Chapter Text
The call comes through as “minor injuries, possible animal involvement.”
Which could mean anything.
Chim guesses raccoon. Hen guesses influencer. Eddie doesn’t guess at all.
Bobby sighs the way he does when he already knows this is going to be paperwork-heavy and ridiculous.
They pull up to a park that looks normal at first glance.
Then the barking starts.
There are dogs everywhere.
Leashes tangled. Owners talking over one another. A golden retriever trying to lick someone’s face while a very small terrier in a pink harness attempts to square up to it like it has something to prove.
And in the middle of it—
Buck.
He’s got a handful of leashes looped securely around his forearm and a whistle between his teeth.
He blows it once.
The volume drops.
Not silence. But order.
Bobby stills for half a second before stepping forward.
“Buck.”
Buck turns at the sound of his name. The sunglasses come off automatically — reflex, not thought.
“Cap.”
Easy. Casual. Like they ran into each other in line for coffee.
“Everyone accounted for?” Bobby asks.
“Three minor bites,” Buck replies, already nodding toward a bench. “One twisted ankle. I’ve got the dogs separated by temperament.”
Of course he does.
He’s wearing a black t-shirt that’s already damp at the collar. Cargo shorts. Running shoes.
No turnout gear. No radio.
He still looks like he belongs in the middle of it.
Chim crouches to check a bite. “You start carrying first aid in that little bag?”
Buck taps the pouch at his hip. “Prepared.”
Hen gives him a look. “You always were.”
There’s a beat there. Small. Barely noticeable.
Buck shifts his grip on the leashes.
“Occupational hazard,” he says lightly.
A shrill bark cuts across the noise.
The small, furious terrier in a pink harness is attempting to drag three larger dogs toward what appears to be a pigeon.
Buck tightens his grip.
“Geraldine. Absolutely not.”
The terrier doubles down.
Bobby blinks once. “Geraldine?”
Buck doesn’t look up. “She has strong boundaries.”
Hen snorts.
Eddie bites back a laugh as the tiny dog continues her campaign for dominance.
“Does she respond to anything else?” Chim asks.
Buck considers. “Disapproval.”
He blows the whistle again.
Geraldine freezes.
Then sits.
Prim.
Victorious.
Bobby watches that exchange closely.
Not the dog.
Buck.
The calm. The authority. The steadiness.
And when Buck hands the leash back to the mortified owner, he crouches just long enough to scratch Geraldine behind the ear.
“You’re exhausting,” he murmurs fondly.
It’s a joke.
It lands like one.
But Eddie hears it.
And for half a second—
He wonders if Buck did too.
“You running a business now?” Hen asks.
“Freelance,” Buck says. “Group walks. Flexible hours.”
“For now?” Chim presses.
Buck shrugs lightly. “Works.”
Works.
Not it’s temporary.
Not I’m figuring things out.
Just that.
They handle the injuries quickly. Nothing serious. A lot of noise for very little damage.
Buck passes leashes back one by one, giving quick instructions to their owners like he’s run this exact scene before.
Bobby watches him.
The way he manages the chaos without escalating it.
The way he doesn’t look to them for direction.
The way he doesn’t linger near the engine once it’s over.
“Thanks for the assist, Cap,” Buck says, looping the remaining leashes neatly around his hand.
Assist.
Bobby nods once. “Stay safe.”
“Stay safe, 118.”
Then he turns, whistles once, and starts jogging toward the far path with the pack falling into line behind him.
He doesn’t look back.
Chim exhales. “He’s like a recurring guest star.”
Hen closes the ambulance doors. “You two done staring?”
Eddie climbs into the truck.
He doesn’t answer.
Through the windshield, Buck disappears between the trees, dogs fanning out around him like he’s done it a hundred times.
Maybe he has.
*
The call comes in as “electrical malfunction, minor fire, possible smoke inhalation.”
Which is normal.
What’s not normal is the smell.
Not burning.
Sweet.
When they push through the bakery door, the air is thick with sugar and something vaguely caramelised. A display case has cracked. There’s smoke near the ceiling. A panicked employee is waving a tea towel at an oven that’s already been switched off.
And behind the counter—
Buck.
Sleeves rolled.
Apron tied crookedly over a pale blue button-down.
There’s a smear of buttercream on his forearm.
He looks up when they enter, not startled. Just assessing.
“Breaker’s off,” he says, already. “Shorted near the back wall. Fire didn’t catch.”
Bobby nods once. “Anyone hurt?”
“Two staff. Mild smoke. One customer dizzy — I’ve got her sitting.”
Of course he does.
Hen veers toward the woman on the floor. Chim heads for the back. Eddie stays where he is a moment longer than he should.
Buck turns back to the counter and resumes what he was doing.
Which is piping frosting.
Perfectly.
Even spirals.
The cupcake in his hand rotates with practiced precision.
“You work here now?” Eddie asks, because the alternative is continuing to stare at Buck’s hands.
“Couple weeks,” Buck replies. “Owner broke her wrist.”
“And you… bake?” Chim calls from the kitchen.
“I follow instructions.”
There’s something deliberate in the way he says it.
Not self-deprecating.
Just factual.
Eddie watches Buck wipe the frosting off his forearm with his thumb. Absent. Unbothered. There’s flour dusted along the edge of his sleeve.
He looks… settled.
It’s irritating.
“Pretty sure you’re overqualified,” Eddie mutters.
Buck glances at him.
A flicker. Almost amused.
“For cupcakes?”
“For this,” Eddie gestures vaguely at the entire shop.
Buck considers that.
“Doesn’t take much to keep something running,” he says. “You just show up.”
It’s neutral.
It shouldn’t land like a jab.
Eddie feels it anyway.
Bobby steps closer to the counter, studying the ceiling.
“You planning to stay long?” he asks.
Buck sets the cupcake down carefully before answering.
“Long enough.”
Not defensive.
Not hopeful.
Just contained.
Hen finishes with the customer and joins them. “No transports. You’re lucky.”
Buck nods. “We are.”
We.
Like he belongs here.
The owner of the bakery emerges from the back, flustered and grateful. She thanks Buck first. Then Bobby.
Buck brushes it off easily.
“Part of the job,” he says.
Eddie doesn’t miss that phrasing either.
When they wrap up, Chim leans over the counter and steals a cupcake.
“For services rendered.”
Buck pretends to scold him. “Inventory, man.”
It’s almost normal.
Almost easy.
But when they head back out to the truck, Buck doesn’t follow.
He’s already back behind the counter, adjusting trays, smoothing frosting, resetting the display case like the interruption was a minor inconvenience.
Eddie pauses in the doorway.
“Try not to burn it down,” he says.
Buck huffs a quiet laugh. “I’ll manage.”
Eddie doesn’t doubt that.
That’s the problem.