassive, ruthless, and competent enough to manage with whatever he was given. It was even mostly true; the squads didn't measure up to SCORPIA standard, but they were skilled enough to manage. The job had been going well enough, full-time protection gigs for paranoid billionaires being what they were, until the client had revealed the secondary purpose of his hire. Buck had spared a second to be frustrated that details of the job had been hidden from him. He didn't like being unprepared, and he'd gotten comfortable as an operative, the kind of person that didn't happen to anymore. He'd been a frequent victim of compartmentalisation in his time as part of a squad. Apparently he was still sensitive about it. He noted it down internally as something to work on, and resumed listening to the client. As the man continued, Buck had to fight harder and harder to keep a straight face. The Board was testing him, checking to see how far his loyalty went. The man was a raging ecofascist, and had decided to use some kind of ridiculous sound weapon to kill everybody living in the Andes, under the delusion that it would fix human damage in the area. The test was obvious. Obey or die. Buck knew he'd expressed discomfort with large-scale death before, mostly in reasonably private circumstances. His initial reaction to hearing about Operation Invisible Sword had definitely been, because he would have been shot otherwise. This man was proposing something similar, on a much less restrained scale. And to call Operation Invisible Sword restrained felt heretical by itself. But SCORPIA would accept no dissent, and it was not exactly a secret that they tested their higher level operatives. Buck had been a pawn in those games before, and now he was a king. King on the losing side, because he'd finally found his moral limit.

He pulled his handgun out and shot the man, and only regretted the decision to use a gun instead of a quieter knife. He'd put a limit on his time to make a break for it. He didn't have anything he cared about in his quarters, so he went straight to the garage, at speed. The car he chose was a bulky four-wheel-drive, freshly filled up. He made it off the estate with only a few chasers, mostly guys on foot with assault rifles, and a border patroller on a quad bike. The pitiful group couldn't get their shit together to follow him past Aguatiya, and then he was practically free and clear all the way out of Peru. That was what happened when people didn't hire SCORPIA, although Buck wasn't complaining anymore. It was still a frantic flight, he only had so long before SCORPIA would get themselves involved, coming after him as a contract-breaker and a liability. If he didn't get lucky and act smart, he was doomed.

Medellin was where he allowed himself to stop and breathe. It had taken him two days to get there, and he hadn't picked up a trail yet. If he didn't start paying attention to the long-term logistics, he would. He'd keep going north; there was nowhere better to hide than the large cities of the USA. If he could get to L.A, he might even have a real chance. His old squad commander, Ripper, had been a real paranoid son of a bitch. He'd insisted that Buck pick an American city and make himself a bolthole: guns, papers, transport, cash. Buck had picked L.A, and then the real preparations began. Ripper made sure that he didn't go through an affiliate for anything, to avoid leaving an easy trail. Made Buck add booby traps on top of the normal protective steps for a cache. Buck had thought he was too paranoid for his own good, but he'd complied. More for the bribe he'd been promised in return by his 2IC Cathy, but now it looked like Buck'd have to eat every word he'd said to Ripper. All that experience he had was worth more than just better tactics after all. He'd have to hitch his way to California, but once he got there he'd be set. He'd even hired someone to shift Maddie's car over from where he'd stashed it after he signed his SEAL contract, with almost everything he owned back then in the boot. It was a very large storage unit, even with the entrance covered in traps. Large enough for the essentials Ripper had insisted on, the Jeep, and the fripperies the squad had pushed him for. Nothing as ridiculous as Baya's revolver-rigged camera drone, but a hot pink shotgun was pretty out there. Trills'd had it engraved with 'Babygirl', for some reason. He knew Buck wasn't the kind of freak who anthropomorphised his weapons.

Course of action mostly settled, Buck stole a laptop from a house in the richer suburbs. He stole their car, too, and drove himself and the laptop to the northern outskirts. He got himself set up in the front seat of the car once he was there, and used the laptop to get ahold of all the money that the SCORPIA accountants wouldn't have already found. It wasn't nothing, he'd been careful to spread his money out and keep his accounts anonymous in his days on squad Maverick. Trills' experience being one of those accountants helped a whole lot. Then Buck had accrued Malagosto debt, and given up on that. Operatives, and their money, were watched like hawks. They were among the most valuable assets SCORPIA had, and they were paid like it. Not to mention kept secured like it.

Most of the losses were to be expected: the portions of his post-Malagosto payouts that hadn't immediately gone towards the debt. He had managed to keep most of his pre-Malagosto cash, though. He'd be set up for quite a while if he made it to L.A. 700 grand wasn't anything to sneeze at, and he'd managed to collect it all up and put it in an untouched account. That should make sure he could keep it.

Money sorted, Buck's next priority was getting over the US border as fast as fucking possible. That meant a plane. Buck preferred dinky little things for flights like that, the kind of crafts that could hop over borders without too much fuss. He knew operatives who swore by commercial, or swanky jets. But in Buck's mind, there wasn't much more inconspicuously criminal than a cute little plane doing a little bit of smuggling. Just enough standing out to hide the bigger secrets. The couple he found to fly him into the US just proved the theory: a pair of dedicated ornithologists who were willing to do favours for a bit of cash.

They took well to him, even with Orca's stoicism problem. Buck made an effort to loosen up, be less of a stressed-out assassin, but his still-fragile situation made it difficult. They didn't seem to care too much, although there were a few complaints about his lack of skill at campfire stories. The two of them were good company, and the change of pace was probably good for him, although the way he'd been shaped into Orca made him twitchy about it. The week of travelling was mostly short hops, stopping at every national park and protected wildlife zone, and then another trip to an airport to refuel. The pace might have been nerve-wracking, but Buck knew it and the obscure stop locations would let the search outpace him. At last, they crossed the border with him crammed into a concealed compartment, and ditched him by the side of the road near the Gila National Forest. Buck said goodbye with a couple grand in cash and a few suggestions for better surveillance equipment.

The next order of business was getting to L.A. It shouldn't be very difficult to catch a ride with a trucker or three; especially not when they'd find it very difficult to put him in danger. He found his first driver in a diner on the main street, on a loop around the national park area. Buck sat in his passenger seat until he hit the I-100, where the man pulled over at a truck stop for him to find his next truck. Buck was polite in his thanks, but not so much that it was suspicious. He got lucky with his next lift, a long hauler called Stephanie who would ride the I-10 all the way into L.A and was happy to give someone a lift.

The only downside of his hitchhiking so far was that it wasn't nearly as interesting as hitching with a couple of bird nerds had been. The cab of an interstate road train was not the place to be for scintillating conversation. The upside was that he could dwell, a little bit, on his life choices. It wasn't the most pleasant thing ever, but it was necessary. He'd liked working for SCORPIA well enough, probably would've managed fine on the SEALs if he'd had any other team for his first deployment. He just hadn't been able to look past what they'd done, and tried to make him do, and then he was a highly-skilled loose end who'd just proven himself morally flexible enough to kill the squad he'd been deployed with, and a few other associates besides. It had been SCORPIA or court-martial, and Ripper had been persuasive. Buck couldn't find it in himself to regret it. He'd had some real good years as hunter-killer squad Maverick's Puff Puff, and the year and change he'd been Orca had been something else. Less enjoyable, but the challenge and the thrill were even better. Both leagues better than the Navy SEALs' Washy. But now, he'd quit being Orca, and if he wanted to live past 30, he had to switch directions fast. SCORPIA didn't forgive and it didn't forget. He'd been on the other side of a fleeing operative too often to ever forget that.

The only chance he had was hoping that the rumours were true and there was a faction in the Board that would take the execution of his client favourably. The whisper going around was that some of the executives had been losing their taste for mass-murder and the brasher plans. If that were true, and it was a big if, Buck's best shot was pretending he was retired or dead, completely out of the way of whatever infighting he'd incidentally triggered. Hope that whatever side he'd accidentally become useful to didn't want him as a present factor, just a catalyst. He needed a job, though. Lying low didn't have to mean becoming a hermit. It probably should, but there wasn't much point to a life lived that way. Besides, Buck knew himself, and if he didn't have something to do, he'd do something very, very stupid, and re-enter the field of work he was supposed to be avoiding. So, he needed something to do, a new life direction.

It took Buck an afternoon to settle on firefighting. It seemed like an involved enough job to keep him occupied, and he used to daydream about it when he was little. Plus, it would be nice to do something he didn't have to have complicated feelings about. Mostly his feelings didn't get complicated until 3 a.m on nights after bad jobs, but they were still complicated. Firefighting would be simple, feel-good. Let him save lives other than the ones paying out his contracts. Probably heal some things, or whatever. That was a thing, right? Action movie fuckheads were always retiring to do something wholesome, that could be Buck too. It would be Buck too, as soon as he got his living situation in order. And figured out how firefighters actually got their jobs.

Stephanie was kind enough to drop him off at a taxi rank, despite her general standoffishness the rest of the drive. Buck thanked her, and went looking for a taxi. He still had the address of his storage-unit-cum-bolthole memorised, and the driver wasted no time getting him there. Maybe Buck could've afforded some time wasted; the drive reminded him of some especially hair-raising car chases. The taxi screeched to a stop on the curb outside the facility, where the driver gave Buck a dirty look just for taking a second to catch his breath before he paid.

The unit itself was in exactly the condition he'd left it. Locked up tight, with the car and an illegal armoury carefully organised inside. He could make it all mobile in a few hours if he had to, but until he got somewhere to live, it wasn't necessary. He grabbed the fake papers he'd stowed in the glove box, and curled up in the passenger seat with the laptop from Medellin. Somewhere to live, and getting qualified for firefighting, were his first priorities. If he'd made it this far from Peru, and this far into the US, it was a pretty safe bet he wasn't on a razor-thin margin of error.

Things went pretty smoothly for Buck, after that. He found himself a first floor apartment in a mid-budget neighbourhood, and used most of his nest egg to buy it. Moving the contents of the storage unit over and setting the place up as a proper bolthole took the rest. It meant he needed an interim job before becoming a firefighter, but that was alright. A very small price to pay for safety. Besides, he'd always thought he'd make a decent bartender. Maybe a snobby one, after Malagosto, but this was L.A. There would be somewhere pretentious that would hire him.

He enrolled in the Academy, and in the weeks between that and classes starting up, Buck got himself a job at a bar downtown. He was the only one on staff who had the recipes for anything more complex than liquor and mixers memorised, but that meant the clientele was fun. Rowdy students, off-duty young professionals, and a lot of people who'd probably have been better off at the sports bar down the street. He had to kick a lot of those out, but it was easy enough to manage. Showing off his bulk and letting himself backslide into Orca a little helped.

With the new job came a new alias. He was back to being Evan. Given that the last time he'd been that was high school, he felt abrubtly juvenile. It was probably appropriate for his 'rebirth' as a civilian. Even though he felt like a kid again, he was pretty sure his coworkers thought 'Evan' was a recently-returned serviceman of some kind. It was true enough. Shaking off Orca was a rough job, but the friendliness and facade of care required for bartenders helped a lot. They were practically required to show emotion. 'Evan' was as much a shallow facade as Orca had been, but at least it was a friendly one. A good place to start building himself from.

With his days free and largely empty, Buck found himself at a loose end. He woke up late, but even the messiness of a bar's schedule left him with hours of free time. Buck hadn't spent so many days in a row with nothing to do since the summer after senior year. After the third day he spent drifting aimlessly through his house, reorganising his cabinets, Buck decided enough was enough. He sat down with a pen, and added a list of things to do with his free time to a page. Work out, katas, explore L.A, do weapons maintenance. Try and learn something new, maybe. With a little more thinking, he added remedial Malagosto study. He might have resolved to play civilian, but he couldn't get rusty. He'd regret it eventually.

Buck tried to check off each of those things before work, every day. He didn't doubt that when the Academy started up in a few weeks' time he'd feel better, but until then he had to exist at a loose end. It was stabilising, at least. He was sure he'd heard about maintaining throughlines between life stages as a means of sanity-preservation somewhere. He'd need to be fit to be a firefighter, of course, and he was sure that he could make any kind of information useful. Woodz had once managed to track a target down solely from previous research on tourist traps to avoid.

Bartending continued to be a good outlet. Buck didn't put too much effort into building 'Evan'. He suspected that the Academy would be a much better place to settle into himself as a civilian, free of the stoicism of Orca. The bar mostly served as the initial shakeup he needed, a way to earn money and remember civilian norms. He never slipped, never did anything inappropriate, but it was interesting to see how people carried themselves. He hadn't been totally disconnected, of course, but even people with office jobs ended up in a bubble of their coworkers and their jargon. Seeing people who didn't look behind themselves in glass or carry themselves loose and ready had for years been reserved for very specific circumstances. When they were targets or other subjects of a job, and off-days. Clients, too, sometimes, but most people rich enough to hire SCORPIA had enough freak mannerisms to avoid being a good sample.

The bar gave him a human baseline. He stopped walking so lightly, let his arms sway as he walked. Let himself have a soft resting face, instead of a hard one. That had been a hard shift, actually. He'd stopped letting himself look relaxed back when he'd be Washy. The guy they all thought was weak couldn't also look friendly, no matter how competent he'd eventually become. It was a real relief to shed that. The more he loosened the shackles of Orca, the more Buck realised that he couldn't just revert to a civilian Puff Puff, either. He'd kept parts of himself strapped down there, too. He'd just enjoyed himself more.

The Academy was different to what Buck had expected. Sure, the LAFD was an impressive institution, responsible for a lot, but they were also pretty obviously a publically-funded organisation. They had pumped all their money into job training, and used the leftovers to account for the fitness and academic study facilities. The instructors were good, though, and Buck liked his classmates. The comparatively lower difficulty was also something to enjoy. He'd managed SEALs training, the courses SCORPIA forced its squads onto, and then Malagosto well enough. Going through the Academy, which was designed to produce a different kind of person, was a very different experience. Easier, in some ways. Buck particularly enjoyed the lack of ruthless pressure. Sure, the instructors pushed hard, yelled, demanded excellence, but he got the impression that they cared about their students' outcomes. He could name maybe three instructors past high school who'd ever managed that. They were fair, too. Despite Buck more than meeting fitness requirements, he got just the same yelled encouragements as the students who weren't quite there yet. Even the aggressive speech on the first day had been supportive. The role of a firefighter is a great and honourable one, requiring hard work, but you can get there.

A few days in, the instructors had gotten frustrated with the improbable amount of Evans enrolled in the course, and declared they'd be using last names instead. Nolan, Katzenburg, and Bucklee. Katzenburg and Bucklee very quickly became Katz and Buck. Easier to yell single-syllable names, they were told. Buck shared a grin with Katz about it. Nolan, by dint of not adopting a nickname from his own last name, remained an Evan.

The new name was good for him. A new structure to build himself up around. The Academy probably would've given him that regardless, but the name change that came with it made things easier to shift in his head. That was always how he'd arranged himself, a new name with every lifestyle. Going back to Evan had been jarring, even if he could recognise its utility as a placeholder while he shook off Orca. He still mostly thought of Evan as who he'd been before he'd ever touched a weapon. Before grew into himself. He certainly hadn't used any name remotely close to Evan Buckley with SCORPIA. He'd stuck to his middle name — Jacob — by and large, even where the people around him almost certainly knew his legal name. It wasn't exactly an extraordinary decision; Buck would struggle to name anybody he'd met in all those years who was using the name they'd been born with. Maybe a derivative, but never the whole thing, and even in the SEALs last names were more common than firsts.

'Buck' grew naturally out of the hollow cavity of 'Orca'. 'Orca' had been a persona constructed almost entirely for profit, rather than a natural reaction to his environment. Every graduate took from the way Cossack had presented himself; it was both tribute and savvy business move. Clients, at least the ones with pull and cash, expected cool, ruthless competence. Complete dispassion, even. Cossack had specialised in that. And he'd been the undisputed best, more successful than Hunter, who had been supernaturally skilled but only had six kills to his name. Cossack had more, and he'd been the guy responsible for the shift into the semi-project manager role that more and more graduates got hired for. Buck wasn't really any of those things. He'd managed it all fine, to the exacting standards of SCORPIA, but it hadn't been natural. Scraping his insides clean had been the only thing allowing him to do it.

He hadn't quite noticed how restrictive it had been. He'd noticed, of course, the strain he put on himself, but as he allowed himself to joke again, to grin and go out drinking with his classmates, or argue with his teachers, the scale of what he'd done to himself became clear. It wasn't natural. He should've guessed that building Orca up the way he had would end badly. He'd done the repression thing before, in the SEALs. They'd wanted perfect automatons to follow orders, and Washy had managed that right up until he'd seen something he shouldn't have. He'd used his gun on impulse then, too. He didn't regret it. Opening back up into Puff Puff had been good for him after that, too. Squad Maverick weren't so scrutinised that he couldn't be mostly himself. He still caught shit, but it was all meant in good fun. He was the newbie, their risky investment into a fugitive from the USA, but he was also their youngest, greenest member.

He wasn't the youngest guy in his Academy class, not by a long shot. Henry was youngest, just out of high school. A few of the older people in class made valiant efforts to take him under their wing, but Henry was a hissing cat about it. Buck didn't really understand his impulse to reject the mentorship, but took it upon himself to coax the guy into the circle of acquaintances they'd started forming anyway. Everything was always a little bit about networking, and the training period before an intensely interpersonal new job was probably one of the more appropriate times to be making friends. Buck sure was. Casual, surface level ones, sure, but friends. It was good to be part of a group again. Buck had missed it, the camaraderie. When he'd been recommended to Malagosto by one of the guys Maverick had been working for, he'd had to close himself off. Assassins worked alone. He'd felt like the promotion was a worthwhile tradeoff, and the gradual nature of the shift into isolation had kept it feeling that way. It had been impossible to notice how much he missed camaraderie until he got it back. If his station ended up like his Academy class, even if it never got any deeper, Buck could see himself being happy basically forever.

The new companionship did force him to remember his old companions. Squad Maverick had been by his side for five straight years, one of the most stable squads SCORPIA had. Ripper had run a tight ship, and their running-down-fugitives speciality had been in enough demand that it was never a good economic choice to sacrifice them. Buck hoped they were still doing well. He especially hoped SCORPIA hadn't sent them after him. He didn't think so. It would be pointlessly cruel and a needless failure point. SCORPIA may not have believed in emotional ties, and nobody on their payroll would confess to any, but they could judge the effects on people, if only because it made them easier targets. It would be in reports that squad Maverick was an entangled team. Ripper, in his neurotic manner, had probably even written down the exact circumstances of why they'd started calling him Puff Puff, and that was too nauseatingly sweet of a story to discount emotional ties after reading. If they caught onto him, Buck would be tracked down by a different hunter-killer squad. That probably wasn't likely either. He'd been left unbothered by any group that he'd given cause to bother him for weeks.

Buck still tended bar at nights, but on a reduced schedule to account for his extra workload at the Academy. It was a good place to bring his classmates, when they'd had a rough week and wanted to unwind. Poor Henry could only drink lemonade, but they didn't get much more than buzzed, so he wasn't missing much. Buck suspected that some nights the guy brought a fake and went to the joint next door when the rest of them headed home.

Going out with his classmates, more than the Academy, provided the core elements of his new persona. He'd learnt his lesson, 'Buck' would be as close an approximation of his own personality as possible, but he didn't want to be threatening anymore. Harmlessness had a lot of benefits, but the most important to him had become approach ability as a firefighter. He wouldn't be very good at helping people if he gave off the indefinable threatening vibe Malagosto graduates were notorious for. Plus, it was the best facade, if someone could manage it. Buck could, and he planned on it making that facade flawless. 'Buck' would be perennially cheerful, a little clueless. Goofy, charming, a little reckless. The picture of a guy with some growing up to do. Those were all things Buck recalled being. Puff Puff had been constricted by SCORPIA's strict and sometimes insane environment, but he'd been all of those things then, too. Sharper, less inclined to recklessness and a very much reduced insubordinate streak, but squad Maverick had let him be fun. Spooling those traits back from where he'd thrown them adrift to be Orca was freeing.

When graduation time arrived, 'Buck' was a well-worn persona. It felt natural, not at all like he was hiding within a costume shell. His former coworkers at the bar had even commented on his improved demeanour on his last shift. With the end of the Academy came the end of the group he'd formed. He wasn't looking forward to being split off from his new friends, but he knew it had to happen. He wasn't especially optimistic about them staying drinking buddies, as some had proposed, but friendly enough to wave and have a chat on calls was probable. His instructors had given him a few notes about insubordination, but Buck figured that a few issues with authority were his due. Besides, there wasn't much they could actually do to him about it. Fire him, maybe, but he'd get a pretty robust set of warnings before that would actually happen. He was entering into a comfortable kind of life, smoother than it had any right to be. He'd spent all of his twenties so far in a pressure cooker unlike any other, doing things that probably made him a bad person on a soul-deep level. The moral centre the Academy had provided him felt surreal, like a gift he hadn't earned. A moral framework he didn't have to solve himself. Graduating felt fucking good though, like a dream come true. A dream he couldn't even remember having. He'd miss his years with SCORPIA, he'd tied too much of himself up in the thrill of the chase and the joy of using hard-won skills, but he could move on from that. The job satisfaction was probably about the same, at least according to his instructors. Maybe even a warmer kind than what Buck was used to.

His newly comfortable existence didn't negate the fact that he was a fugitive from SCORPIA. He still got tense sometimes, checking over his shoulder, but the more time passed the larger the gaps between those episodes. The most stressful of those had been when he'd been told that he needed a background check, and he'd abruptly remembered that he was also a fugitive from the USA. It had been so long since that had been a real consideration he'd forgotten to consider it entirely. An unforgivable error, but at least it hadn't killed him. Not until now, when he'd given it the best chance it had ever had. If anything about his identity flagged as fake while they were checking it, someone'd put the pieces together about Evan S. Bucklee being SCORPIA terrorist Evan J. "Orca" Buckley. He wasn't naive enough to believe that the government had stopped paying attention to him when he'd joined SCORPIA. When he'd graduated Malagosto, some analyst had probably gotten a pay rise for noticing. The school was a ridiculously prestigious institution, as much a shadow school for assassins could be. The circle of people who knew about it placed enough stock in it to keep SCORPIA funded, at least. Even the governments who wanted him alive or dead for being anywhere near it had hired graduates before. Everything he'd been setting up, every feeling he'd allowed himself to have again, it all rode on the background check going smoothly.

When at last it did, Buck felt a massive weight on his shoulders lift. If the USA hadn't caught him then, they weren't going to catch him again bar some very unlikely exceptions. They probably thought he was dead, come to think of it. That's what Buck would've assumed, had he been assigned to track himself down. Maybe the CIA or whoever was in charge of criminals like him had different procedures, but Buck figured that assuming he was safe from them now wasn't too unreasonable. SCORPIA was a different story. They wouldn't catch him on the background check. No, they'd catch him when his name went up on the employment roll for the LAFD. The employment rosters of public service agencies were notoriously insecure. Any sub-legal organisation worth anything, and so especially SCORPIA, kept an eye on them. Mostly to see whose records suggested they'd be easy to manipulate, but there'd be flags up for the names of operatives on the run. Buck could either slip through the gaps with his slightly different name, or he wasn't on the list of operatives to scan for.

When he got hired on to the 118, he let himself relax about SCORPIA, too. If they hadn't come for him when his name first went up, then he'd slipped through their net. Buck was comfortable saying that they weren't just stalling: L.A had three permanent outposts that Buck knew of, and multiple international airports. If anybody was coming, they would have shown up, in enough force to be comfortable.

The first time he'd walked into the station, he'd been nervous. It felt unreasonable, like he'd become a teenager again. He had enough self-awareness to be a little concerned about just how attached he'd become to the job, but didn't know how to stop himself. 'Firefighter' was the role he'd settled on for himself, to fill the void he'd made the second he'd made that choice in Peru, and at this point in the game it was the only non-violent thing he had any appropriate qualifications for. Plus, it felt a little like penance, for the crimes that he regretted. Maybe it was silly to have two categories for his illegal actions, but Buck had developed them when he'd been reflecting on the road. Stuff he didn't regret, and the stuff he should probably feel worse about. That second category, he'd decided three weeks into the Academy, was full of things he should be repenting for. If he couldn't feel as agonised as he should, he could keep some good people into the world where he'd left gaps. Walking into the station for the first time forced him to realise how precarious the job he'd tied his future to actually was. One wrong move and it was all gone. That had been true for him previously as well, but he wouldn't've been around to worry about what he was going to do next.

Buck shuffled into the station, aware that covering his nerves with arrogance or indifference wasn't the best move. It was maladaptive, or whatever the word was. Not a tactic suited for civilian use. There were only a few people milling around the engines, but it seemed that most of the crew were in the loft. Buck could hear the conversations going from where he stood. Snatches drifted down to where he stood. The cadence was familiar. Squad Maverick had joked just like that whenever there weren't superiors in the room.

Shaking himself, Buck darted up the stairs to the loft. There were firefighters everywhere, but the biggest group was at a table beside the kitchen counter. Buck approached, unsteadier than he'd been in years.

"Uh, hi? I'm the new recruit, I was told to report to Captain Nash." He said, glancing over the table. He regretted his complete lack of research into the station when every person at the table glanced at each other, blank looks on their faces. The man at the head of the table looked over at Buck, smiling softly.

"I don't know a Captain Nash." He looked at the other people sitting with him. "Do you guys know a Captain Nash?" As the others looked at each other and exchanged denials, Buck just barely managed to avoid stammering out his nervousness. He'd half-thought he wasn't capable of that kind of thing anymore. At least they didn't hang him out to dry for too long. The man at the head of the head of the table was the first to break character. He grinned broadly.

"Nah, I'm Bobby. What'm I calling you? It's Evan, right?" He pulled a chair out next to him, an implicit gesture for Buck to make himself welcome. Buck tried not to flinch at being called Evan. As best as he could judge, he succeeded.

"I'm Buck, actually." The others took that in stride, and Buck let himself sink into their conversation.

The first month with the 118 kept thate rhythm. Buck had kind of expected it, but it turned out that his expectations of the job hadn't fully accounted for how it would make him feel. It was fantastic, better than even the best mission he'd ever been on, either as Puff Puff or Orca. The cold satisfaction of a good hit and the hot thrill of active combat couldn't compare to the warm glow Buck felt helping someone, saving their life. It was embarrassing, almost, for that to be such a strong feeling for him and for him to have discovered that so late. He wouldn't go so far as to say that he'd wasted his life up until joining the 118, but looking back he could see that he'd been missing something important. Not camaraderie, though. Whatever he might have had revealed about himself by becoming a firefighter, it hadn't taken away any of his appreciation for the role squad Maverick had played in his life. The 118 was full of people Buck could see liking him as 'Buck', as a kind of idiot younger brother, but he doubted anybody there would accept him fully. Despite that, Hen was nice, Chimney too, and Bobby was practically paternal.

He made it four months more before everything began to fall apart. He'd been attending a scene, focused mostly on a patient; a man who'd been in a minor car accident and needed checking for a concussion. The two of them were off to the side of the main scene when Buck glanced up and froze. Walking just behind the crowd was a woman the spitting image of Amanda, and carrying herself like it too. Buck's blood flashed cold. He ducked his head back down with so much force he nearly gave himself whiplash. If he'd been anywhere other than L.A, he would've dismissed it. Amanda had always been more of an urban creature. But L.A was one of the central urban hubs of the Western world. It was totally plausible that she had been sent there. And if she'd seen Buck, had even the slightest inkling that he was in the city, then a time limit had just been put on his life.

The best chance he had was not to flinch. If he bolted, that was as good as confirmation. If Amanda really had noticed him, she'd have taken stock of the unit he was with, and then it was a hop, skip, and a jump to fucking 'Bucklee'. Buck was really regretting not changing that fake when he'd had the chance. It hadn't been possible, he knew that, but man, he was wishing it had been. He was jumpy for the rest of the week, seriously considering looking into the local criminal element. Buy a few explosives for his house protection systems, something a little higher power than the rifles and pistols he had stashed away. A little higher power than was legal. In lieu of that, and in recognition of the impossible logistics involved in hiding that kind of weaponry, Buck took to keeping one of the smaller pistols in the pocket of his uniform pants, and a larger one inside his belt when he wasn't working. It still wasn't enough to make him feel safe. Worse, he couldn't protect his coworkers-turned-friends with weaponry like that. Being protective over other people, ones who couldn't defend themselves, was entirely new. Buck hadn't spoken to anybody who couldn't fire a gun since he was nineteen.

The stress kept getting worse the longer it went without anything happening. Buck knew how operations went; if getting back at him would alter anything about the job Amanda was in town for, it would wait. She was the type to hold back everything extraneous until the final debriefing; he'd overheard enough complaints to know. The bounty-bonus for finding him would wait until she'd finished out the contract, which was undoubtedly worth more money than his bounty. Not knowing how long her contract would take to fulfil was causing him more stress than anything else. He couldn't brace himself at all. He was so wound up, it was beginning to affect his work. He'd tried the traditional stress relief method of hooking up, but as it turned out, that didn't work so well when there wasn't someone watching the door. Buck was consistently too paranoid about someone sneaking in while he wasn't paying attention to get much out of it, and he was sure the poor people he was coupling up with didn't feel much better than him about the whole thing. With the tried-and-tested solution useless, Buck went with the next best thing: upping his armoury. He couldn't carry anything else, but he could put the basics everywhere he'd have cause to be. The firehouse was never empty, but there were low hours, and Buck used those to stash three duffel bags. One into an empty locker, secured with a fake lock. It technically had a locking mechanism, but the shank was cheap tin, easy to pull at and break. The locker would be easy enough to get into if he needed it. The second bag went into the empty space under the pool table, lashed up there with bungee cords and some judicious application of Command hooks. His suggestion that he was investigating it for a tilt had been met with the fond eyerolls that he'd come to expect as reactions to 'Buck'. He'd maintained that patter until the bag was secured, then rolled out from underneath, feigning reluctant concession. Nobody noticed his hands were empty when they hadn't been before. The third, Buck tucked away in a cabinet in the little-used reception space near the garage doors. The loft made the space largely useless, which was perfect for Buck's purposes. An empty cabinet became the duffel's new home, kept secret only by Buck's certainty nobody every opened those cabinets. The layers of dust more than proved it.

Each bag had a semi-automatic, three loaded magazines, two smoke grenades, and a combat knife. He had also written four letters, and put a copy of each into every bag. One for Hen, one for Chimney, one for Bobby, and one for Maddie. He hadn't thought about Maddie in a long, long time, but returning to civilian life had brought some things back for him. Plus, it wouldn't be risky for her to be connected to him after he died. That's what the letters were for. Bobby, Hen and Chim's were largely just heartfelt goodbyes, with an apology for whatever had happened to take him out. He made sure to say, right at the very end, to tell the cops whatever they had to, and to cooperate with all their demands. If he was killed, somebody would pay enough attention to his records, and the investigation would get passed up the chain. He didn't want anybody tarnished by association. Maddie's was a little different. It was partially an apology for letting himself fall out of touch, partially a heartfelt goodbye, and partially a will. He'd tucked a full confession inside, in a separate envelope. He'd told Maddie on the envelope not to open it unless she was willing to learn things she couldn't take back. It was an extremely long shot that she'd be the only person to see it, but with any luck the cops would at least release the letter to her. If he got really lucky, someone would send it to her without telling anybody about it. Her address was on the outermost envelope, in preparation for that exact scenario.

The bags had definitely improved Buck's mental state. He was no longer so on edge in the station, and even managed to catch some sleep on the longer shifts. Calls were a different story. He was so exposed, even if they were entirely unpredictable. One call in particular had been especially concerning. On the face of it, a drowning call in Beverly Hills wasn't so much more concerning than a five-car pileup in Hollywood. It was the trappings of wealth that got to Buck. He'd been in so many environments like that, both as Puff Puff and then as Orca, that the mere presence of cool white pool tiles and a smooth white concrete facade had him twitching for a holster. It affected his performance. Looking back over his shoulder every two seconds was not conducive to proper CPR. After the kid was breathing again, and everyone was headed back over to the engine, Buck knew he'd have to do something about that. Chimney was giving him odd looks. Hen and Bobby might've been more subtle about it, but they were too.

It took him the rest of the shift to come up with the solution. He'd put another duffel bag inside the engine. It probably wouldn't even be useful, but it'd be a nice placebo. Planning how to hide it was a much more complicated endeavour. Buck was loath to take up any unnecessary space the engine needed for equipment, which didn't actually leave many opportunities for discreet duffel-stowage. Fire trucks were optimised beyond belief. Eventually, he settled for placing it behind a false wall in the empty drawer that he'd been told had been used for first aid kits before the ambulance had gotten an update. He gathered the gear he needed for it that night, and fought the library printer for new copies of the letters. A trip to the hardware store for false backing supplies and he was ready to install it all when he next got on shift.

Buck spent two full hours at the start of his next shift waiting for the floor to clear enough for him to be able to install the false backing and place his duffel bag. The universe wasn't even kind enough to give him a call as a distraction. He got sick of feeling jittery anticipation after that, and pushed himself up from the couch.

"Alright, going to borrow the engine for bit." He said, giving Hen his best charming smile. She looked up at him with doubt written all over her face.

"Uh huh, and what do you want it for? Not something sensible." She arched a brow.

"No, Hen, I thought I'd go get it cleaned. Come on, nothing's going to happen." He replied, already moving. "I'll have it back in half an hour. Or less!" He shouted over his shoulder, already halfway to the stairs. He was still close enough to hear her sigh, though.

"Detail doesn't go that quick, Buck." She yelled back, barely-tolerant amusement in her voice. Buck flicked a hand back at her, not quite sure if she could even see it.

"Does if you exclude travel time." He called, halfway down the stairs. That'd give him a nice buffer if anything went wrong.

"Bobby's not going to like it!" Hen replied, raising her voice to be heard. Buck waved at her with a grin when he got out from under the loft, but didn't otherwise respond. It didn't matter anyway, he'd made up his mind. A quick trip to the lockers for the bag he'd kept everything in, and Buck was set to go.

He stepped up into the cab, swinging the bag into the passenger seat. The second the engine started, he slammed the accelerator. Now he just had to find somewhere suitably quiet to park and finish stashing the bag. With maybe too much speed, Buck made a beeline for the first parking lot in the area.

He had to breeze by it when he saw that it was full. His stream of cursing lasted until the next one, which was thankfully empty, or empty enough for his purposes. One lonely little hatchback wasn't enough to put him off. At least not for something like this. One benefit of being a firefighter that Buck had absolutely seen coming: people liked a uniform, enough to overlook a lot.

Installing the false backing didn't go quickly. Buck was a little rusty at that kind of thing, and he'd never spent much time on smuggling operations. Eventually, he got it installed and the duffel bag stowed behind it. A little testing of the mechanism, and Buck was satisfied. Hopefully it would hold up under scrutiny. As the probie, he was usually the guy responsible for the cleaning, but Bobby liked to rotate things, a stopgap for hazing. Nobody paid too much attention to the interiors though - they never usually needed more than a dusting.

He was much more careful on the drive back. There wasn't any need to rush, he was well within an acceptable timeframe. When he returned, he backed the engine in slowly. The house smelt of spaghetti, and most of the crew was up in the loft eating. Buck sauntered over to the stairs, not quite whistling. He ignored the two guys at the pool table staring. He was probably in trouble; but he wasn't fired, and trouble was a pretty small price to pay for peace of mind. When he got up to the loft, he ignored Bobby's disapproving look and went right for the serving bowl of spaghetti Hen was holding.

"Hey, hey, hey, wash your hands." She pulled it away, but not in time to stop him scooping up a few strands. "We don't know where they've been." Buck ate the pasta with a grin. A little more ammunition for their 'young, idiot Buck' perception never hurt anybody, and it was funny besides. Reflex-checking was hilarious, especially since nobody in the 118 could manage to check him.

"What if there'd been a call?" Bobby said, disapproving. Buck resisted the urge to sigh.

"I was in the neighbourhood. It needed a check-up." He said, trying not to smirk at the wordplay. Technically true, in the loosest possible sense. Chimney's remark made him suspect that he'd failed.

"They charge you extra for the full detail?" He waggled his eyebrows. Buck took the implication given. He leant back on the couch behind him, grinning.

"Yeah, yeah." He grinned. Better they think he was using it to fuck than putting weaponry in it. One was maybe a talking to. The other was a federal crime, or near enough to. Buck grabbed for the plate of steamed broccoli closest to him. Bobby had stopped walking, and Buck wanted something to keep him from interrupting while he got told off.

"Look, I like you." Bobby said, looking down at Buck. "I know we have this thing, you call me Pops and I give you a hard time for being a dumbass kid," Buck stopped paying attention there, let the rest of the lecture wash over him. He'd gotten what he wanted, all there was to do was to wait until he found out how much trouble he was actually in.

Turned out it was a lot. The beginning of a three-strike record. The first strike already counted out. After four nearly-perfect months, it was galling. At least it wasn't going to happen again. He'd set up what he needed to. Hopefully it would never come in handy, but Buck wasn't holding out hope. There was always the slim chance Amanda hadn't noticed him, or that it hadn't actually been her, but that chance was incredibly slim. Buck knew how she was trained. At this point, he wasn't actually sure what could persuade him to loosen up again. It wasn't going to be time, he'd learnt that lesson. Maybe if he figured out what she'd been in town for, and then a month passed. Maybe. The odds he'd even know she'd done something were about the same as the ones for her not noticing him. Buck's jobs had still had the hallmarks of his time with squad Maverick, something he'd been trying very hard to erase. Mostly it had worked, although sometimes he would catch it for overuse of explosives. Amanda had no such problems shedding an operational signature. She wasn't perfect — Buck had been able to recognise her gait, for one — but if she wanted something to fly under the radar, it would. Unless the client had specifically requested exposure as an end goal for whatever job it was, Buck would probably never find out what she'd been in town for. He was never relaxing again.

As it turned out, Buck's new precautionary measures hadn't done enough to reduce the load on his mind. The first few calls with his new backup had gone okay, reminding himself about his precautions was pretty effective, given that they were always a quick sprint away. The next call the 118 took, Buck spent the whole drive there winding himself up. The caller was on the fourth floor of an apartment block. The safety net of a rifle within reach didn't work if the rifle wasn't actually in reach. Buck had failed to consider the reality of a modern city like L.A. God, he was actually starting to get worried about his operational capacity. He did his best to keep up with what he'd learnt, but it was fucking hard to stay sharp with nothing to sharpen himself against. He didn't even have the texts they'd given him at Malagosto to read. Buck had ditched those graduation presents in a bag locker in Paris. A good decision at the time, but he couldn't go get them now. There were a lot of things he'd taken for granted with SCORPIA. Firefighting and the 118 were an improvement in many ways, but the new stress about getting rusty was not a welcome addition to Buck's psyche.

When they arrived at the scene, the stress made him act stupider than even his 'Buck' persona allowed. Challenging Bobby to a race up the stairs, charging at a wall with an axe when there was a real risk of hurting a baby by doing so, even bringing the axe at all. Buck wanted to blame the decision to go at a wall full force when they had reason to believe there was a baby in there on sleep deprivation, but he knew better. Half his brain was still occupied by paranoia instead of logic. It didn't help that nobody in the 118 could actually do anything to watch his back. With squad Maverick, whenever somebody had a case of the Paranoids, there were five other guys armed to the teeth to watch their back. With the Paranoids tending to go around on rotation, it was a pretty equitable system. No such thing was going to happen with the 118. Buck had a pretty strong suspicion that even hinting at where most of his attention had been resting the whole call so far would get him an urgent line to some kind of therapist. At least running down the stairs for a saw burnt off some of the jitters.

Ripping the wall apart served the same purpose, at least until Hen realised that anybody on the higher levels flushing would send sewage raining down. Then Buck had to split his concern for his life, the baby, and his uniform. Hopefully she'd be able to stop that from happening. From then on, most of Buck's brain space had to go towards the operation. It was delicate work, removing a pipe without harming the baby in it, and then removing the baby from the pipe. With the help of the defibrillator lube, she slid out, unmoving. A panicked minute later, Buck, Chimney and Bobby all working in desperate unison, she was breathing. She cried, a fragile sound, and Buck scooped her up in a towel like it was second nature. He'd known he had a soft spot for kids, had felt it in action on calls with the 118 before, but an infant, it turned out, was an entirely different beast. He'd describe the feeling as maternal, if he weren't a 26-year-old man. He handed her off to Bobby with more reluctance than he wanted to, then followed as he sped to the lift. It wasn't on the floor.

"Cap, let me take her, you know I'm faster than you." He said, hands already outstretched. Bobby nodded, and made the handoff without ceremony. Going down the stairs with such a delicate package precluded some of the techniques Buck knew to speed things up, but he got to coo endearments at the baby, so it was all equal.

At the car park, Hen already had the ambulance running, back doors open. The second she saw Buck coming down towards her, she started moving to the cab. He entered more delicately than he otherwise would have, careful of the baby in his arms. Another paramedic, a man he'd seen around but whose name he'd never learnt, started shutting the doors. Instead of slamming the roof with a hand, a poor habit he'd picked up with squad Maverick and never managed to let go of, he called out.

"Hen, let's go!" Before Hen could reply, another voice cut through the background hum of first responders.

"Hold up, hold up, I got another one coming." The tone was strong, and Buck could feel himself starting to obey on the strength of it alone. Then he realised why someone else would need an ambulance in the emergency.

"Yo, is that the mother? Screw her, look what she did!" Buck said, shifting the baby in his arms as if to demonstrate. His voices overlapped with the police officer accompanying the teen's, who was loudly declaring the girl's medical status. Buck stopped, and the officer continued.

"She's a child!" Before Buck could say anything, probably something uncharitable given how the rest of this afternoon had been going, Bobby came charging down towards them.

"Hey, what are you waiting for? We gotta go!" He took the girl from her father's arms as he went by, not pausing. The officer whirled towards Bobby.

"What, he's refusing to take her?" She sounded incredulous, offended. Angry.

"I- No!" Buck protested. He was angry that she'd made the choice to flush her baby down the toilet, he wasn't going to deny her treatment because of it. Besides his role as a firefighter being to render aid to anybody, he'd have made a pretty terrible assassin if he couldn't make anything impersonal.

The next few seconds got swallowed by the urgency of a medical transfer. Chim scrambled in after Bobby, something Buck only barely noticed. God, his training really was slipping. The last thing he saw before the ambulance door slammed closed was the disapproving glare of the police officer. He wanted to say something, but he knew better. Getting pissy at someone doing their job better than he was doing his was one of those displays of emotion everyone was better off without.

Buck sat to the side, cradling the baby as Bobby and Chim managed the care of both their patients. He couldn't do much with his hands full, and he wasn't much of a paramedic besides. Maybe in a few more years. If he made it that far. The mother's voice entered the silence after Bobby announced the baby's lack of pulse, breathy.

"I'm sorry. Is she going to live?" Buck gave her a look, but didn't say anything. Ultimately, her feelings about her actions weren't his business, and he supposed it was good that she cared about the baby. Shame it had only started when the poor infant was so close to death because of her, but better late than never. Bobby was the one to reach out and comfort her.

"Hey, it's alright. Give me your hand." She hesitated. "It's okay, don't worry." She carefully placed a shaking hand in his, and Bobby guided it over to the baby's hand. Like a miracle, the baby grasped it, heart monitor starting to beep. "There you go, see?"

Buck smiled despite himself. The rest of the ambulance ride was quiet. The baby stayed stable, and the mother seemed to improve. Buck could be glad of that. When the ambulance arrived at the hospital, Buck followed Bobby out, cooing at the baby even as he placed her on the bed that had been wheeled out to receive them. He went so far as to try and follow it into the hospital when the nurses and doctors began to wheel it away. Bobby stopped him.

"Hey, hey, where are you going? Delivery to the hospital is the end of our job, Buck, you know that." He said, not quite gently. Buck nodded.

"Yeah, you're right. I just, this one felt different, you know?" He said, almost whining. Shame and embarrassment whirled inside him. He'd been working this job for four months, and he was acting like some stupid kid on his first day.

"I understand. I'll give them a call, we'll be lucky if they can tell us if she's okay. But there's nothing more we can do." Now Bobby's voice was gentle. Buck let himself be soothed by it. "We did our jobs very well today, so far. So just be proud of that. Now it's their turn." Bobby punctuated his last remark with a careless gesture towards the hospital. Buck nodded, ceding the point. He'd remember that better next time, or at least manage to be less of an idiot. It was so tempting to blame his loss of perspective on the stress of his Amanda sighting, which had been pretty reasonably the culprit for most things in the few days, but Buck got the sense that maybe any case with a baby involved would have gone the same way. Another thing to work on. More doable than staying sharp, at least. Bobby had stayed rational, after all, and he actually had kids. Or so Hen and Chimney said. Buck hadn't seen any evidence of that, and was beginning to suspect something else was going on.

Buck turned when the screeching of tires interrupted the quiet of the hospital. He stepped in front of Bobby, and put his hand in his pocket for his gun. Looking over, the car was labelled as a police vehicle, but that wasn't a guarantee. He did allow himself to relax slightly when the officer from earlier stepped out though, despite the anger clear on her face.

"Hey. You do not get to decide who lives and who dies." She said, gesturing angrily with a pointed finger. Buck suppressed the unfortunate responses bubbling up within him. He didn't want to be seen as callous, and he did regret his knee-jerk reaction earlier. Not enough to be cowed by someone he didn't know, though. Maybe if Bobby talked to him about it, he'd say something. Clearly she sensed some of that in his demeanour, because she continued.

"That mother is no less of a child than her baby. You're going to kill someone." Buck forced himself not to flinch. She couldn't know what she was implying there. Buck had become a firefighter because he wasn't going to be killing anybody anymore. It had been pragmatic at the time, but as time passed, more and more of himself lay in saving people's lives. He wasn't going to kill anybody again, especially not on the job.

"I mean, she did get care. All the way to hospital, even." Buck said. He knew it was stupid as soon as he said it, but he had to defend himself a little bit.

"Yeah, you keep making jokes. I promise you, the next time you screw up, it'll be your last." She shot a disapproving glare at Bobby, Buck, and Hen, who'd arrived while they were arguing, before storming back to her car. Their little group stood in silence, both Hen and Bobby staring at Buck as well.

"What?" Buck asked. He couldn't even think of anything he'd done wrong. He'd just been threatened, by a cop, for getting little lippy. No more talking back for him, at least not in the presence of cops. Buck didn't want to be chased out by a cop with a grudge. Bobby sighed.

"Get in the truck." He said, monotone. He walked off, and Buck followed close behind. He could follow orders. The drive back to the station was quiet, at least. Maybe Bobby wouldn't say anything. He'd already been told off. The engine pulled into the bay after ten long, unreasonably tense minutes of travel. Chimney hadn't even complained about the stink of the water that had burst out from the pipe, as was pretty common for him when a job got messy. Bobby killed the engine and yanked the keys out of the ignition, the first genuine sign of irritation.

"Buck, I'd like to speak with you in my office. You're not in trouble, but Athena's opinion is one I respect, and if she was angry at you I think we need to discuss the causes." He said, his body turned so he faced Buck head on. Buck nodded, sharper than he usually would. Something about Bobby's stare brought it out of him.

"Yep, that's good."

"Alright, I'll speak to you in five. Chim, could you help Hen reset the ambulance?" Bobby asked, already on his way out of the cab of the engine.

"Of course, Cap." Chimney replied. He waited a second for Bobby to shut the door behind him before he leant forward and clapped a hand on Buck's shoulder. "Good luck there, Buck." Buck grimaced.

"Oh fuck, does Athena's opinion matter that much? I'm so screwed." Chimney laughed.

"She's a good friend, yeah, but Bobby's fair. Just be honest." Buck sighed.

"Thanks, man. Gonna go change this shirt out, think I got some pipe juice on it." Buck said, already half out of the cab. Chimney pulled a face and tugged at his own shirt.

"Eugh, now that you mention it…" Buck laughed, leading the way to the locker room.

Five minutes later, on the dot, freshened up and in his spare shirt, Buck knocked on the open door of Bobby's office. Bobby glanced up, his face softening slightly. The man could look stoic, but he tended to reserve that for calls. In the house, he was an open book. Good for Buck, who let his shoulders relax just a little at the sight.

"Hey, Cap."

"Buck. Come in, sit down." Buck followed orders. Once he'd sat down, Bobby cleared his throat, looking down at the papers in front of him. Buck could see the text; they didn't have anything to do with the last call. Stalling tactic, then. That didn't bode well for the tone of the conversation. "So, you're not in trouble, I'm not going to count this as a strike. What I would like is an explanation, as your Captain. What happened between you and Athena before I arrived? She said you were denying the patient care, and she was pretty angry with you at the hospital." Buck shifted in his seat.

"I had an inappropriate emotional reaction to the mother's actions," Buck wants to say 'sir', but holds himself back. That wasn't the dynamic Bobby liked on his squad. "It made me say something I shouldn't have, but I'd never refuse a patient care. I can ignore my feelings about that kind of thing if I have to, though, so it's not going to happen again." He hopes that will be true. The never refusing a patient thing will be. Not saying something stupid in the heat of the moment is something Buck's struggled with in much higher-stakes environments than the streets of L.A. That might be part of the problem, actually. He hasn't had anything less than the threat of death or physical consequences keeping his mouth in line for quite a while.

"I'm glad to hear that. We all get cases that hit us wrong, and it sounds like you and Athena had a clash on something that had struck two different nerves in you both. As long as this kind of thing doesn't happen again, I think I'm happy to dismiss it as a once off." Buck grinned.

"Thanks, Bobby." Bobby nodded.

"Sure. I'm proud of you, actually. Learning that we don't get to pick our patients is hard lesson, and you seem to have learnt it well. I've seen a lot worse from probies who don't know what to do with a patient they disapprove of." Buck had to fight off a blush, for that one. He'd always been sensitive to praise. He ducked his head.

"Thanks, Bobby. Really nice of you to say." Bobby shook his head.

"I mean it, kid. Come on, I'm making lunch. You can help me prep."

"Yeah, sure. What're you cooking?" Bobby stood up and waited for Buck to follow suit.

"I'm thinking a stir-fry. We have capsicums in the fridge."

"Ooh, nice."

Buck got two whole hours after that to relax. Lunch had been good as always, and Bobby's lack of disapproval had diffused any tension from Hen and Chimney. After they'd all eaten, Buck challenged Hen to a few rounds of the racing game that someone on another shift had brought in. He usually won, what with his reflexes, but Hen's sheer skill made it a challenge. Chimney liked to joke that she'd been a stunt driver in another life. Strictly from his spectator position, of course. Buck had challenged him a couple of times, but Chimney preferred movies to video games. Never mind that he couldn't really watch a movie on shift.

The next call was easy, a minor house fire that barely needed intervention. Buck and the 118 entered the house just long enough to recommend the owner get an electrician in to check over the stove, examine the one year old living there for smoke inhalation, and tell them where to get a new fire blanket. Not particularly strenuous. The next two went about the same, although they were largely paramedic callouts. There wasn't much for Buck to do.

With his shift finally over, Buck was looking forward to collapsing in his apartment. Having to run the gauntlet of his own booby traps made that difficult, but it was a price worth paying for peace of mind. With the curtains drawn, the only place Buck had felt safe since he'd spotted Amanda was his apartment. He'd made sure it was a nice place to be, and he rarely felt trapped, but some nights it grated on him. This wasn't one of those nights, though. After the emotional strain, Buck was just about ready to collapse into bed. Buck set his alarm for 8 a.m, which would give him seven hours of sleep, and proceeded to do just that.

Buck used the half-day he had before his next shift mainly to work out and check on his weapons. Good maintenance was a full-time kind of thing. He also took the time to check the news for any hints at Amanda's operation. He was still holding out the foolish hope that she hadn't noticed him, and any indication that she'd finished her work would be a good sign in that direction. After all, if she'd finished and he was still kicking, the explanations he'd reasoned out for why she hadn't come for him yet fell apart. Buck didn't have any luck with the news that morning. Nothing to hint at any kind of secret dealings, unless he counted TMZ's insistence that some C-lister had a secret kid.

When he arrived at the firehouse, the air smelt good. Buck couldn't put his finger on what, exactly, it smelt like, but if Bobby had come in early to cook whatever it was, that was a pretty good sign. Buck changed and then wandered up to the loft. Every shift should start like that, in Buck's opinion. The ones where he showed up just in time to get in the engine and go were uncomfortably familiar. What was the point of a civilian job if he couldn't act like a civilian? Squad Maverick had been a many-headed entity that tended to take breaks off-missions only, and with the whole group. Orca had spent his off-time preparing the next job, and while he'd been in command of squads and made sure they worked in proper shifts, he'd been on call at all times. Not so for Buck, who got a real work-life balance. He maybe missed the way squad Maverick had operated, but that was maladaptive, he knew that. The calm of the 118 had definite benefits. Chief among them was of course Bobby's food, although their company ranked pretty highly too.

The first call that day, half an hour into the shift, was a woman being choked by a snake. That was a new one on Buck, and for the rest of the squad too, by their faces when dispatch came in over the radio. They piled into the engine and the ambulance in short order, though. Strangulation was serious shit. 5 minutes until brain damage was the optimistic guideline for that kind of thing. It was sirens and lights the whole way there, even though they all knew it wasn't possible to make it in five minutes. Hopefully they'd be in time. They passed the admittedly short drive exchanging the usual amount of light, joking patter. Maybe it was in poor taste when none of them knew the condition of the patient, but there wasn't much else to do. Besides, Buck thought anybody who managed to allow a snake to strangle them was stupid enough to deserve a little mockery.

When they arrived, Bobby had to break the door down. He announced their entry, twice, but got no response. Walking in, the first thing Buck noticed was the decor. It was nice, the house put together with money and taste and maybe a little too much influence from upscale Indonesian resorts. Then he turned the corner, and was faced with a bunch of snakes. Some of them just loose in the middle of the room, hanging from driftwood logs.

"Oh my god." Chimney sounded the most frightened Buck had ever heard the man. "Bobby, I can't do snakes, they scare the crap out of me." He continued, words running together and getting breathier as he spoke. "That scene from Conan the Barbarian with the giant snake traumatised me for life; I can't."

"Who's Conan?" Asked Buck. Trust Chim to make an inane reference while scared out of his mind.

"Conan the Barbarian! Arnold Schwarzenegger. 1982, Jesus." For the whole objection, Chimney kept his eyes fixed on the python in the centre of the room, back stiff. Buck didn't have his worries. One of the tanks on the side of the room had an absolutely gorgeous Scarlet Kingsnake in it. Granted, Buck only knew what it was because the Harlequin Coralsnake's venom had interesting properties and the similarities between the species had come up, but the snake was clearly well-cared for. Glossy scales. His appreciation of the snake didn't stop him having a little fun at Chimney's expense.

"Far as I'm concerned, movies are a waste of time." He didn't have time to enjoy Chimney's affronted snort, because Bobby'd spotted their patient.

"Guys, in here. Back here guys, now." Hen was already half-there, and her exclamations of shock were immediate. Buck joined Chimney in the rush over, and her and Bobby's urgency was immediately understandable. The woman's neck was entirely encircled by the thick midsection of some kind of constrictor. Bobby spoke over everyone's semi-panicked mutterings. "We've got to get her some air, guys."

He stood back, already pulling on gloves. Buck could tell from his stance alone what he was planning on doing. Luckily, Hen interrupted before he had to.

"Bobby, it's no use, that thing is like ten feet long, its constriction strength is like fifty pounds per square inch." Bobby didn't even pause in pulling on his gloves.

"Oh my god I'm going to start calling you snake-o-pedia, stop it!" Hissed Chimney, from where he stood hiding in the doorway.

"All I'm saying is that you stand a better chance of tearing down a cement wall with your bare hands." Hen said, gesturing to Bobby's fruitless efforts.

"Why can't we just kill it?" Buck asked, catapulting the room into silence. The woman being strangled spared the time to look offended.

"We have to at least try something else first." Bobby said, disapproving stare already on his face. Hen went right for her first aid kit.

"I have Dilaudid. We can inject the snake, it'll pass right out."

"How much time is that going to take? Minutes. And minutes we don't have." His voice strained with effort as he continued to try and tug the snake off the woman. "I think we are going to have to kill it." Bobby said. Buck chose not to take offence that his suggestion had been rejected and then pretty much immediately returned to. Ignoring Hen's objections, Buck raised his axe. He flipped it so the blunt side faced down, and swung it with as much force as he could. The snake's head was crushed under the blow. Buck let out a long breath. There were things he never liked doing, and killing animals was one of them, but he didn't want anybody on the 118 to have to live with that burden. Euthanasia for reptiles was also notoriously difficult, and it helped no one if one of Hen's drugs didn't have a fast enough effect, or an effect at all. Especially not their patient, who was now gasping for air as the snake went lax.

"Wow, why is that always the first option for you white boy macho tough guys?" Hen asked, clearly annoyed. Buck wanted to tell her that he'd been the only person on squad Maverick, including Cathy, with a healthy relationship to his own masculinity, but knew it was a bad idea.

"Guys, I am totally going to take credit for this with Tatiana." Chimney broke in. "It's going to get me laid for a week, thank you." Buck chose to ignore him in favour of helping Bobby lever the snake's corpse off their patient.

"Oh, Spartacus." The woman sighed, her voice rough from the strangulation.

"Yeah, well, it was him or you." Buck got the snake untangled enough to hook it over her head, freeing her torso. The motion also placed his arms on either side of her head, and Buck didn't miss the way her eyes widened. "And in situations like that, I always choose the pretty ones." It never hurt to shore up the 'young, foolish Buck' angle, and the woman was beautiful. It was a real shame he was on the clock, and also currently incapable of having sex without an attack of paranoia. He would have tried it otherwise.

"Is that right?" She asked, grin too wide to be called coy. Buck nodded, removing his arms from the bed and leaning back a little.

"Of course." He grinned, although by the way her face fell slightly she wasn't oblivious to what him putting distance between them meant.

"Okay. Hard pass. I'm going to skip the part where the two idiots flirt." Hen said. Buck turned to see her grabbing the kits, already walking toward the door. He stood up as well. He'd have to apologise to Hen. He followed her out, ignoring the wistful little sigh of the woman on the floor. He was still in earshot when Bobby told her to expect a visit from Animal Control.

Buck caught up to Hen at the engine. She'd speedwalked out, judging by the absence of kits at her side.

"Hey, Hen, can we talk? I didn't mean to jump the gun back there."

"Sure, Buck, we can talk. Why don't you start off by explaining yourself." Buck nodded. That was fair.

"Yeah. I knew a guy a few years ago, he studied snakes." He had been a poisons developer with a fascination for snakes who'd required bodyguards and an overconfident enemy hunted down, but the comparison stood. "Loved talking about them. And, the thing with snakes, reptiles really, is that it's really hard to euthanise them humanely." Hen scoffed.

"Which is why you wait, and see if there are other options, Buck."

"Come on Hen, you know how long she had. And Bobby was right, the snake was too big for any drug to take effect in time, especially not anything we had in the kits we use for humans."

"Alright, fine. But did you have to do it so violently?" Buck shifted a little.

"Generally, if there's no drugs to use, crushing the brain as fast as possible is the most humane way to do it. It's messy, but decapitation is harder on the snake. I didn't do it to be cruel, Hen." She sighed.

"I hate that that makes sense. Alright, you've got me on logic. But don't expect me to stop feeling some type of way about it any time soon. It was jarring." Buck nodded.

"Yeah, sure, Hen. That's fine." He was about to continue, but Chimney burst out of the front door, holding the axe like one might a feisty kitten. Buck must have forgotten it.

"Buck, come take this off my hands. It's got snake blood on it. You're cleaning this when we get back." He demanded, pulling a face the whole while. Hen laughed, and Buck followed along.

"Chim, you stitch up wounds for a living, and that's where you draw the line?" Hen asked, snickering. Not too emotional about things to not make fun of Chimney, then. That was good.

"Aw, Chim, I thought you were the hero of this story? How can you tell Tatiana you vanquished a murderous snake if you can't even manage your weaponry?" Buck teased, grinning. Chimney could probably give him a run for his money in the lies department, if his relationship with Tatiana was anything to go by. Chimney gagged.

"Uh-uh, you are not conning me into looking after this thing, Buck. Come take it off my hands." He said, somehow holding it even further away from his body. Buck sighed, but he smiled through it.

"Alright, I guess I can do it." No sooner had he taken the axe from Chimney did Bobby start the engine. The initial roar jolted Buck. His hand was halfway to the pocket he kept his gun in before his brain caught up to his body.

"Alright, we've got places to be. Buck, you're going to clean the axe. Put it away and let's get going." Buck snapped off a sarcastic salute, heading around to the cupboard they kept the entry equipment in. Hen and Chimney simply hopped up into the cab.

Buck secured his headphones in the back cab of the engine, settling in next to Hen and Chimney.

"Do you guys think snake blood will be any harder to clean out of metal than human? It's the same kind of stuff, right?" He wondered out loud, more for something to say than genuine curiosity. He didn't expect it to be very difficult at all; the axe was well maintained and most metal implements took to cleaning well. He wouldn't even have to contend with the blade.

"Whatever you do, you've got to promise me you'll bleach the shit out of it." Chimney said. Hen nodded in agreement.

"Bleach? On stainless steel? I hope to god you two haven't been doing that whenever it's your turn on equipment maintenance." Hen raised an eyebrow.

"What's so wrong with it? It's a great disinfectant." It was Chimney's turn to nod along, then. Buck shook his head, aghast.

"Are you kidding? Use enough bleach, and it stops being stainless steel. Pockmarks, stains, corrosion. You can't use peroxide either, same problems." Bobby broke in, louder than he usually was. Engine noise always got to the driver more, despite the comms headsets.

"Buck, if you feel so strongly about that, you can make a recommendation. To my knowledge, though, the department uses a specialised cleaner. I do want you to be extra careful that it's clean. Blood is a serious hazard."

"I know, Pops. I'll be careful, promise." Bobby nodded.

"It's your biggest virtue, Buck. Neat and tidy." Hen said, smiling to soften the blow.

"Hey! I have many virtues. Young, handsome," he winked, "virile." Hen gagged.

"Eugh, gross. Moving on from Buck's 'virtues'," Hen imbued the word with heavy sarcasm, "Anybody think a bet on the next animal involved in a call is worth it?" Chimney laughed.

"If you exclude dogs, I'd take it. Twenty on a cat?" He said.

"You can't exclude dogs and keep cats." Buck said, arms crossed. "Either domestic or non-domestic, you can't pick and and choose."

"Uh-uh, boys, who's the bookie? And I say, any animal goes."

"Hah!" Buck gloated, just barely holding himself back from pointing at Chimney like a little kid. "Twenty on a llama." Chimney baulked.

"A llama? What the fuck for? I'm keeping my money on the cat, thanks Hen." He said.

"You never know what rich people are going to be up to. Enough rich people here to keep me in improbabilities for life." Hen laughed.

"Alright, noted for the two of you. Hand me the cash for my box when we get back. Bobby, you want to place a bet?" Bobby hummed, the sound coming through as static in the headphones.

"I think I'll put 20 on dogs, Hen."

"Alright. Hope you're looking forward to splitting the pot, there's no way that's not going to be the majority opinion." Bobby laughed.

"That's alright, I have to share my victories every now and then." He says, falsely magnanimous.

"Oi! You lost that one about Nielsson last month." Buck protested. Bobby made a dismissive noise, most of his attention now focussed on properly reversing into the house's bay. At least it gave Buck the last word.

When the alarm went off next, Buck was still cleaning the axe. The blood had dried tacky, and the crevices in the head made the removal process finicky. Bobby walked by, calm in the way he was when it was a smaller callout.

"Buck, dispatch says we've been called to a car crash, just minor injuries at the scene. You alright with being man behind?" Buck nodded.

"Sure, that's fine. This is going to keep me a while." He said, giving the axe a demonstrative wiggle. Bobby clapped him on the shoulder.

"Maybe next time you'll think a bit harder about appropriate courses of action."

"Yeah, yeah. Go help with that car crash, Cap." Bobby smiled at him one last time, jogging off to the engine. Buck kept scrubbing at the axe. Bobby had been right about the department using a specialty cleaner; Buck wasn't sure why he'd expected anything else from the LAFD. Any profession where lives depended on equipment made sure to take excellent care of it. Buck had never met people more dedicated to weapons maintenance than assassins and soldiers, and he was including himself in both those groups. Necessity had forced him to loosen up, but the uncared-for semi-automatics he'd stashed away made him twitch occasionally. It was still perfectly within care guidelines for the models, but Buck used to have enough leeway to be fastidious.

The crew returned to the house complaining loudly about some asshole patient. Middle-aged man with a sprained ankle, complained the whole time they were setting a little girl's dislocated shoulder. Buck made the right noises, glad he hadn't been on that call. Patients with no sense of other people's needs drove him nuts. He knew pain made people frantic and sometimes even loopy, but a sprained ankle was not something that would do that. Not unless the person who'd got one was truly pathetic, or had some kind of concealed injury. That wasn't a firefighting trick — they didn't usually have to do that kind of guesswork on a call. Most scenes, they had the luxury of a proper examination for every person affected. The ones they didn't were rare and most of the damage from those was obvious or applied to everybody at the scene. At a five-alarm fire, everybody had a smoke inhalation problem. In SCORPIA, it was a different story. Buck had seen a guy on another squad die like that, gutshot but bellyaching about his wrenched wrist. Most of the people around had been ragging on him for whinging like a pussy when his Commander had noticed the growing wet patch on his black t-shirt. He'd bled out ten minutes later.

Buck had finished cleaning the axe while contemplating triage, so when the crew finished resetting the truck, he trailed up to the loft after them.

"Hey, Buck, that axe better be shiny." Chimney teased, digging in the fridge for a snack.

"You know me, Chim. Anything good in there?" Chim pulled back, hummus in hand.

"You better not be angling for my muesli bars, Buck." Hen said, sitting at the table scrolling on her phone.

"Course not, Hen. I'd never do anything like that." He replied, false sincerity in his voice. Hen scoffed.

"I'll believe that. I've forgotten all about last week's sandwich theft, of course." Buck grinned.

"What sandwich theft, Hen? I've never stolen a thing in my life."

"You fucking liar." She responded, although it was fond. Bobby broke in.

"Alright, we're not relitigating this. Buck apologised, and he brought you in a very nice replacement." He smiled, demeanour playing up the beleaguered schoolteacher attitude of his speech. Hen and Buck laughed along. "Half an hour left on shift, guys, hold it together."

Chimney saluted.

"Aye aye, Cap. Hey, anybody want a go at pinball? We've let it sit neglected too long." He asked.

"Why that thing is even in the building, I'll never know. Count me out, Chim."

"I'll have a shot. You're better than me, though, don't go expecting too much." Buck said. Bobby waved a hand.

"I'll leave it to you two. Have fun." Chimney grinned. He sidled up to Buck, swinging a hand around his shoulders.

"Let's go then, Buckaroo. First to beat the high score on this thing?" Buck grinned back at him.

"Hell yeah."

They finished out the shift still playing pinball. Chimney wanted to continue playing, just for five minutes to settle a final winner, but Buck was ready to leave on the hour. Shift work was a luxury he wasn't going to give up. Not even for a little extra fun with his coworkers. He promised Chim he'd be ready for a rematch their next shift, then went right for his car.

That night, Buck was still confined to his apartment. He was getting sick of not being able to go out and have a bit of fun, but his earlier attempts had thoroughly ruined the proposition. At least until he knew whether or not he was on Amanda's shit list, he was sticking to work, the grocery store, and his apartment. He cooked something simple to eat, set his alarm, and went to bed after eating. Just like he'd done every night since he'd spotted Amanda. The repetition was beginning to grate.

Buck opened the next shift by getting destroyed by Chimney at pinball. He conceded defeat with grandiose reluctance, a display that never failed to get a laugh from an audience. Pretending to be devastated at a rock-paper-scissors loss was an underrated calming tactic for children at scenes. Buck liked to guess whether a particular child was going to gloat, try and comfort him, or act aloof. Chimney was a gloater. He never pushed very hard about it, but he let himself play into Buck's joke. Pinball played, Buck and Chimney wandered back to the main floor of the loft. Bobby was behind the kitchen bench, cooking something that looked delicious. Hen was talking to another on-shift paramedic on the couches. Buck pulled out a chair at the table, more than ready to slouch down into it. That morning, he'd had breakfast, and then gotten too caught up in his workout to wind down properly after and still get in for work on time. He wasn't quite as sore as he could be, but there was more tension in his body than there might've been otherwise. The opportunity to stretch it out when he'd clocked on had been taken when Chimney invited him to the promised pinball rematch. It wouldn't matter in the long run, he'd just be a little stiff for half the shift.

Buck's well-deserved slouching time was stolen by the alarm. Despite his mild frustration, Buck was among the first in turnouts. The crew had been called to a residential fire in a standalone cottage in an otherwise built-up area. They'd been told to expect five residents, two adults and three children. Two were still inside the house, trapped in an upstairs bathroom by a floor collapse. That was where the caller had last seen her husband and youngest, at least. The three outside needed medical attention, but they hadn't reported anything life-threatening. Bobby used the drive there to begin organising them.

"Alright everybody, residential fire. Three injured outside, Chim and Hen, you two will look after them. Buck and I will see how we'll have to evacuate the two inside. Buck, I expect it'll be the ladder. We'll have to ask about the position of the bathroom, if we're lucky it'll be at the front with a window. Any questions?" There was a general murmur of denial. "Good."

At the scene, a crowd had already formed. It was to be expected; adding the typical commotion of a scene to a densely packed neighbourhood produced more gawkers than working areas. Everybody else on the same street as the disaster left their houses even if they didn't have to. Most evacuated because they thought it would be safest, but then they stuck around and clogged up the scene. At this one, the engine was forced to careen through a boiling mass of people, all clustered in front of a split-level with flames glowing behind the ground floor windows. Something in the construction was serving the people trapped upstairs very well. The crowd cleared a way quickly, at least demonstrating an understanding of the urgency at play. Before Buck could jump out of the cab and gear up for ladder rescue, Bobby turned to him.

"Buck, I'm going to ask about the details of the bathroom and reposition the truck. Can you get out my breathing gear and a harness? As well as the breaking tools." Buck nodded.

"Aye, Cap." He didn't waste any more time. To avoid more delay, he had to be done with the storage on the engine before Bobby was ready to move it, and preferably harnessed up by then too. Bobby would have to check it, of course, but Buck hadn't needed an adjustment to his harness yet and he didn't plan on starting now. He pulled two masks and tanks, and grabbed a harness. So many years in operation had optimised the organisation system of the engine, so it was simple enough. Buck picked an axe out from the breaking equipment. It wasn't likely that he'd have to go through anything stronger than plasterboard and glass.

He was nearly harnessed up by the time Bobby returned, only the waist strap left to be adjusted.

"Alright. We're in luck, the bathroom doesn't have a window, but it's at the front of the house and next to the master bedroom, which does. You good to go through and make your own entrance?" Buck nodded.

"Yes, I'll get a mask on while you readjust the engine?" Buck asked, already leaning down to do just that. Bobby nodded, also not waiting for acknowledgement. No two calls were the same, but just like all work in groups, people got used to the group's rhythm. Buck tugged on the oxygen tank and positioned the mask where it wouldn't hinder his vision until he pulled it down. Bobby carefully moved the engine, inch by inch, and then moved to the upper cab. He extended the ladder until it was level with the large, many-paned window to the main bedroom. Once everything had stopped moving, Buck climbed up to the base of the ladder. The rung-stairs on a fire engine's ladder were robust, and certainly more stable than other things Buck had needed to walk across, but Buck was never quite comfortable treating them that way. He clipped in the harness, tugged it twice to check, then made sure the axe was secure as well. The second he was confident that no bystanders would suffer looney-tunes injuries, Buck made his way to the window. It was locked, but the framing was fragile, and the glass wasn't even double-glazed. Buck smashed it with the butt of the axe, then unclipped his harness and went through feet-first.

"LAFD call out!" He yelled, hoping to at least get a response. It was smoky inside, and warm, but he didn't think either were at incapacitating levels. Not yet, at least. He pulled down his mask regardless. If he'd misjudged it and collapsed, everything would get much worse very quickly. A muffled shout came through the wall at his left.

"In here! Help!" The person yelling coughed, but it was a strong cough, not the whimper of failing lungs. Before Buck committed to smashing through the wall, he darted out to the hallway, where there was indeed a gaping hole in the floor. Some poor insurance adjustor would be having a hell of time figuring out whose fault that was. He strode back to the bathroom wall, hefting the axe as he went.

"Alright, are either of you hurt?" He shouted. "Immobile?" There was a gap between that and the response, the kind that happened when somebody gestured, forgetting that Buck couldn't see them.

"No, we can both move. Floor's getting hot, though." Buck nodded.

"Alright, I'm going to need you both to back away from the adjoining wall. Anything I should know about it?" This time there was no silent gap before the response.

"No, just hurry!"

"Alright." Buck didn't waste any more time. He swung the axe into the wall, just above waist height. No need to expend the energy to create a full door, he just needed an opening large enough for the two to crawl through. He had the insulation exposed in short order. The house was new construction, and clearly designed for maximum energy efficiency. Buck could tell solely by the amount of insulation he was looking at. Yanking and pulling at it seemed only to generate more. Buck realised after a few failed attempts that he was splitting the fibres instead of actually moving anything. Adjusting his technique to more of a hooking motion with the rear end of the axe got him the progress he needed. As he worked, he talked.

"Hey, what are you guys' names?" The man's voice came through, as strongly as before.

"Peter, and I've got Sammy here with me." The plasterboard became visible through the insulation, and Buck smiled.

"Very nice. Alright, I'm nearly through to you. This might be loud, just sit tight." He used the top of the axe to bash out the plasterboard on the other side. Buck got his first look at Peter and Sammy then, a dark haired man with a tiny toddler curled up in his lap. Peter's shoulders loosened dramatically, even as Buck watched. Buck stepped away from the hole he'd made, and waved them both through, axe in his free hand.

"Alright, come on through. We've got the ladder up the window there, we'll get you right out." He toggled the radio on. "Two victims coming out, no visible or reported injuries." Bobby's voice came through with a hiss.

"Okay. Three outside are all cleared, Chim and Hen have started extinguishing. I'm clear to spot you coming out."

"Acknowledged." Buck stuck a hand out in front of Peter and Sammy, noting the lack of shoes on Peter's feet. He was carrying Sammy, so at least Buck hadn't almost let a toddler get their feet cut up, but jeez, he needed to be paying more attention. "Hold on, I got glass on the floor. I'll get the doona, lay it over." Peter nodded, tense. Buck secured the axe in his belt, then ripped the doona off the bed, grateful it was so big. Even doubled over it more than covered the glass shards he'd scattered on the floor. "Come on, to the window."

Buck led the way over, carefully watching Peter's feet. The doona would go a long way, but feet were very delicate areas of the body. Useful knowledge back when he'd had to scare people into giving up their secrets, but it just stressed him out in his new profession. Luckily Peter made it to the window with his feet intact.

"Can Sammy stand? Or do they have to be held? I can work with either, but I need to know." Peter shifted Sammy in his arms, just enough to look at their face.

"What do you think? Can you stand?" The voice he used was soft, but not babying. It sounded like a legitimate inquiry, which wasn't something Buck was used to hearing directed at kids that young.

"It won't be for long, just enough to get your dad onto the ladder." Sammy nodded at that, slowly. Buck grinned.

"Great! If you want to just carefully set them down, I'll help you onto the ladder, and then pass them back to you?" Peter nodded.

"That works. Okay, honey, I'm going to put you down. Stay right there, okay?" They didn't even wiggle. Buck was beginning to be concerned, but Peter didn't seem worried, and he had reported they were both mobile. There were so many reasons for a kid that young to act that way. He'd flag it with Hen when they got out, in case it was an immediate medical concern. Buck stepped in closer to the window, and used his gloved hand to sweep the rest of the glass outside. The final step before he could help Peter up was checking the position of the ladder, and relaying it all to Bobby.

"Bobby, sending them down the ladder now."

"See you soon." Was the response, the violent hissing of the hose in the background. Buck nodded. "Alright, I'm going to help you onto the ladder now. It's very stable, but rollercoaster rules apply, okay? Hands and feet inside the vehicle." Peter huffed a laugh, and Buck smiled at him.

Buck mostly let Peter manouevre himself out of the window onto the ladder, stepping only twice to stabilise him. He was out on the ladder in very short order. That was pretty typical for healthy adults, even the untrained ones. Not much use in an escape route nobody could use. At least, for firefighters. Buck gave him a few seconds to settle his footing.

"Hang on to the rail with one hand, I'm going to pass Sammy out to you, okay?" Peter clutched the railing hard enough his knuckles turned white. He stretched his free hand out. Buck squatted down so he was level with them, where they'd curled up like a pillbug.

"Hey, can I pick you up? You can just nod." Buck was glad he added the caveat, because Sammy didn't attempt to make a noise at all. Their nodding was enthusiastic enough, though. He wasted no time scooping them up, their curled posture and tiny stature making it very easy. The difficult part would be passing them over to Peter. Handovers were always delicate, but involving a civilian and a child one story up was another story. Within regulations, of course, but not recommended. Buck didn't have another option, though. Stepping out onto the ladder was a two-handed operation. Buck took a deep breath, shuffling closer and carefully, carefully depositing Sammy into Peter's waiting arm. Peter curled his arm in, gripping tightly. Buck only let go when Sammy seemed properly balanced and secure. They snuggled their head into Peter's chest, still somewhat curled up. Buck resisted the urge to coo at the pair. He stepped out onto the ladder himself, clipping the harness in as soon as both feet touched the step.

"Alright, you two ready to go?" Buck waited for Peter to nod, then continued. "Just start stepping down, take your time. This ladder won't move even if the house collapses." Buck caught the stricken look on Peter's face. "Which it's not likely to! The fire seems pretty contained, and two of my colleagues are doing their absolute best to put it out." Peter loosened up a little.

"Okay. One step at a time, huh, Sammy?" The two of them began making their careful way down the ladder, Buck bringing up the rear. They were halfway down the ladder when Buck's absent scanning of the crowd turned up something it shouldn't have. Near the back of the milling crowd, on the far side of the truck, was a group of people Buck vaguely recognised. Not typically a concern for him, working all over the city as he did, but something told him to keep his eye on them. The man at the middle of the group turned, and Buck knew, like a lightning strike, where he'd seen them before. On a job with squad Maverick in Jakarta. He still had the gas mask on, which was probably the only reason he hadn't been recognised yet. He fought the impulse to tense up. Just like with Amanda, unusual behaviour would send up flags. Then the most likely scenario occurred to him. Amanda had completed her job, and this squad was now here to kill him. They weren't shooting, though, and didn't seem particularly interested in him. That certainly diminished the possibility that they were going to kill him, but maybe they'd decided a public death wasn't ideal, and were biding their time. A little unusual, given that in their place, Buck would've already taken the shot and gotten out. It was possible that their orders for his death required measures more complex than a gunshot wound to centre mass. Whatever it was stopping them, Buck wasn't going to let the chance they'd given him slip by. He needed to vanish, yesterday. If he fled he'd be out of a job, so he'd get out of sight. He made eye contact with Bobby, still in the ladder's cockpit. Then he looked back over to Peter and Sammy.

"Okay, you two, I'm going to hop off so I can set you up for a dismount, okay? Just keep heading down, I'll be there for you at the bottom." He unclipped his harness, ignored the face Bobby made, and threw his leg over the railing. A few more adjustments, and he was ready to drop, on the side away from the SCORPIA squad he was avoiding. Bobby's voice came through the radio.

"Buck, what the fuck are you doing? You can't—" He stopped speaking as Buck dropped, landing in a textbook crouch. He didn't need to roll from that height, thank god. The oxygen tank would have made it very difficult.

"Bobby, it's alright. They're going to need a hand getting down, I'm just streamlining things." Looking up at the ladder cab, Buck saw Bobby pull a face.

"We're talking about this, Buck." Buck grimaced.

"Yessir." He'd lost another strike, for sure. He needed to be proactive, or something, before he got actually fired over Amanda and his well-founded but unproductive paranoia. Still wincing, he walked over to the smaller dismount ladder and waited for Peter and Sammy to reach him. While he waited, he took of the oxygen and removed the mask. A risk, maybe, when there were people who could identify him just a hundred metres away, but Buck was already working off the theory that they were there for him. A gas mask might have just delayed specific identification. They'd pick him out eventually. Plus, taking it off meant he wouldn't scare Sammy. When the pair got to the base of the big ladder, Buck called out to them.

"Peter, are you alright to climb down with Sammy? I'll be behind you the whole way. I can take them, too, when you get low enough." Peter nodded.

"That would be good, thanks." He began descending, slow and careful. As soon as he could, Buck took Sammy off his hands, carefully cradling them. Peter dismounted the engine's ladder with a little hop. As soon as he was clear, the grind of the ladder settling down started up. Buck paid it no mind, and handed him Sammy. He'd need to take them back for a smoke inhalation check, but he could guess at how Peter was feeling.

"Okay, I need to check you guys out. Take a seat, just on the ground. Still no injuries, from either of you? Any soreness?" As he spoke, Buck stripped his gloves. Fireproofs were no good for exams. Peter shook his head, and Sammy followed after him.

"No, nothing." Buck took a breath.

"Okay. Sammy, you're up first." He looked at Peter. "I hate to ask, but are they talking? Have they before? It can be an indication of damage." Peter shook his head.

"No, Sammy's been having a speech delay. It's been common in our house, so none of us worried." Buck nodded.

"Okay, then. That's fine. Sammy, I'm going to ask you questions, and I need you to nod or shake your head. Okay?" He waited, and Sammy nodded, enthusiastic.

"Great! First one. Does your chest hurt?" Sammy nodded, shy. Buck didn't wince, but it was a near thing. He got up, going for the first aid kit they kept in the truck, and the medical oxygen tank. He kept his eyes on them the whole time.

"Your throat, too?" Another nod. "Your nose? Is your nose sore, on the inside?" Sammy nodded again. Buck took a breath. "Okay, can I have a look?" Sammy looked over at their dad, who nodded. Buck smiled at Peter, and waited for Sammy to nod as well. When they did, he moved closer. He took a stethoscope from the kit, checked their chest and their throat, listened to their breathing. He stepped back a little, then reached for his radio.

"Hen, Chim, I've got the kid out here, showing mild smoke inhalation symptoms and some respiratory distress. I'm going to use supplementary oxygen, but could one of you come out and switch? They're a toddler, I can't medicate on the fly." Hen's voice came crackling through.

"I'm coming out. We're nearly done, at the back of the house. Don't move until I get there."

"Aye, aye." He grabbed the medical oxygen tank, and attached a pediatric mask. Careful, he strapped it to their head and turned on the flow, lower than he would for an adult, and lower than he suspected was standard for their age group, too. He didn't want to overdo it, and Hen was on her way out. He placed the tank carefully next to them, and tuned to Peter.

"Your turn. Soreness in your chest, throat, nose? Shortness of breath?" He asked. Peter paused, considering, then shook his head.

"I don't think so." He took a demonstratively deep breath, only to start coughing desperately halfway through. Buck watched, one hand on the kit. Peter wound down in short order, and ducked his head, clearly a little embarrassed. "I guess not?"

Buck shrugged.

"It's alright. I'll check you with the stethoscope, but I suspect you're fine, just a little irritation. These things always hit kids harder." Buck did so, and there wasn't much to hear from Peter's chest, and his throat seemed okay too. "Yeah, you sound alright. If you keep coughing like that, you should tell someone right away. Sammy will have to go to the hospital, so you'll be in good company."

"Hospital?" Peter said, clearly worried.

"It's standard for smoke inhalation, especially for kids that young. I have every reason to believe they'll be just fine." He soothed. Peter nodded.

"Hey, Buck. Nice work out here, but I've got it." Buck turned, grinning.

"Thanks, Hen. Chim still at the back?"

"Yeah, we had it down to smouldering. He shouldn't need much, but it's smoky as hell in there, you'll need a mask." Buck nodded.

"Thanks, Hen." He flicked his mask back down and readjusted the straps before heading into the house. True to Hen's words, the inside was mostly char, and a lot of smoke. Chimney was at the back, standing with the hose in the kitchen, where the fire had clearly started. It was still burning, mostly the cabinets, although the flames were low. Buck stepped in behind Chim.

"Hey man. Where do you need me?" Chimney looked back, jolting a little.

"Jesus, I know it's loud in here but I was really expecting to hear you coming." Buck laughed. Chimney continued, "Uh, not really, honestly. If you want to help support the hose feel free."

"Yeah, alright." Buck held onto the hose behind Chimney, and the two of them had the last of the flames put out in short order. Chimney sagged.

"Jeez, not often a kitchen fire gets loose like that." Buck nodded.

"Especially not this early in the day." He said. Chimney laughed.

"You're right, this should be a midnight call. I'm not going to complain about not geting woken up, though."

"With you there, man. Somehow no less neighbours, what's that about?" Chimney rolled his eyes, grimace visible through his faceplate.

"Ugh, I know, it's like we're in World War Z every time." Buck pulled his own face.

"Huh?"

"Buck, you have to know it. Come on, you'd have loved it, it's big and loud." Buck doubled over, laughing. It made it a little harder to mind the hose coming through the front door, but the joke had been worth it.

"Nah, I've seen it. For once you don't have to explain it to me." Chimney made an irritated noise, and tugged the hose a little more than he need to, to give Buck a jolt. Buck didn't stumble, he hadn't pulled hard enough for that, but he knew the intent.

"God, you're so annoying." Chimney turned and grinned, eyes crinkling behind his faceplate, as if to show he didn't mean it. Buck would've been able to tell just from the lightness in his voice. They marched out into the front yard together, and Buck kept his head down. He hadn't forgotten about the squad in the street. He was still masked, and they'd been hovering at the back of the crowd. Plus, he'd be hunched over and moving as he and Chim rolled up the hose. That should be enough. It had to be enough; he was already in trouble with Bobby. He hunched down and breathed slowly through his mouth as he helped Chimney roll up the hose properly. Chimney kept chatting, casually, even though Buck kept stonewalling him at every turn. It wasn't on purpose, he was just so focussed on maintaining his breathing and not sprinting in the other direction that he couldn't spare any attention. Chimney didn't seem to mind, filling the air with stories about Tatiana. Buck had to fight off the urge to draw his gun and scan the crowd for every single second they worked. They were on the wrong side of the truck to be protected from a shot, and he couldn't see anything. Smoke and a few layers of inquisitive people did a whole lot of damage to visibility, even in broad daylight. It took the two of them ten long minutes to get the hose packed away and secured. The second it was done, Buck speedwalked to the far side of the truck.

"Chim, going to check on the patients." He was already halfway around the truck. Maybe he was moving too hastily, and he'd given himself away, but he'd explode if he had to spend one more second forcing himself not to look over his shoulder. Buck never thought he'd be able to honestly say that he'd been the most stressed one on a firefighting job, but there was a first time for everything. The fact that he couldn't fucking do anything was not helping his agitation. With SCORPIA, he'd always been able to react: eliminate the source or complain to his squadmates, get them to help him get his head back on straight. When a client was riding him for something, as Orca, it was his job to resolve that. When he'd been with squad Maverick, they shared all their stress, even the petty shit. It made it really hard to feel awkward about being too paranoid about being shot when the night before Trills had been keyed-up about a hookup. The communal support was the same for both. Well, Trills' hookup stress had been soothed with a lot less assault rifles, but the principle was the same.

When he rounded the truck fully, Hen was still watching carefully over Sammy and Peter. She had crouched down to be closer to them. Around her were three people he didn't recognise, but could assume were the rest of the family. They all looked like they were in much better shape than Sammy, who was still connected to the oxygen tank. Buck glanced around, craning his neck to see above the crowd, to double-check that the squad he'd seen hadn't moved. He didn't see anybody, but that didn't mean anything. Buck didn't know every operator on payroll, and he was certainly in a worse position for that after a year out of the game. He allowed himself to relax, just slightly, though. Squads liked to stay in groups. It was practically pathological. Sure, every squad Buck knew, in passing or as collaborators, could split up for a job, on breaks, to have a bit of fun, but it wasn't what anybody preferred. Someone's squad was their only safe place. You could whisper in the dark about your doubts, confide in them about things you wouldn't tell anybody else. They were the only people who might hesitate at shooting you on the whim of someone higher-ranking. It was a safety valve Buck had sorely missed, on Malagosto and after, as Orca. Operatives couldn't get that kind of thing, though, and a lot of them felt above it. Buck had been the odd one out on the island, if he excluded Alex, the ultimate black sheep of his cycle, from discussion. He still hadn't gotten that valve back, not really. The 118 were good, and they were friendly, but they didn't know his secrets. They didn't know anything, really, below the persona of 'Buck'. Buck didn't care too much, most of the time, but seeing Hen look up at him, relaxed and ignorant to his stress, did have him thinking wistfully of squad Maverick.

"Hey, Buck. Fire's out, then?" Buck nodded.

"Yeah, easy. Everything all good here?"

"All good here. When Chimney comes over here, we'll get Sammy over to the hospital."

"I just left him, he should be around soon. Not sure what's keeping him." Hen laughed.

"He's probably getting his tank and mask off, Buck. Not all of us like having all that on in clear air." Buck shifted and worried at one of the straps. The only utility it served at this point was to conceal him, and it wasn't as if he looked like anybody on the 118, not even superficially at a distance.

"Got a point there, Hen." He said, and moved his mask off his face. "I'll take the tank off later. It's a good workout." He winked. Really, he just didn't want to return to the side of the truck that would leave him open to a bullet. Hen scoffed.

"Jesus, even at a scene?" Buck nodded.

"Can't take a day off with guns like these." He flexed, just jokingly. Hen rolled her eyes. "More seriously, though, where's Bobby? Not like him to be somewhere else."

"He's doing a little crowd control, making sure everybody's going back inside."

"Yeah, okay. You need a hand here?" Hen shrugged.

"Not really. I'm just waiting on Chimney. Might as well recall Bobby, too, we don't have anything more to do here."

"Alright." Buck grabbed his radio. "Hey, Bobby, Hen says as soon as Chim finishes ungearing, we'll be good to go." Bobby's voice came crackling through the radio.

"I agree. I'll do one more circuit, and come back. We'll be talking about that stunt." His voice cut off with a hiss. Hen looked over, eyebrow raised.

"What's this about a stunt, Buck?" She asked. Buck sighed.

"I needed to be on the ground before Sammy and Peter, so I could help them down. So I unclipped and hopped down early." It wasn't such a big deal. People jumped from higher heights unscathed all the time. Hen pulled a face.

"Hmm." Buck chose to ignore that. He wouldn't be so stupid as to defend himself to Bobby, that'd just make it worse, but he could ignore Hen's judgment. The two of them stood in amicable silence until Chimney rounded the side of the truck, divested from his oxygen tank and mask.

"Hey, guys. Not in a rush to get all that weight off your back, Buck?"

"Oh, nah. I think it needs to be checked over, I'll do that on the ride back." A lie, of course, but Buck couldn't exactly tell the truth. He'd have to actually do it. It was always good to check over equipment, anyway. Buck had spent more time doing stupider things to back up lies than that.

"Well if you think that's necessary, I guess you can do that." Chimney said, looking skeptical. Buck shrugged.

"I just like something to do with my hands, sometimes. Might as well be an equipment check."

"Nice work ethic." Hen said, laughing.

"What can I say? I'm a dedicated man." He was still grinning when Bobby appeared out of the crowd.

"Alright, we're good to wrap it up here. Hen, will you and Chim need help transporting?" Hen shook her head.

"No, it's a short trip to the ambulance, and I'm sure I'll have a hand." She smiled up to Sammy's family, who all nodded, even the little girl who could only be five years old.

"Good. Buck and I will take the engine back." Buck shot Bobby a thumbs up, and made his way over to the back cab of the engine. He tossed a goodbye over his shoulder to Hen and Chimney, and a little wave to Sammy. At the door of the engine, he unhooked his breathing equipment from his chest, and placed it in ahead of him. He stepped up into the cab, and got himself ready for the ride back. He had no doubt that Bobby would take the opportunity to lecture him, while they were alone. He had wedged the tank between his legs, positioned for him to check it over on the drive, when Bobby hopped up into the driver's seat.

They were a few minutes into the drive when Bobby broke the silence.

"Buck, I'm sure you already know that what you did was wrong." Buck nodded. He wasn't sure if it was an out or a trap, but with Bobby, he thought he could guess at it being an out.

"Yes. It was unprofessional, and I should have followed the regulations."

"Well, yes, that's true, and I expect you not to do it again, but it was dangerous, Buck." He paused, took a breath. "You've been out of sorts, lately. I'm worried about you. Taking the truck to have sex, killing that snake, and this? It's not like you." Buck ducked his head. Shifting in his seat, he considered the things it would be safe to tell Bobby. Not the real reason, of course, but there were a lot of ways to talk around a thing.

"I haven't been sleeping well, lately, and this is a rough time for me. Brings up the past, and stuff."

"Well, can I help you with any of it? It's affecting your work, and I'm sure it's not so nice for you either."

"If you can get the newborn next door to grow up faster, I'll take it." Bobby laughed.

"Ah, I get it. I'm sure we can find something in the house to help you there. If you need someone to talk about your rough time with too, the department has therapists. And I'm around as well." Buck smiled.

"That's nice of you. I think I just have to get through it, you know? I'm sorry about my behaviour lately." Bobby made a noise that didn't seem to be sure if it wanted to be reassuring or disapproving.

"Hmm. Why don't you stay man behind for the next couple of hours, call it disciplinary action. Use it to get some sleep and don't do anything that stupid again."

"Aye, aye." Buck said, throwing Bobby a casual salute. The man couldn't see it, but sometimes Buck just felt like Bobby deserved the extra respect.

Situation resolved, the rest of the drive back was peaceful. Bobby wasn't always the greatest at putting things away for later, but if he thought something was resolved he managed just fine. Since Buck had accepted his in-name-only punishment, he was more than ready to move on from it. They chatted idly, mostly about music and cooking. The more time Buck spent at the 118, the more time Bobby spent on improving his cooking skills. Buck had once admitted that he had only the basics down in Bobby's hearing, and the man had decided that it was a shortcoming to be rectified. The only rebuttal available to Buck was his ability to improve provided rations on short notice, but that was neither something he could tell Bobby or much of a defence at all. He'd already widened the range of vegetables he could chop properly, and the number of dishes he could throw together from a fridge full of ingredients.

He sometimes wondered, just idly, why cookery wasn't a skill taught at Malagosto. Kitchen staff weren't as mobile as waitstaff, but they had a lot of access regardless. It would be a very good gambit for anybody who could manage to fit into a kitchen long enough. But then, any institution had blind spots. Even ones as legendary as Malagosto. The management lessons left gaping holes in a graduate's understanding of the way squads operated. Buck was the token elevated grunt in the group, and so he was the only one who noticed those gaps. In the eyes of his classmates, all from the upper echelons of the violent world — legal and illegal both — a squad member would always be inferior to someone who had worked alone. It didn't matter that SCORPIA's squads were easily among the best in the world. Buck's had even spent most of its time outwitting and outperforming the operatives they hunted down, some of them graduates themselves. The times they weren't hunting down operatives of their calibre, they were on assignments as backup for them. Buck had tried filling the gaps for his classmates, and mostly they had been receptive. Some even reneged on the idea that working as a group made an operative less skilled. There were very few people who made it to Malagosto without a strong thirst for knowledge and the desire to be the best. Even Alex, who had seemed vaguely uncomfortable at times, had glimpses of that same ferocity. His classmates had more than returned the favour, helping Buck with the nuances of working alone. There was lot more to it than he'd always assumed.

Back at the firehouse, Buck insisted on helping Bobby reset the engine, despite his insistence that Buck needed to get some sleep as soon as possible. Given that Buck had a paranoia problem, not a sleep deficit, he felt comfortable rebuffing the man. Putting everything away and giving the chrome sections of the engine a quick once-over was calming, too. Buck needed that. It hadn't hit properly until he was safe back in the firehouse, but he knew for sure he had a time limit on his life, now. He needed to figure out something to do about that, or else he'd vanish out of the 118's lives without explanation. Or, worse, die violently in front of them. Buck wasn't sure if his care for them extended to surrender and accepting an execution instead of a fighting death, but he'd see where that took him if it happened.

As he walked over to the locker room, Buck began planning his exit strategy. He was a dead man walking, and he had maybe a day, less, before his death came for him. There was always the chance that he was overreacting, but the odds of that were too small for him to entrust his survival to them. The chances that he would even survive whatever shootout was coming for him, and live long enough after for it to matter, were similarly slim. Whatever plan he made now would mainly be to avoid anything happening in front of the 118. They didn't deserve to be an execution's collateral damage. That was a little bit of an oxymoron, but Buck was very familiar with how these things tended to go. Sometimes, especially when the target fought back, you had to go big, and going big caught non-targets in the blast radius. Squad Maverick had been good about that kind of thing, but they'd killed a few people in the crossfire just like anybody else. A team that Amanda had brought on could go any which way in the conscientiousness department. 'Safe around civilians' didn't necessarily mean not blood-hungry or reckless, and she'd never shown any particular inclination to avoid getting people other than her targets hurt. Most of his classmates had been the same way, and Buck too in some respects, and for some kinds of collateral, but there was a spectrum within their apathy and Amanda had come down on the most extreme end of that.

Undressing, Buck settled on faking a 15-minute nap and then begging off sick with a migraine of some kind. It was clumsy, but the odds that he'd live long enough for obviously chucking a sickie to matter were miniscule. Once he'd left the firehouse, he'd go by his apartment, collect his sniper rifle, the assault rifle he'd kept back, and all of his explosives. He'd take Maddie's Jeep, and get to the nearest industrial area. They were good places for a gunfight, although they had a severe coverage deficiency. Maybe he would live past that. A Malagosto graduate could have the edge on an ill-prepared squad, or one that came in too confidently. If he made it past that gauntlet, he could probably make it to the east coast. If everything went well, and he lived in impoverished fear for the rest of his life, he might be able to manage it. Of course, 'everything going well' was what fools hoped for. At this stage in the game, Buck was hoping for a gunshot to the head instead of one to the gut. This plan would at least prevent the 118 from seeing any kind of combat. It was the best he could hope for.

Plan settled, Buck finished changing by finagling the gun out of his uniform pocket and into the pocket of his most comfortable pair of day pants. It would show a little more, but nobody would think to look for it. Redressed in clothes that were plausible enough as pajamas, Buck began clearing out his locker. Maybe a that was a giveaway, but it wouldn't matter. Best practice for completing an infiltration would be to maintain integrity until the very last second, but Buck couldn't be bothered caring. He'd only treated his new life as an infiltration op to the extent it was necessary to live as a civilian. He wasn't built for long term personality concealment like some people were. Even his attempt at the graduates' shared Cossack persona had ended in flames, and that had been a temporary, decorative mask. If he'd had to wear a completely counterfeited face day after day, even in private, he'd have gone insane and probably bitten a bullet from his own gun. Finishing out his mostly-authentic run at the 118 with a flawed withdrawal methodology was a very small price to pay for avoiding that.

Hen walked in, and sat down on the bench next to Buck, smiling. Buck paused his clearing-out of the clothes that he'd let fall to the wayside, and the bottom of his locker. She broke the silence. Buck wished she hadn't; it was hard enough to be preparing for death without his coworkers reminding him why being alive was so good.

"Jeez, I heard you'd gotten told off, but not that it was as bad as all that." She laughed, but sobered quickly. "Seriously, is there something I missed? Because it'd suck if you were getting let go." Buck huffed a laugh.

"Deserve it after a week like this, though." Hen shook her head.

"Nah, we all have problem weeks. Sure you've picked up a reckless streak, but it's not like you weren't surprisingly reliable for the past few months."

"Yeah, I guess that's earned me some grace." Hen laughed.

"To be honest, when Bobby first brought you on board, I told him he should just get a dalmatian." She laughed. "You proved yourself, though. You got some skills. Just not a lot of discipline. It's fixable, though. Bobby doesn't give out second chances for no reason." Buck nodded, torn between objecting to the comment about his lack of discipline and accepting the veiled compliment. In the end, he realised there was no reason to give Hen a bad last memory of him.

"Thanks, Hen. I'll work on it, as soon as I get some fucking sleep."

"Ooh, no sleep, now it's all making sense." Buck nodded, committing to the story he'd told Bobby.

"Yeah, newborn in the apartment next door and the walls are so thin." He complained, playing up his upset. Hen huffed a laugh, but the siren went off before she could reply. It crashed across the firehouse like always, the bell's ringing a little vintage compared to the harsh electric screeching other alert systems used.

"Ladder, medic, 10-36 auto emergency." Came the voice over the speaker. Hen stood, clapping Buck's shoulder as she left. Chimney ducked in just long enough to tell him to get some sleep. Hen lingered as the voiceover came again, but she was rushed out by Bobby. Buck watched them go. The call worked out well for Buck, but he was still sad to see them go. At least he wouldn't have to come up with an elaborate story about being sick, and could just be gone when they came back.

Buck wasted a few minutes dithering over whether or not to retrieve his stashed weaponry. He didn't need it, but it seemed discourteous to just leave concealed hard-core weaponry in a firehouse. After too long pacing back and forth, he decided on calling it in to the police, on one of the anonymous tiplines they doubtlessly maintained. God, being a 'fighter really had changed him. Time gone by, he would've thought of it as a joke more than anything else. Maybe a waste of good equipment, but certainly not a safety hazard. Now, he was taking precious seconds from his lead time in order to report his crimes.

He drove carefully out of the lot, obeying every miniscule rule. It wasn't a car chase yet, and until it was, it was in his interest not to get pulled over, or even to stand out at all. If Amanda and her squad had only ever seen him at work, they might not know his car. It could give him the extra time he needed, not least to accommodate his stupid decision regarding the guns.

He'd been driving fifteen minutes when his phone started ringing. He glanced down, and when he saw the caller was Hen, he picked up. It wasn't like her to call for no reason, and she was out on a call, too.

"Hey, Hen." He greeted.

"Hey, Buck. Listen, I know you're supposed to be asleep, but Athena needs an engine for a call, out in Winnetka. Do you think you could help her out?" Buck sighed, low enough for Hen not to hear him. He needed the time, and he needed to not be at work, but calls were so often life and death. This one probably was too, almost certainly so. He wasn't more important than whatever innocent citizen was probably on the brink of death. Jesus, he really had changed. And he hadn't even fucking noticed.

"Yeah, sure. Send me the address, I'll be on my way in ten."

"Ten? Buck, there's a little girl on her own in a home invasion, can you be any faster?"

"I'll do my best, five minutes. But no guarantees, you know the engine is a pain to get set up as a one-man crew." Hen made a conciliatory noise.

"Alright, just hurry. I'll send you the location." She hung up, and Buck took the opportunity finally afforded to him to screech into a u-turn. He blasted back the way he came, miles over the limit, dodging cars with less grace than he used to be able to manage. Granted, his best combat driving hadn't been in civilian Jeeps, but it was still a disheartening loss of skill. Even with the degradation, though, he was fast enough to cut his return time in half. The trail of horns and drivers with whiplash was just the price to be paid. None of them were going to need any extra help, though, so he counted it as a win. Buck parked haphazardly across two spaces and dashed inside, pausing only to grab his phone.

True to her word, Hen had sent the address through. Well, sort of. It was a range of house numbers, clearly the length of a street between two cross-streets. He picked one on the closer end to the firehouse, and headed out at the best possible speed, lights and sirens on.

When he arrived at the street, he turned the lights and sirens off, and radioed in to dispatch. The voice on the other end of the radio told him to sit tight, that the officer in the area would meet him. Had it not been Hen who called him, he would've turned around and fled right then. If she hadn't said it was Athena, he might've anyway. His faith in the both of them, Hen's good nature and his experience with Athena's extremely rigid moral code, didn't stop him palming his gun and turning it towards the window. Just in case.

The car that eventually pulled up next to him put paid to that suspicion. It was actually Athena in the car, and if she was involved in some grand conspiracy to shoot him, he'd have to find out if they'd let him take some lithium before they shot him, because he'd clearly fucking lost it. She rolled her window down, disdain visible on her face. Buck took the time her dramatics gave him to stow his gun back in its holster. Hopefully she didn't notice him shifting, or would at least chalk it up to him rolling the window down at the same time.

"She sent you, huh?" She asked. Buck rested his hand on the windowsill, then flicked it in a dismissive shrug.

"I was around." She didn't have to hear about his order to get some more sleep. He watched, a little incredulous, as Athena pulled down her sunglasses to look him in the eyes. She had dramatic flair, that was for sure. Buck respected it.

"Alright. No heroics, don't go chasin' waterfalls."

"I don't know what that means." Buck replied. He could guess, but it wasn't worth the extra time.

"Nobody thought you would." She said. Buck nearly smiled. He might have to try and win her over, she was clearly way funnier when not under pressure. Hopefully this call would give him a chance to.

Buck listened as she ran over the plan, some contrived thing to use his sirens to locate the little girl's house. He didn't have any better ideas, though. Looking for a pink bike in this neighbourhood would be worse than useless. He'd put money on every girl under ten having a pink bike, if only so their parents could continue the matching-houses thing they all had going on. When Athena finished explaining, she had him call her, so she'd be able to tell him when he went by the right house. Buck often missed a good in-ear comm, but right then was a strong contender for the strongest desire for one he'd felt in months. He'd assumed that an organisation with the LAPD's budget would be able to rustle up something better than civilian mobile phones. Comms set up, such as they were, Athena split off to wait for him to give them a location. Buck cranked up the sirens and began driving at half the limit.

He honked the horn every fifty metres or so, just to increase their chances. The strip was quiet enough that it probably wasn't necessary, but it was something to do, in the face of the quiet strip and the mind-numbing task of driving slowly in a straight line. Buck had focus, enough for a lot of things, but he wasn't one to subject himself to pure boredom for anything else but a million dollar contract. Maybe less, but only if he had a squad's pressure at his back. The pressure of saving this kid was a lot, but also rather diffuse. Buck's job was very passive. It wouldn't be his responsibility to do anything once they found her. The pressure was still enough to get him locked onto the task at hand.

He was driving on another stretch of road that looked the same as all the other stretches of road when Athena's voice came through.

"That's it. You just passed her, cowboy." She said. Buck stuck his head out of the window, craning his neck back to look. He turned the sirens off with an awkward contortion of his inward arm. As he looked, he spotted a pink bike, leant up against the wall. Neat and tidy, and very easy to miss.

"I see the pink bike." He told Athena. A second later, a faint screeching of tyres came through the speaker. Buck was beginning to like her more and more.

Through the back window, Buck saw a blue car pull into the driveway of the house. A smooth parking job, the driver clearly had no idea what was happening inside the house. He spared the time to put the engine in park and sprinted towards it.

As he approached, he saw a blond woman step out, one arm occupied with a large white tub of something, possibly spackle. Buck didn't have time to wonder about it.

"Hi, ma'am, can I talk with you a minute?" He asked, stepping in close and heading her off. She couldn't go inside, that would escalate things, possibly beyond repair. It was always best to lead with charm, so he continued. "Your jumper is lovely, do you know where you got it? My girlfriend would love something like that."

She paused, clearly flattered. The jumper was a plain blue, nothing she'd get complimented on very often. Buck would say something about the cut, if she asked about it when this was over.

"Oh, this thing?" She asked, tugging at the bottom with her free hand. "It's so old I'm not sure I even remember."

Buck stepped in closer.

"If you wouldn't mind, I could check the tag? I know I'm a stranger and all, but seriously, my girlfriend would kill me if I didn't ask." She smiled.

"God, if you have to. It's probably from Target." Buck shrugged, and circled in behind her. He leaned in closer, reaching one hand out to the door.

"Ma'am, I'm with the LAFD. Your house is being burgled, I need you to come with me." In the same breath, he slammed the car door shut and began chivvying her along.

"My daughter —" She protested, not a full yell but clearly distressed.

"It's alright, the police are on their way. We need to get to safety now, so they can do their work." He had to hurry her the whole way, but they were sequestered safely behind the truck soon enough.

After a short deliberation period, Buck led her around to the cab, and helped her into it. It was a pretty safe place to be, up high with thick metal cladding. When he got in the driver's seat, the phone he'd left on the central console was squawking. At some point, Athena'd had him patched in with the 911 operator. He muted it, and turned to the woman instead.

"Hey, I'm Buck, by the way. I'm sorry for lying to you back there, but I couldn't let you go inside." She sniffed, eyes watery.

"I know. God, do you know anything about how Lily is?" She asked. It occurred to Buck that he still didn't know her name, but that could be a problem for later. For now, he shook his head.

"No, sorry. That phone has the operator on the line, I can listen in, update you?" He offered.

"Yes, please." She replied, not quite begging.

"Of course."

When Buck lifted the phone to his ear, he nearly flinched. The operator was yelling a man's name over the phone, repeatedly, and at a remarkably high volume. Petey was the name, a remarkably juvenile one at that. The yelling wasn't a good omen, or particularly professional. She stopped once a man's voice came through, presumably Petey himself. After a little bit of grandstanding, she offered him an escape, in exchange for leaving the little girl unharmed. Buck listened to their interplay, with half of his brain. It would either work or it wouldn't, he couldn't do anything about it. The more relevant points of focus were the woman in the seat next to him, and the street they were on. If Athena was on her way, whether there was random movement in the house, and so on. Letting someone else's talking wash over him while he focussed on his own stuff wasn't an unfamiliar mindset to him. Squad Maverick'd had a fairly even distribution of talkers, so they tended to switch off who was doing the talking for any given job or task. He'd heard it all, and he was very good at keeping up while keeping most of his attention elsewhere.

Buck stopped his ruminating to listen in a little closer. Abby's aggressive negotiation tactic had worked, despite its unconventional nature. It had probably helped that most burglars weren't the type to hurt nine-year-old girls, but Buck wasn't going to deny the effect a good negotiator could have on a situation. Giving him an out in exchange for Lily's safety was a good idea, and some people would have preferenced an arrest over her safety.

"It's going well, so far." Buck said, looking over at Lily's mum. She smiled shakily, curled up in the seat. Buck didn't see a need to give her any details. Knowing them before she could do anything about them would just hurt her, and Buck didn't feel like trying to stop a mother on a mission. At least he could be reassuring in good conscience.

He tuned back in, and heard Abby ask Petey if he could see a wall in the backyard. Buck came close to relaxing, at that. He must have missed them leaving Lily alone, probably in a separate room or somewhere she'd have to stay put. She mustn't have been hurt, or Abby wouldn't still be cooperating. Thirty seconds, maximum, until they properly cleared the house and he could go to get Lily with her mum. The only missing factor in all this was Athena. Despite Buck's observance of the street, he still hadn't seen her. Maybe she'd gone around to the back roads so she could cut Petey off as he left.

The sudden sound of Athena's voice stacked tension back on his shoulders.

"There aren't. Just needed you out of the house." She said, doubtless aiming a gun. Buck had missed the prelude, but he could guess. They couldn't be very far out of the house, either. He nearly swore, but kept himself steady, for Lily's mother's sake if nothing else. Things could go bad now, and they'd go bad soon. "Get on the ground. Get on the ground now!" Buck shifted, holding a preemptive hand out in front of Lily's mum. She tensed, jolting forward in her seat.

"What's happened. What can you hear?" She demanded. Buck hushed her, straining to hear. His kingdom for some proper comms. Before he can figure out how to answer, the tension between Athena and Petey broke. He could hear a faint scuffle, and he could hear Petey cursing at Athena through the phone. He heard a thud, and a growled threat he couldn't quite parse. Beyond all that noise, Lily's screaming was coming through the phone clearly again. It had all gone very, very bad, in the space of about thirty seconds. Unfortunately standard for high-pressure jobs. Buck should have been more used to it, but his heart sank in his chest.

"Fireman Buckley, what's going on there?" Asked the dispatcher, Abby.

"I don't know, uh." He muttered, more focussed on the house than other people. She was extraneous to the situation at this point, anyway.

A man burst out of the door, dishevelled, with a screaming child held by the neck. The woman next to him screamed.

"Lily!" Buck pulled the phone away from his ear as he swore softly. Abby's voice came through the phone, fainter now. He put it in his pocket as his free hand drifted towards the door handle, half-formed thoughts of intervention swimming around in his head. They didn't have to solidify much, as Lily struggled, she bit Petey, hard enough for him to flinch. Buck watched, breath caught in his throat, as the man tossed her away and sprinted in the other direction.

The engine's passenger door slammed shut behind him. Buck jolted in his seat. He'd missed Lily's mum opening the door entirely — something to think on later — but she had the right idea. He jumped out too, dashing in front of their reunion like he'd be able to protect them. Maybe he could, but it was beginning to look like they didn't need him to. A roaring sound came from the driveway, and Buck watched as Petey sped away on a motorbike he'd dismissed as irrelevant. Too late to have done anything about it, and probably for the best he hadn't.

As Athena put out the call on the radio, Buck watched as Petey approached a patrol car that had turned onto the street. It swerved to cut him off, and Buck swore under his breath. He debated with himself about the relative merits of intervention, of just pulling out his gun and shooting the man before he turned around and became violent. He got all the way to fixing his stance to take a shot before he realised that Athena had a gun, and she could legally use it. His utility in this situation was the unexpected.

Petey roared closer, drawing a gun from inside his jacket, and Athena turned and sprinted towards the two embracing in the street, yelling for them to get to cover, behind the engine. Buck, for his part, looked over at the engine and saw his chance to help. He darted up the side, using the uneven sides as footholds. At the top, he planted his feet, and wasted a few precious seconds unravelling just enough hose to aim. In those seconds, Petey fired twice. Athena steadied her gun to fire, but she didn't need to. Buck pulled back the lever on the hose, and a high-pressure stream of water blasted Petey off the bike. The man rolled around and groaned a little, but he didn't move. Probably broken ribs. Buck could stand not mentioning that, shirk his duty as a firefighter this once.

He grinned at Athena, shot off a casual salute. She nodded back at him, new respect on her face, in amongst the shock. As she stormed over to cuff Petey, Abby's voice from the phone filtered back in. She was demanding answers, which Buck thought was fair. Everybody needed a little bit of closure sometimes.

"I-I heard a gunshot, is Lily okay? Where is she?" She asked, voice wavering a little. Her concern was admirable, but Buck did wonder how she managed, caring so much about every call. Even Hen, Chim, and Bobby compartmentalisated after tough calls, it wasn't just Buck's life experience speaking.

"The little girl? Nah, she's good. She's back with her mum." He grinned. "And you should be here." She sighed.

"Oh, my god." A groan. "I feel like I am. Wow. Um, okay, well I can't thank you enough." Buck had enough time to think that he hadn't really done anything much before she continued. "I'm so grateful, you saved that little girl and I—" Buck cut her off.

"No, you did. You kept her in the game long enough for us to find her. She wouldn't be alive still without your skills on that phone." Not a lot of people working as 911 operators got enough thanks, in Buck's opinion. It was the same for support workers in SCORPIA too, to the point that the on-call supports were practically invisible to anybody outside the squads they ran. Most of them liked it that way, but still. Abby deserved every bit of the credit Buck was giving her.

"Well I appreciate you saying that. Thank you." She said, and then hung up the call. Buck huffed a laugh. He clambered down the engine the same way he'd gone up, a lot more awkward now he couldn't see the holds. Walking over to Athena, Buck wondered if maybe he'd been too hasty when he'd driven home to die. Nobody'd come for him, and he hadn't even noticed anything suspicious in the area. His general vigilance might have deteriorated, but he felt confident saying that he would have noticed a squad or Amanda hiding out in a neighbourhood like this. That it had even crossed his mind to leave Athena on her own with the call seemed retroactively absurd. He couldn't work himself up like that again. The risk of being killed was real, possible any second, but his work as a firefighter was just not something that would be able to take preference to that anymore. It had been at the start, but he'd sunk himself too deep. Buck had thought he was strong enough to establish his own morals, but maybe morals where you got to have convictions about saving people were just more persuasive than the ones where you hurt people for fun.

He didn't want to talk to Athena, not really, but he had already decided to work on choosing to avoid his problems over addressing his responsibilities. And as the one who'd pissed her off, he kind of had a responsibility to sort it out. He didn't have to like it, though.

"Hey, Athena." He said, joining her in her stance above the tied-up Petey. She turned and smiled at him.

"Hey, Bucklee. That was some good work you did there. Hose trick was clever." Buck grinned.

"Aw, you learn pretty quick that the hose is a volatile beast. Thought it might be the extra factor you needed." They both ignored Petey's indignant yelling. Athena laughed.

"Well, it was pretty helpful." She said. Buck smiled back at her, then coughed.

"Hey, uh, about the other day—" Athena cut him off.

"You came in today when you'd been taken off-duty, we can call it bygones." She sobered. "But don't do it again." Buck nodded.

"Yeah, of course not. It just poked at some wounds and I haven't been sleeping well. For what it's worth, I never meant to deny her care."

"Hmm. Yeah, we'll let it slide. Water under the bridge." Buck smiled at her directness. "You're a good firefighter, Bucklee. But you won't be getting a third chance from me."

"Sure. And it's Buck. Didn't Hen tell you?" Athena shrugged.

"Didn't seem polite to use a nickname when we don't know each other."

"Nah, you can call me Buck no matter how mad you are at me." She nodded.

"Good to know. I'll finish up here, you should get that engine back to where it belongs."

"Aye aye, cap." Buck saluted. Athena snorted.

"I am a sergeant." She sniffed, mostly mocking. Buck grinned, and snapped to much stronger attention than he had earlier, perfect posture with the salute to match.

"Aye, Sarge." He barked, then relaxed, grinning. Athena blinked a little.

"Good salute there, Buck." Buck shrugged.

"Ah, I washed out of the SEALs when I was younger, but I got far enough for them to teach me to salute." He shrugged. The SEAL thing, while not strictly true, was something he'd settled on pretty early on to explain away any oddities. He hadn't expected to use it for the first time to explain away a neat salute, but it worked. Athena nodded.

"Fair enough. I should let you go." Buck smiled back at her.

"Have a good day!" He called as he jogged back to the engine and drove away. He was careful to avoid Lily and her mother while they were embracing in the middle of the street.

When he arrived back at the firehouse, the other engine was parked, and he could see the crew packing it all away, cleaning and tidying. Buck backed into the free space, and slammed the door shut, just to come face to face with Bobby.

"You took the engine out in your street clothes," He noted. Buck winced.

"Didn't have time to change."

"Athena Grant called to tell me what an asset you are." Buck blinked.

"Nice of her." Bobby nodded.

"You should know, taking time out of your rest to work was admirable." He said. Buck froze, not sure how to react. The sentence felt like there was an invisible 'but' coming.

"Thanks. It's part of the job, you know. Sacrifices to be made, for the good of the people, or however it goes." Bobby nodded.

"That's the spirit. As your captain, though, I feel like I should remind you that working sleep deprived is bad and can lead to casualties. So good work, but now it's really time to get some sleep." Buck huffed a laugh.

"Think I could ask Hen about your own history with that kind of thing? Sounds like you're speaking from experience, there." Bobby laughed.

"Oh god, don't do that to me. But no, Hen wasn't around for all that." He said. Hen chimed in from where she'd been leaning against the engine.

"Sounds like a shame, man-whore Bobby might've been pretty funny to witness." Bobby pointed at her, laughing.

"Oh, hey, I never did anything like that."

"Little bit of youthful slutmanship never hurt anybody." Buck said, feeling forced to defend his honour. Only single guy in the station got a bit old. He hadn't helped by letting them believe he'd used the engine to hook up, but that had been better than an arrest for weapons possession. He'd heard a whole lot of things about promiscuity in the Academy, but that had not held up when he got to the 118. Hen was married, Bobby was something but definitely not single, and Chimney had his rapidly-developing relationship with Tatiana. Buck wasn't even a maniac about things, he just went out on a few of his free nights every week. Hen barked a laugh.

"Slutmanship! Buck, how do you come up with these things?" Buck shrugged.

"It's a feature of my incredible wit. Anyway, Bobby's right, I've really got to crash. See yaz." With a wave, he left the two of them, Hen still laughing, to get some rest. Maybe the smart move would be to flee again, but Buck couldn't do it. He'd accepted it. If SCORPIA was coming to get him, he'd die wherever he stood, especially if doing that gave him an extra five minutes saving lives.

He slept through to the end of the shift, not solid sleep by any means but the hair-trigger rest of a soldier in a combat zone. He'd noticed most of the others had their own versions of the same thing. Bobby especially good at waking up completely as soon as the siren went off. Hen had some kind of psychic sense for when she needed to be up and about, which she blamed on being a mother. Chimney slept like a rock but seemed to need much less than everybody else, so the amount of time he was up compensated for the amount of time it took him for his brain to wake up. He did very well on autopilot.

Buck's light sleep meant he woke up when Chimney entered the bunk room, which was pretty good for Chimney. He was too jumpy to be safe woken up from a real sleep right now. He'd been getting there, but that was before he saw Amanda. Pretty good for Buck, too, because he'd stowed his gun under the pillow, and waking up before Chimney got near meant it was easier to hide.

"Morning, Chim." He yawned, stretching to feel the pull on his muscles.

"Buck, it's the afternoon. You've slept through to end of shift." Buck sat up.

"No way, and you guys didn't wake me up? How come the alarm didn't?" Chimney shrugged.

"Apparently Bobby can just turn off the alarm to this room, or something. Sounds like a bit of a hazard if you ask me. Anyway, we let you sleep because we thought you really needed it. Makes how you've been acting make more sense." Buck sighed.

"That was nice of you guys, but you really didn't have to." Chimney waved a hand and made a dismissive noise.

"Bobby made a pretty convincing case for it being a workplace safety issue." He grinned, a joking glint appearing in his eyes. Buck narrowed his eyes at where one of hands was hidden behind his back. "The real thing we didn't have to do is getting you these babies." He pulled out a clunky pair of noise-cancelling headphones from behind his back, the kind construction workers used. Buck laughed.

"Oh my god, for the baby?" Chimney wiggled his eyebrows.

"Well, we thought more for you, but if you want to hand these babies over to a real human baby I guess I can't stop you." Buck groaned.

"That's terrible, Chim. But thanks."

"No worries." Buck took the headphones from Chimney's outstretched hand.

"I'd better get going, then. Thanks again, man." Chimney nodded, then turned to leave, waving over his shoulder.

"Yeah, me too. See you next time."

"See you." Buck spent enough time to get his gun settled back into his pocket and tidy the sheets on his bed before headed out, waving at the other shift as he left. The bag he'd packed when he was ready to run was still in the boot of his car, slightly bashed around from his mad run back to the station. Having to pack it all back into his locker was not something to look forward to. It all being in his house was a pretty good chance to launder all of it properly, at least.

From the outside, his apartment was dark, the blinds still drawn the way he'd left them. The trap at his front door - a middle lock rigged to blow if it was disturbed, was intact. Buck entered with his gun drawn, slowly moving forward. He shut the door quietly behind him with his foot, and scanned the enclosed, cramped space that served as a foyer. Most people would've hated it, and how much it reduced the available space in the already small unit, but Buck had loved it for the exact reason others had hated it. The enclosed foyer let him do exactly what he was doing now. Creep into the house at gunpoint, scan the combined kitchen/dining, and keep creeping in. The open plan and the cramped space had him moving more confidently forward. There was nowhere to hide until his bedroom, which was also small and kind of cramped.

Buck flung open his bedroom door, leading his entry with his gun at chest-height. The room seemed empty at first glance, but Buck edged carefully inside, and used his free hand to open the cupboard door. That was empty too, so the next place to clear was the bathroom, and that was mostly for completeness' sake. It was a very small bathroom. Sure enough, when Buck threw open the door, the room was empty. He allowed himself a sigh of relief as he stowed his gun.

The rest of the day was pretty standard for Buck as of late. He worked out, and tried to stay up to date on the academic side of Malagosto's teachings, which was difficult but not entirely impossible. He didn't have any of the original texts, true, but he did remember what the subjects were, and he had enough loose cash for a couple dozen subscriptions to the relevant magazines. He'd been careful to keep to the standard, respectable magazines though, and stayed away from any published in Arabic, or even published in the Middle East in English. It was a shame, they had some great materials, and he'd miss that one periodical about the design of cities in the area, but there was the slim chance that in combination with the more martial ones they'd get him put on a list. Maybe that was advice from ten years ago, and didn't apply for the US anymore, but he couldn't know for sure. He'd been kind of half-paying attention to the magazines since he'd subscribed to them. Amanda's reapppearance had sparked a new fervour for study, and he actually took notes as he read, instead of just passively absorbing. When he'd been in the field as Orca, revision had come about naturally. This client wants a two-week infiltration kill, better study up on the social graces of upper class Spanish socialites. That client wanted security managed for a month, he'd better refresh himself on the best practices. Easy, simple, a good maintenance method. He'd done more than the bare minimum, of course, doing anything else was tantamount to suicide, but he hadn't needed to pay attention to his base level academics. He'd let himself slip on it while he was in the Academy, and seeing Amanda had jolted him back into the habit.

The academic study was mostly a way to make himself feel better about not really being able to practice any combat skills.He remembered his katas, and he'd been keeping himself limber with shadow-sparring, but gun ranges were useless. He'd been trained by the SEALs first, and then squad Maverick had taught him their tricks, but Malagosto had needed to beat instinctive shooting into him. It would be really goddamn hard to train that back up if he ever lost the knack for it. L.A didn't have the ranges he needed to practice, though, so he'd accepted it as a lost cause the first time he'd looked into it. He'd still be a good shot, his semi-regular late night visits to normal ranges were enough for that, but he'd probably never be able to hit a headshot running backwards again. He could keep himself on the cutting edge of the informatics side of things though, even if he dearly missed his access to the in-house publications and non-civilian material.

Buck finished studying with a sigh, tidied up his kitchen table, and threw together a quick dinner. Just pasta with baked chicken, something easy enough make and bolt down. Bobby's guidance in the kitchen meant that both the chicken and the pasta were flavoured, and the chicken was neither ghost-pale or overcooked. When he was done, Buck stared at the dishes he'd left behind for long enough that he felt a little bit pathetic about it. Doing the dishes shouldn't have to be an exercise in discipline, but it was. He forced himself to clean them all before he took himself off to shower and sleep.

His morning went much the same. Buck didn't exactly do the best with setting his own routine, but he could build enough variation into a day using the few building blocks available to him to keep himself satisfied. He worked out, ate, did a little bit of study, and then ran aground on the blank spot that haunted his longer stretches of free time. Before he'd seen Amanda, he'd go out into L.A, explore, talk to people, keep his Spanish tidy and appropriately regional, buy a too-expensive coffee from the independent shop down the street. But he'd only left his house for work and necessities since he'd spotted her, and it left hours loose in his schedule. The extra studying did help, but he was still at a loose end for long stretches. After a little bit of waffling, and a half-hearted cleaning effort, Buck settled for weapons maintenance, three days ahead of schedule. His weapons had probably never been cleaner. He'd even finally managed to get the sand out of the wraps on the knife he'd found in Morocco.

He made himself lunch, and bolted it down while dressing for his shift. Concealing his pocket gun was a little bit harder with a thick sandwich in one hand, but the challenge was healthy. Getting sauce on the inside of his T-shirt the first time he tried to put it on was very much not. He threw it onto the kitchen table to deal with later and put another one on, a freshly-laundered reject from the back of his locker. Buck made it to his car well-presented and with time to spare, which was more than he could say for most of his before-shift departures.

The shift started slow, with a few minor injury calls. Despite what Buck had believed about the job when he'd first thought of it, it wasn't all go-go-go. A lot of the time, the cases were mundane, the same issues repeating again and again. Sure, he could count on a few ridiculous ones a week to keep him entertained, and about the same amount of calls where the pressure was on, but a lot of the jobs were rote. Medical emergencies that belonged to the opening stages of a textbook, car crashes where mostly the people involved just needed to call their insurance, and, of course, cats in trees. A lot of people on substances, too, Buck would be remiss not to include them in his report of usual calls. Despite their routine nature, Buck had to fight against his own self-preservation instinct. He'd resolved to stay as a firefighter until he died, probably on the job and very soon, but his resolution didn't stop him being twitchy. He was on the street with his back exposed while he knew that the risk of being killed was at an all-time high. It was suicidal, basically. Willpower could only do so much. He managed to lock it away well enough to do his job, and the duffel bag stowed away in the engine was still a comfort, but he was still notably worse off than usual. Everybody seemed to chalk it up to his sleep-deprivation excuse from the day before, a benefit he probably should've seen coming. Stopped them asking questions, at least, but Buck could see Bobby considering benching him again. He didn't, though. Buck was very careful to keep to the book and be the best he could. Even while every stray sound had him flinching.

Waiting at the house between jobs was a much more relaxing prospect. In an enclosed space under less scrutiny, Buck could watch to his heart's content, and relax a little too. The loft didn't have any windows exposed to good sniper spots, and it only had one entryway. Buck's momentary relaxation was predictably interrupted by the siren blaring through the house, accompanied by the same monotonous announcement as always.

"Ladder, medic, 10-76 domestic explosion." Buck blinked when he heard it, needing a little extra time to process the code. 'Domestic explosion' was a new one on him. He got moving regardless.

"Alright, Hen, Chimney, extra burn supplies please." Bobby yelled over the din. Hen called back a response, but Buck missed it because his head was in his turnouts. He was sure she'd said yes, though. It was kind of the obvious thing to do. Fully geared up, Buck slung himself up into the cab of the engine and hooked the headphones on. Dispatch was already running through the situation.

"—five minutes ago. Reports of a few casualties outside the house, spot fires, glass everywhere. Sounds like pretty standard hazards. You'll be going in as paramedics with SWAT and the police, so follow orders when you get there." They said.

"Understood." Replied Bobby, before he flicked on the lights and sirens.

The ride there was uneventful, although Bobby seemed to be deeply enjoying having to dodge through traffic. He might've gotten stuck on his way in, the way he was turning the wheel certainly had a vindictive energy to it.

The scene, when they arrived, was swarming with police. Mostly milling around the outside, though, wary of the spot fires and lingering structural instability. It was a sensible choice. The house was a two-story monstrosity avoiding the McMansion label by the skin of its teeth and some tasteful wooden detailing. Buck assumed it had been tasteful, at least, it was kind of hard to tell. Bobby pulled up in the gap between a SWAT truck and a patrol car, and Buck was out before the engine had stopped humming. Surrounded by heavily armed people on hair triggers, all of them looking outside the circle, was the best place he'd been in days. The safest, at least. Bobby followed him out, slightly slower, and the two of them stood side by side long enough to survey the scene. With the hum and bustle of police everywhere, it was a little bit difficult, but it still didn't take them long to spot the prone body on the expansive front lawn.

"Buck, could you get the sheets out?" Bobby asked. Buck nodded. The sheets were a stack of large white fabric squares someone clever had stowed in the engine. Usually, the ambulance had the whole supply, but in times like this, where Hen and Chimney were lagging and there was a corpse on the front lawn, it was useful. Buck grabbed the stack and followed Bobby over to the body. Bobby knelt beside it first, fingers already reaching for the neck. Buck watched in silence, absorbing the ambient sounds of the still packed crime scene.

"No pulse." Bobby declared, then gently rolled the body over. The face, once exposed to the sky, made Buck gasp. It was Amanda. Even burnt and a little bruised, he could recognise her. Bobby turned to look at him.

"Buck, what's wrong?" He asked. Buck shook his head, kneeling down to join Bobby. He drew a single sheet off the top of the stack before he spoke.

"I thought it was someone I knew. She's not." He rushed to assure Bobby, who had looked stricken. "Some people just have those faces."

"Alright. Help me get her covered." Bobby replied. Buck unfolded the sheet and pulled it up and over Amanda's body. He sank back on his haunches and exhaled roughly. Amanda being dead could be good for him. It could be very, very bad. If they thought he'd done it, he was worse off than he'd ever been. But if she'd died before finishing her job, then he could be home free. He tried not to look too anticipatory, but it was difficult. Inside the house would be the information he needed to guess which applied. He could go out again, have fun, stop carrying his gun around everywhere. Given another week to fully relax, he could probably even start hooking up again. When the sheet was arranged over Amanda's body, Bobby pushed himself up.

"Who's in charge around here?" He shouted. He turned his head to the side, so he could talk to Buck discreetly. "Not sure they're the best for the job." Buck snorted a laugh. As he straightened up, he made eye contact with a middle aged man marching over to them, in navy body armour and thick boots. There was a sneer fixed to his face.

"That would be me, firefighter. I'm Commander Hong." Bobby smiled at him, and extended his hand.

"Captain Nash, and this is Firefighter Bucklee." Commander Hong shook Bobby's hand perfunctorily, and nodded at Buck. "So, will we need an escort inside?" Bobby asked. "I'd like to deal with those fires now, and I can give you a preliminary assessment of structural stability too."

"Yes, you'll be needing escorts." He turned his head and shouted. "Pearson, Kogut, come escort these guys through." Pearson and Kogut came over, both as armed as Commander Hong was. Buck was starting to worry a little about one of them spotting the gun on him.

"Hey, nice to meet you guys." One of them grinned. Buck had no idea which was which. He nodded, though.

"Yeah, good to meet you too. Look, there's probably patients in there, and your evidence might get all burnt up if we just keep fucking around." Bobby coughed at his language, but notably didn't object. The other SWAT officer smiled.

"Yeah, good point. Alright, I'm Officer Kogut. We'll be going in with you. You'll put out the fires, triage what you can, but these people were probably criminals, judging from the blast, so just be careful." He said. His partner, doubtlessly Pearson, nodded along.

"Alright, we'll follow your lead. Buck, grab the hose, and a medkit. I don't think we'll need masks." Buck nodded.

"Yessir." He dashed off to the engine, in time to see Hen and Chimney pull up into an empty space behind the truck. The two of them hopped out, looking stressed. He waved.

"Hey! Bobby and I are getting escorted in, we've already got a casualty on the outside, covered. I've got the hose, but Bobby'll be clear on the radio." He said, louder than he usually would. Busy scenes made a lot of noise.

"Thanks Buck, we'll let you go." Chimney said, already halfway to the back of the ambulance. Buck nodded, even though Chimney wasn't looking, and finished grabbing what he needed. He jogged back to Bobby.

"Hey, Bobby, Chim and Hen just got here, I told them to radio you." He handed Bobby the medkit he'd grabbed. Bobby took it, and Buck used his now-free hand to hold the hose more securely.

"Good work, Buck." Bobby turned to Kogut. "We're ready to head in." Kogut nodded, and readied his rifle. Pearson took the rear, cradling his own rifle but not pointing it anywhere. Buck tried not to itch with such a large weapon at his back. He mostly succeeded. Pearson was clearly a well-integrated member of the SWAT unit, and something must have already gone horribly wrong if Amanda was dead on the front lawn. This wasn't an elaborately executed plan.

Upon entering the house, Buck nearly stopped to stare. There was a heap of bodies, all clearly blown away from a central point, lying crumpled together in the middle of the living room. None of them looked particularly intact. Their position made Amanda's death on the front lawn unusual. The furniture, and some of the walls, had leisurely flames burning on them.

"Buck, put those fires out. I'll check pulses."

"Alright. Let me know if you need to switch off." He needed a look at the bodies. Maybe, if he was very lucky, they belonged to Amanda's squad. Their deaths would solve all of his problems, pretty much. Unfinished job, everybody who could have known about him dead. He planned his way towards getting a look at them as he targeted the spot fires. The lack of burning was a little odd after an explosion, but Buck wasn't about to complain. The mechanism wasn't for him to figure out, besides.

The fires went out easily under the force of the spray, and soon Buck had cleared the living room. He approached Bobby, who was kneeling next to the pile of probably-corpses.

"Hey, Bobby." Bobby startled.

"Buck! Hey. None of these guys are alive either." It was clearly weighing on him, by the sound of his voice. Pearson and Kogut were hovering at the edge of the room, guns held at the ready. Buck didn't settle down beside Bobby, but he reached a hand down.

"That's rough, man. Come on, we have to check the rest of the house." Bobby shook his head.

"We should shroud them, at least." Buck patted his shoulder.

"Come on, we can make SWAT do it. There might be someone still alive in here." Bobby visibly steeled himself. He nodded, and stood up.

"Alright, Pearson, Kogut. I don't think there's actually much structural damage, it seemed like a very controlled explosion, shrapnel maybe. I'm not sure why the fires, if that's the case, but fortunately that's not my jurisdiction." Kogut nodded. He lifted the radio strapped to his chest to his mouth, spoke out of the side of his mouth.

"Firefighters say structural's all-clear, you're clear to move in. Bodies in the living room, someone's gotta catalogue. Call CSI ASAP." Buck couldn't hear a reply, but he spotted a spiral cord extending from Kogut's helmet. In-ear comms? He was jealous. Radios were all well and good, but firefighters needed free hands just as much as combatants. Whatever Kogut heard must have been affirmative, because he looked back over at Buck and Bobby.

"Let's keep moving then. Pearson, left or right?" Pearson shrugged.

"Doesn't matter. Right's got a bigger pathway." Without much other indication of agreement, Kogut began leading the way. Buck, Bobby and Pearson fell in step behind him. He led the way through the corridor, checking each door they passed. There were more than Buck had thought possible from the outside. Every room was empty.

They went back the way they'd came, and down the shorter left-hand pathway. The second door of this corridor, when opened, revealed a bedroom. Kogut stepped aside immediately.

"Found a patient for you." Bobby darted forward, Buck at his heels. In the room was an old man, nearly seventy if Buck had to guess, lying on the floor. His breathing was wheezy and barely there, and an unlabelled pill bottle was lying next to his hand. Bobby crashed to his knees beside the man, already unzipping the med kit.

"Buck, see if you can find a label on that bottle. And get Chim or Hen on the line."

"Aye, Cap." He reached for the radio, clicking it on. "Hen, Chim, we've got a man here, late-sixties, overdose of some kind. I'm looking for any clues about the drug, but the bottle was unlabelled."

"Copy, Buck." Chim's voice came through clearly. "We're all ready to go in, soon as we get an escort." Buck sent back his acknowledgement before he focussed back in on helping Bobby. The room was pretty barren, utilitarian even. Luxurious, sure, but not pretty. Not lived in. The bare room was a help in his search though. The pill bottle was unlabelled, but it was an orange canister, so it was probably prescription. When he picked it up, the plastic was sticky with residue. So he'd peeled the label off. To stop them from knowing how to help? He seemed to have been involved with SCORPIA, so maybe he was trying to escape blowback. The bathroom was in a similar state. The shower had expensive toiletries, but no medication. The same for every cabinet in the spacious room.

"No luck, Bobby. You think we should just try Narcan?" Bobby glanced up from where he was fitting the patient with an oxygen mask. In the short time Buck had been looking around, he'd managed to get the monitoring systems set up, and the vitals did not look good.

"Yes, that's a good idea. Can you look around one last time? He took it himself, but if Narcan doesn't work we need another plan." Buck nodded, and went around the room again, this time scouring even the unlikely places. On the bed, right on top of the valance, was a neatly folded note. Buck picked it up, unfolded it.

'This is the final testament of Henry Stout.

I do not wish to be resuscitated. Let me die as I deserve.'

Buck stopped reading.

"Bobby, what's the verdict on DNR's via suicide note?" He asked. Bobby looked up at him, eyes wide.

"Fuck. I don't actually know." He took a breath, conflict writ clear on his face. "I'll ask Hen what she thinks. I'll keep trying. You read, maybe he says something." Buck raised an eyebrow, but complied.

'I swear upon my Lord, Jesus Christ, that all contained within here is true. My wife left me six months ago. I allowed hate to fester in my heart, and wished to harm her as she had me. To that end, I hired a mercenary corporation, whom a friend had assured me were very discreet. They sent me a woman, and a squad of soldiers. I was thrilled, such were the depths of depravity I had sunk to.'

Buck paused for long enough to suppress a snort at the self-aggrandising tone of the thing. It was bad form, and Bobby wouldn't appreciate it. Resettled, Buck kept reading.

'I allowed this group to torment my wife happily for weeks on end. Last night, they crossed a line. The woman, who called herself Fennec, had harmed my children without any kind of discussion. She assumed I was the kind of man who would allow that. By hiring her, I had allowed myself to become a man who would permit that. I have poisoned her, and used an explosive device to kill the squad. I have taken my own life, in recompense for bringing such an evil into this part of the world.'

At the bottom of the letter was an ostentatious signature. Buck fought down the impulse to grin like a schoolkid. He was home free. He'd really, truly, and completely escaped. Amanda wouldn't have reported him before the job ended. The time he'd seen the squad must have been a coincidence. If they'd seen him then, they were now too dead to report back. He cleared his throat and turned to Bobby.

"Nothing, I'm sorry." He told him. Bobby slumped back. The old man was still breathing. Buck doubted he would last much longer. A man who had somehow taken out a Malagosto graduate and SCORPIA squad on an impulse wouldn't fail to kill himself. He might even have taken the same stuff as he'd given Amanda, although he'd probably taken a slightly lower dose. Buck crouched down. "We should transport him. I can get the stretcher?"

"Yeah, that's good." Buck nodded, and dashed out. He spun around Hen and Chimney hauling a large medical bag between them.

"Getting a stretcher!" He called back to them, hoping he didn't sound too joyous. The living room, when he ducked through it, was swarming with navy-suited men holding assault rifles.

Getting the stretcher was simple by design, and Buck was familiar with wrangling the thing around much more complicated environments. He made it back to Bobby and the others in record time, but his speed didn't stop him noticing the sheet-covered corpses in the living room. At a glance, there were six. That seemed about right. About average for a SCORPIA squad. He had to suppress another grin on the way back down the corridor.

Despite his speed, Henry was dead when Buck came back. Bobby was sitting back and letting Chimney do CPR, but Buck could see that it was useless. Hen could too.

"That's enough, Chim." She said, voice weary. Chimney gave him a few more compressions, but eventually he sat back too.

"Yeah. Buck, you wanna help me lift him up? We should get him out of here."

"Alright." Buck knelt at Henry's feet, ready to lift. Just as they'd managed about a metre, a SWAT officer passed.

"Hey, stop! This is a crime scene, you've got to leave the body in situ." He shouted. "You can take your equipment, and you should talk to Commander Hong, but leave the body." He continued, much quieter. Buck lowered Henry's body back to the ground. He wasn't quite sure of the value of leaving the corpse of a suicide victim behind, but it wasn't his problem if it was useless.

"Alright, thank you. I take it we're no longer needed here?" The man nodded.

"I'd assume so. Just confirm with Commander Hong though, I'm not actually in charge." He gave them a shaky grin. Buck smiled back, glad to finally have an excuse to look happy. He stood waiting by the stretcher while Bobby and Chimney stripped their patient of the medical gear he was covered in. When they were done, Hen helped them pack it all away. Buck took the chance to lean over to the SWAT officer still watching them for the corridor.

"Hey, this guy left a note. You should let someone know, it was pretty damning. Or indicative of delusions? I don't know, man, shit was pretty crazy." Buck grinned, the lazy kind he'd cultivated for when 'Buck' was being naive and cocky. The officer's eyes widened.

"Shit, for real? Ok, thanks, man." He smiled at Buck, and Buck had the momentary thought that he was too charming to be some SWAT grunt. He shook it off. His effusive joy was spilling over into thinking cops were attractive. He was better than that.

"Yeah, no problem." He replied, then started walking out with the fully-loaded stretcher. Being designed for human bodies, the thing still rolled smoothly. He led the way out of the house. Bobby waved him on at the front lawn, and he helped repack the ambulance with Hen and Chimney instead of eavesdropping. He didn't really need to know anything about the way the criminal case was going to progress, or present an opinion on the explosive device used. The ambulance reload didn't take too long, given that they'd only used the most common supplies. He took the smaller med kit back with him to the engine when they were done, and packed it away. Bobby and Commander Hong were still chatting when he went to check if the SWAT team had used the stack of sheets he'd abandoned when they'd gotten cleared to go inside. They had.

Buck had just barely finished re-rolling the hose when Bobby finished whatever discussion he was having with Commander Hong. He smiled at him, not very surprised that he didn't return the gesture. Not everybody had just received the best news in months. He stepped up into the cab of the engine, and slung on the headphones while Bobby did the final checks. At last, they were underway.

"Dispatch, this is Captain Nash with the 118." Bobby said into the radio.

"We read you."

"Can you show 118 operating on reduced capacity? Last call was a mass-casualty. We have other staff, but we won't be operating on full capacity." There was a pause on the line. Buck hardly noticed it, what with the amount of energy he'd just gained. Bobby might give them the rest of the shift off! Probably less, but if it worked out that Buck could go home and celebrate, he'd have to do something really nice for him.

"I can give you two hours reduced capacity, but we're stretched thin otherwise." Bobby sighed, but agreed. The 'click' that always ended a dispatch transmission echo through the cab.

"Worth a shot, Cap. Man, that was crazy." Said Hen, her voice coming through the speakers twice as loud as normal. Bobby fumbled with the volume control as Buck responded.

"Yeah, wow. What a thing to happen." Chimney nodded.

"I can't wait to tell Tatiana this one." Chimney said. Buck grinned.

"Want an account of our walk in? You know, for fidelity?" Chimney sputtered.

"Hey!" Bobby broke in with a laugh.

"Alright, let's keep the lines clear. We'll get back to the house, have a big lunch, and unwind a little." There wasn't a response, which Buck supposed was as good an agreement as any.

Back at the station, when the truck had been unloaded, Buck hid himself in the bathroom. He grinned, he jumped around, and just generally allowed himself to indulge in a celebration. He was home fucking free, at least until the next time he got unlucky. Maybe it wouldn't happen again. The pool of people who knew enough to recognise both his face and know his status as a fugitive would be small. Smaller every year, with the average fatality rates. In five, maybe he could even get rid of one of the duffel bags he'd stowed away.

Once he'd finished grinning like an idiot in the bathroom, Buck stepped out. Up in the loft, Bobby was already crashing pans around.

"Hey, Buck." He called. "Come help me out." Buck smiled.

"On my way!"