Part 15 - Bobby
Idea: This is pre-canon, slow-burn AU, Buck arrives at Station 118, ruled by Captain Gerrard. Tommy/Buck/Sal.
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“They started my fucking probation over.”
Buck let his head drop with a dull thud onto the kitchen table. The wood was cool against his forehead, but it didn’t do a damn thing to soothe the heat crawling up his neck.
Sal froze mid-pour, coffee sloshing in the pot as he glanced at Tommy, who was already pushing off the counter.
“Christ, Hershey,” Tommy muttered, coming to stand behind him. “They serious?”
“Yeah,” Buck mumbled into the table. “New captain filed a report. Said the previous evaluations were, quote, ‘inconclusive due to inconsistent leadership structures.’”
Sal snorted. “Translation: Gerrard was a dumpster fire, and everyone after him bailed before they could finish a single report. And newsflash, Buckley, you’re not the only one. They stripped me of my lieutenant title.”
Hen paused mid-bite. Chimney blinked. Even Buck lifted his head, frowning. “What?”
Tommy’s face twisted, ran through more emotions than Buck could keep up with. “When the hell were you planning on telling me…” He cut himself off, his gaze sweeping from Sal to Buck to the rest of the crew. The correction was instant, "telling us that?”
Sal met his stare, the casual shrug looking a little more strained. “Doesn’t change anything.”
“The hell it doesn’t,” Tommy snapped. “You earned that bar, Sal. You ran the whole damn station half the time.”
Hen set her toast down slowly. “They demoted you?”
“Temporary reassignment,” Sal said, the words clipped. “Same pay, same schedule. Just… no title. Said they’re restructuring after the last few months. Wanted to ‘reset expectations. Give the new Captain a clean slate to work with.’”
Buck sat up a little straighter, guilt tightening around his ribs like a belt. “Is that because of me?”
Sal looked at him hard. “No. Don’t flatter yourself. This is what happens when you survive a broken command structure. Doesn’t mean it was your fault. It just means we’re all cleaning up the mess.”
Buck lifted his head just enough to glare at his coffee mug. His right hand found his left wrist, fingers pressing into the hidden scar beneath his paracord bracelet, a tic he’d picked up after the first round of VA-mandated therapy. “Fourteen months. Four captains. Calls, drills, evals, write-ups. Most of them total bullshit. And now it’s like none of it ever happened.”
Tommy’s hand settled on his shoulder. He felt the fine tremor running through Buck’s frame and didn’t comment on it. “It happened. We were there. We saw it. Also, you did tell Gerrard the cure to his homophobia could be found sucking your dick.”
Hen snorted into her toast.
Buck chuckled. The sound cracked around the edges, all frustration and something too raw to name. “They said it’s cleaner to just reset the clock. Fresh start.”
Sal clapped his clipboard. “Alright. Let’s go stock the rigs y'all know how well C shift does it..”
The bay doors were open to let in the morning air. Everyone moved with the rhythm of routine. Hen and Chimney checked hoses. Tommy and Sal counted masks. Buck and Rodric were on opposite sides of the rig, reorganizing the med kits in a silent.
Hen peeled a twenty from her pocket and dropped it into the open helmet on the bench. “Alright, twenty in. Hundred pays out.”
“What’s the over-under?” Chimney asked, already reaching for his wallet. “I got six weeks.”
“Give me four,” Tommy said, patting his pockets. “On credit. I gotta hit the ATM later.”
Hen pointed at him, giving him a sly grin. “You better pay up. I don't know the bookie and she’s a madwoman.”
She turned to Sal. “You in?”
Sal didn’t even glance up from the inventory sheet. “One week. Tops. Guy’s from, like, Nebraska.”
Buck groaned and tossed a rag onto the bench. “Minnesota, actually.”
“Whatever. There’s New York. There’s LA. And in between, there’s Nebraska.”
Tommy smirked. “Ooh, Chicago’s gonna kick your ass.”
From the other side of the engine, Rodric’s voice cut in, dry and matter-of-fact. “Put me down for eight weeks. Anyone willing to walk into this three-ring circus is either stupid or stubborn. Stubborn lasts longer.”
“There’s a lot of little leagues out there,” Sal added, ignoring Rodric’s bet. “But if you ain’t the Yankees, you’re not playing baseball.”
“Doesn’t everybody hate the Yankees?” Chimney asked.
“Point still stands,” Sal said, scribbling a note. “We’ve had three captains in eleven months. This place is the Island of Misfit Toys for washed-up brass.” He shot a look at Buck, who was now under the rig checking fluid levels. “And now they’ve reset Hershey’s clock. Kid should’ve had his shield months ago.”
“Might be nice for someone to actually stick around for once,” Hen said softly.
Buck rolled out from under the rig and picked up Sal’s clipboard, flipping to the next page and making a few marks without being asked.
Sal passed behind Buck. “Barn burns down or the road needs salting? Man’s a rock star. But a fire at the fairgrounds? News at eleven. LA’s gonna look like Mars to this Podunk. And we’re fresh outta training wheels.”
Buck straightened, mouth open to respond, but a new voice cut through the room.
“You’re also out of half the supplies that should be stocked on this truck.”
They turned as Bobby Nash stepped down from the engine.
Tommy nudged Buck’s shoulder. “Budget cuts.”
Bobby raised an eyebrow. “So. Odds on me lasting longer than one or all of you?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Just pulled a crisp twenty from his own pocket and tossed it into the helmet with a flick of his wrist. It landed without a sound. He didn’t look at the crew as he climbed the stairs to the loft. “Briefing in five.”
Chimney grinned and dropped another bill in after him. “I’ve got twenty on the Viking.”
Rodric let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he zipped the last med bag closed. “Told you. Stubborn.”
The kitchen was quiet by the time they filed in. Mugs clinked. Chairs scraped. Buck hesitated just a second too long near the doorway before Hen nudged him forward with her elbow. He sat at the far end of the table, putting as much space between himself and the head chair as possible.
Bobby stood at the head, a stack of folders in one hand and his clipboard in the other.
“Let’s get a few things straight.”
That cut through whatever chatter remained.
“I don’t care what mess I’ve inherited or who thinks they’re owed something. I care about calls run right, lives saved, and a house that functions. If you can’t deliver that, speak now and I’ll call in a transfer before lunch.”
No one moved, nor spoke. But he tracked glances.
He nodded once. “Then we’re moving forward. This station has been rotating captains like tires on a burnout rig. I read the reports. All four sets.”
Buck glanced up at that, lips pressed thin. His fingers, resting on the table, curled inward just slightly.
Bobby met his gaze. “Which brings us to the probational reset.”
Silence pulled taut. Hen’s mug froze halfway to her lips. Chimney’s leg stopped bouncing.
Buck sat up straighter, the movement military-crisp, a reflex.
“I know it’s not fair.” Bobby’s voice didn’t soften. “I also know firefighting doesn’t give a damn about fair. You want your shield? Earn it again. Clean. Clear. Documented.”
Buck’s throat worked around a reply he didn’t give. He gave a single, sharp nod, eyes locked on a point just over Bobby’s shoulder. It was the same look he’d had hauling Gerrard out of the collapse… detached, focused, swallowing the injustice because he needed this job.
Bobby continued, his eyes still on Buck. “Your record has gaps. Insubordination. Overstepping. A few commendations, buried under noise.” He tapped the folder with his pen. “I don’t do noise. I do facts. And so far, Buckley, the facts say I’ve got a probie with potential and a chip on his shoulder.”
Tommy shifted in his seat, about to speak, but Sal, beside him, gave a subtle shake of his head. Not here. Not now. Tommy settled back, but his shoulders stayed tight.
Across the table, Rodric didn’t move. He kept his gaze fixed on the wood grain in front of him, but his jaw was set, a faint muscle ticking near his temple. He’d been the one writing half of those “insubordination” reports, following Gerrard’s orders. He knew exactly how those “facts” had been manufactured.
“You’ll report directly to me for the next twelve weeks,” Bobby said, finally breaking eye contact to address the room, though the order was for Buck alone. “Daily check-ins. Weekly evals. You fall out of line, I’ll know. You excel? You’ll earn the badge that should’ve been yours already. Your call.”
Buck nodded once, his back molars grinding together before he spoke. “Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Bobby flipped to the next page, the sound stark in the quiet room. “Now. Drill schedule’s changing. We’re shorthanded this quarter, and I don’t intend to lose a step. Pairings and assignments will be up by noon. If you don’t like them, file a complaint after dinner.”
A few groans met that. Bobby ignored them, his gaze sweeping the table. It landed on Sal, acknowledging the demoted lieutenant without a word, then moved on.
“One last thing.” Bobby’s lips quirked, the first hint of something other than steel. It wasn’t quite a smile. “If you’ve got bets riding on me, I suggest you hedge them.”
Chimney coughed into his fist to hide a laugh. Hen just smirked, raising her mug in a tiny, conceding salute.
Bobby stepped back, clipboard tucked under his arm. “Dismissed.”
The room broke into motion. Chairs scraped. Coffee refills flowed. Buck stood slower than the rest, eyes on the floor, expression unreadable.
Bobby lingered by the doorway, then called over his shoulder without turning. “And Buckley?”
Buck froze.
“Don’t make me regret letting you stay.”
The words hung in the air of the kitchen. Then Bobby was gone, his footsteps echoing down the hall toward the captain's office.
Hen broke the silence, her voice deliberately light as she collected mugs. “Well. He’s… direct.”
Buck didn’t respond. He just turned and walked down the staircase, headed for the gym doors.
Sal watched him go, his own chest tight with a familiar, protective fury. Reset the clock. Clean slate. It was administrative cowardice, dressing up injustice as a fresh start. He felt Tommy’s gaze on him, a silent pressure.
“Sal,” Tommy said, his voice low.
“I know,” Sal cut him off, not looking away from the staircase Buck had vanished down. He finally turned, meeting Tommy’s eyes. There was no argument there, only a shared, grim understanding. He tilted his head towards the dorms.
The door to their dorm clicked shut, sealing out the noise of the rest of the house. Tommy leaned back against the door, arms crossed, his gaze a silent demand.
Sal sank onto the edge of his bunk, the weight of the morning settling in his shoulders. He scrubbed a hand over his face. It was so much worse than he’d imagined yesterday in the garage. “Well. That was a shitshow.”
“Clean slate,” Tommy echoed, the words flat. “Wipes away Gerrard’s bullshit, Reaves’s incompetence, everything. Wipes him clean, right back to zero.” He didn’t need to say Buck’s name.
“Nash isn’t wrong,” Sal said, though it sounded hollow even to him. “The paperwork’s a disaster. From an HR standpoint, resetting is the cleanest fix.”
“This isn’t HR. This is him.” Tommy pushed off the door. “Fourteen months and the reward is starting over. You saw his face, Tory.”
“I did.” Sal’s voice was quiet. He looked up, meeting Tommy’s eyes. “You think I wanted this? They took my bar too, T. ‘Temporary reassignment.’” The bitterness seeped through. “They’re sanitizing the whole house. We’re all part of the mess.”
Tommy sat on his own bunk opposite Sal. “So what’s the play?”
Sal didn’t answer, he stared at the scuffed floor between their bunks, his mind usually so full was unsettlingly quiet. The frustration was there, the protectiveness, but the clear path forward, the one he’d always had, even under Gerrard wasn’t materializing. Bobby Nash wasn’t a villain to be outmaneuvered.
“I don’t know,” Sal said finally, the admission rough in his throat. He looked up, meeting Tommy’s gaze, letting him see the uncertainty swirling in his blue eyes. “But we can’t fight his battles for him. Not openly. Nash will see it as insubordination, and it’ll paint a target on Buck’s back bigger than the one Gerrard put there.”
“Then what?” Tommy asked, his voice quieter now.
Sal shrugged, a frustrated exhale escaping him. “I’m working on it.”
The shift wore on. The frustration that had no outlet in the dorm found its way into the bay, specifically, under the ladder truck.
Buck was on his back under the ladder truck, a wrench in his hand, attacking a stubborn bolt with a focus that bordered on violence. The rhythmic clank-clank-clank was his only communication.
Sal leaned against the rig’s fender, waiting. He didn’t call Buck out. Didn’t try to start a conversation. He just waited until the wrench went still and Buck’s ragged sigh was audible over the ambient noise of the station.
Buck caught the rag, his jaw working. He swiped it over his forehead, leaving a darker streak. As he moved, the cuff of his shirt rode up, revealing the stark white edge of a fresh medical bandage wrapped around his forearm. He tugged the sleeve down, fast.
Sal’s eyes flicked to the bandage and away, filing it away under the column of things to worry about later. He pushed off the fender and took a step closer, lowering his voice. “We were there. I was there. I signed every one of your evals after Gerrard. I have copies.”
Buck looked up, anger simmering. “What good does that do? Nash said the record has gaps. He wiped it.”
“Nash said the official record has gaps,” Sal interrupted. “He didn’t say my record has gaps. Or that my word doesn’t mean shit in this house.” He held Buck’s gaze. “You think he demoted me because I’m bad at my job?”
The question hung between them.
“No,” Buck shook his head.
“Damn right, no. He did it because I’m a known variable. I’m the guy who filed the reports. The guy who backed Hen. The guy who pulled a probie out of Gerrard’s crosshairs.” Sal’s lips twitched in a humorless smirk. “He’s neutering the old power structure. That includes me. And it includes the cloud hanging over you.”
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “So here’s how this ‘fresh start’ works, Hershey. You do everything by the book for twelve weeks. You are early, you are perfect, you are a goddamn ghost unless he calls on you. You make that ninety-day eval the cleanest, most boring document he’s ever read.”
Buck stared at him, the number hitting like a physical blow. “Three months?”
“It’s step one,” Sal said, not softening. “Step two is, while you’re being the perfect probie, the rest of us make sure Nash sees what we see. Not through arguing. Through work. Through every call. Through every drill where you set your step fuckin' records. We don’t tell him you’re ready. We make it so goddamn obvious he can’t reach any other conclusion.”
The tension in Buck’s shoulders began to seep away, replaced by a focused intensity. A mission. He understood missions. But then the focus wavered, his eyes dropping to his own hands. “Your plan’s good, Sal,” he muttered, the fight draining into something quieter. “But it’s got a fatal flaw.”
“Spit it out then, Hershey,” Sal snapped lightly.
Buck looked up. His eyes were dry but all the anger was stripped away, leaving only fear. “I’m not perfect.”
He swallowed, refusing to look at him “You want me to be a ghost? To be this spotless, by-the-book probie for three months? He’s gonna pull my file. He’s gonna see the VA appointments. He’s gonna ask about the meds. And when he does…” Buck’s breath hitched, a humorless, choked sound that was almost a laugh. “I’m out on my ass. I might have to sell ass on Santa Monica Pier just to make rent.”
Tommy pushed off the ambulance and went to Sal, standing beside him, shoulder to shoulder.
Sal's hand shot out and pull Buck to his feet, bringing them eye-to-eye. “Listen to me,” Sal growled. “The meds are for keeping you steady. You think you’re the only one in this house with a prescription? The only one who talks to a therapist after a bad call? You think Nash, a captain doesn’t know what PTSD looks like?”
Buck blinked.
“This isn’t Gerrard,” Tommy added, his voice firm from behind Sal. “Your job isn’t to be perfect, kid. Show him you can manage your shit and do the job. That’s what he needs to see.”
Sal nodded, his eyes never leaving Buck’s. “Tommy’s right. Forget what I said about perfect, you need to be professional. So show up, do the work, and handle your business, like a grown-ass firefighter.”
He finally reached out and squeezed Buck's shoulder hard. “You sell ass on the pier, I’ll be your first customer, just to drag your dumb ass home."
“Professional,” Buck repeated, testing the word.
“Professional, your ass can do that better than most of us, kid.” Sal confirmed, standing up and offering a hand. “Now get your ass in the ring."
The gym echoed with the heavy thud of feet on canvas. Buck didn’t hold back. The frustration of the day came out in sharp jabs and aggressive combos. Sal took the brunt of it, grinning through his mouthguard as he gave ground, letting him burn it off. Tommy leaned against the ropes, calling out corrections. “Hands up, Sal! The kid is wiping the floor with you.” Buck stepped back, chest heaving. He pointed a gloved hand at Tommy, then gestured to the open space in the ring, a silent challenge. Sal spat out his mouthguard, holding up a hand between them before Tommy could move. “Alright, listen up,” he said, his voice dropping into lieutenant-mode. “You two want to dance? Fine. But if I see one cheap shot, one intentional hit to the head, or if either of you ends up on the floor for more than three seconds, I’m dragging both your asses out of this ring myself.” His eyes cut from Tommy to Buck and back. “And then the whole house runs wind sprints until you puke. Understood?”
From the upstairs loft railing, Bobby Nash stood with a fresh cup of coffee his gaze fixed on the ring below. He’d heard the commotion, the rhythmic thud of gloves, and had come to watch.
He saw Sal lay down the law. He saw the way the rest of the crew, who had drifted into the gym to watch the spectacle, let out a collective, exaggerated groan at Sal’s threat of wind sprints.
“Come on, Deluca, don’t punish us for their drama!” Chimney called from the weight bench.
“Yeah, and if Deluca makes us run, I’m naming names in my next psych eval,” Hen added pleasantly.
Rodric just shook his head and held out his hat.
Sal lightly smacked the back of his head, "no fuckin' bets McDaniel."
Bobby’s eyes tracked the crew below, the way their protests were good-natured, not defiant. Not a single person reminded Sal he no longer had the power; they all still responded like his word was law.
He watched for another minute as the spar in the ring resumed, a quieter, more dangerous dance now. Then he turned, the half-empty coffee cup cool in his hand, and walked back to his office without a sound.
Part 16
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