Chapter Text
The fire is small. Embarrassingly small.
A tea towel left too close to the burner. A curl of smoke that climbed the cabinets and startled a neighbor more than it endangered the house. By the time Engine 118 finishes ventilating the kitchen, the worst damage is a scorched patch on laminate and a lingering smell of char.
Routine. Controlled. Almost boring.
Bobby moves through the final checks with careful precision anyway. He always does. Stove knobs confirmed off. Circuit breaker steady. Windows cracked just enough. He crouches—thorough, measured—and runs a hand along the counter edge as if the kitchen might confess something under pressure.
The woman who lives there stands on the porch while they wrap up. Late sixties, maybe. Silver hair pinned neatly back. Watching them with bright, evaluating eyes.
“You’re very serious,” she says as Bobby steps back onto the porch.
Bobby offers the small, practiced smile he keeps for civilians. “I prefer thorough.”
She studies him a moment longer than most people would.
“Terribly serious lately, though.”
Buck shifts his weight beside Eddie, boots scuffing lightly against the concrete. Ravi double-checks the extinguisher placement like it personally offended him. Hen glances once at Bobby, then at the woman. Chim stands nearest the porch rail, polite and attentive, hands folded loosely in front of him.
The woman reaches into her pocket and draws out a small carved charm. Nothing dramatic. Just wood worn smooth with handling.
“For protection,” she says, pressing it into Bobby’s palm.
Bobby hesitates only a fraction of a second before accepting it. He’s gracious like that. “That’s not necessary.”
“Humor me.”
He slips it into his jacket pocket.
The air shifts.
Not enough to name. Just enough to feel.
Chim clears his throat, stepping forward slightly. “Ma’am, if you notice any lingering—”
“Hello.”
It lands oddly.
Not loud. Not distorted.
Just… placed wrong.
Every head turns toward him.
Chim blinks.
He looks faintly surprised at himself. “Sorry. I’m not sure why I said it like that.”
Buck squints. “Like what?”
Chim opens his mouth again, frowning as if searching for the rest of the sentence he’d meant to say.
“I was just going to mention—”
He stops.
Something in his expression flickers—confusion, maybe irritation.
He tries again.
And this time, without warning—
“Buck.”
It comes out low and controlled, the consonants shaped with quiet precision.
It is Eddie’s voice.
Not an imitation. Not a joke stretched too far. Not something exaggerated for effect.
It is the exact cadence he uses on scene, the exact tone he drops into when he needs Buck’s attention.
“Buck.”
Buck turns before he even thinks about it. The reaction is immediate, unfiltered. His shoulders angle instinctively toward Eddie, half a step shifting in that direction before he catches himself and stills.
Eddie doesn’t move.
He doesn’t react at all, not outwardly.
But his gaze sharpens, just slightly, as if something unseen has just stepped into the space between them.
The woman on the porch tilts her head very slightly.
Chim stares at Eddie, then at Buck, then down at his own hands as if they might be responsible.
“…okay,” he says slowly. “That was not intentional.”
Buck laughs, uneasy. “Very funny.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Chim insists, and there’s something unsettled under the words now.
Eddie watches him.
Not joking. Not amused.
Watching.
The woman’s smile softens at the edges, almost fond.
“It’s starting,” she murmurs.
Bobby looks up. “Ma’am?”
But she’s already stepping back toward her front door.
“Drive safe,” she calls lightly.
The door closes.
For a moment, no one speaks.
Buck rubs at the back of his neck. “That was weird.”
Chim exhales through his nose. “I don’t know why that happened.”
Eddie’s gaze lingers on him a beat longer than necessary.
Then he looks at Buck.
And Buck, without realizing it, is still angled slightly toward him.
Like he’d responded to something he couldn’t see.
The charm in Bobby’s pocket feels suddenly warmer than it should.
And none of them yet understand that something has already begun.
They don’t make it back to the engine.
The shift begins halfway down the sidewalk — not with thunder or light, just a subtle wrongness underfoot. The air thickens. The charm in Bobby’s pocket burns warm.
Eddie feels the pressure first and reaches for Buck’s elbow.
Too late.
The world tilts.
Fabric strains. Metal clatters. Bobby’s voice drops into something vast and resonant — not words, but a rumble that vibrates through pavement.
Buck stumbles as his balance changes. The ground is suddenly closer. His boots scrape —
Not boots.
Ravi hits the concrete and spins upright with a furious hiss.
Hen lands cleanly.
Chim flares for balance — wings snapping wide.
Silence.
A brown bear stands in the middle of suburban Los Angeles.
A golden retriever shakes out startled limbs.
A Belgian Malinois goes still and alert.
A sleek grey cat sits, composed.
A tiny black kitten puffs to impossible size and hisses at a garden gnome.
A raven grips the porch railing.
Buck tries to speak.
A bark comes out.
He freezes.
Oh no.
Across the street—
“Oh my God.”
Three teenagers have already stopped. Phones out. Filming.
“Is that a bear?”
“Bro.”
The retriever’s tail betrays him with one confused wag.
The Malinois steps forward instinctively, positioning himself half a body-length in front of him.
Bobby attempts authority.
The rumble that leaves him makes the teenagers shriek in delighted terror.
“IT’S REAL.”
Ravi hisses at the phones.
Hen’s ears flatten.
Eddie’s hackles rise.
And then—
From above.
Clear. Precise.
The exact dispatch ringtone.
It echoes down the block.
Everyone freezes.
“…is that bird making a phone call?”
The ringing continues.
Stops.
“Hello.”
The teenagers lose what remains of their composure.
“THAT BEAR HAS A PHONE.”
They backpedal, still filming but retreating fast.
In the distance, a siren begins to rise.
Not theirs.
Eddie’s head snaps toward it.
Decision.
The bear turns first.
The rest fall into place without thinking:
Center. Flank. High. Rear.
Buck presses closer to Eddie.
Ravi darts in under Bobby’s shadow.
They move.
The firehouse bay doors stand open ahead, sunlight pooling across the concrete like a line they have to cross.
Bobby steps inside first.
Cool air replaces heat.
Oil and metal replace street.
Home.
One by one, they cross the threshold.
The siren fades behind them.
Inside, the den waits.