Chapter Text
“Firefighter Buckley?”
Buck stopped mid-stride on his way out of the Fire Academy, the sound of his name catching him off guard. He turned and spotted a man in his late forties—maybe early fifties—heading his way. The guy was dressed in the standard blue LAFD uniform shirt and carried a manila folder under one arm. Buck didn’t recognize him. Definitely not one of his instructors, which immediately made him curious.
The man’s tone was formal and his expression unreadable, Buck had a feeling this wasn’t the hands-on kind of superior. Then again, he’d been wrong about people before.
He grinned anyway, deciding to take the friendly route. “Present,” he said, offering a handshake. “And you are?”
“Captain Nash. 118.”
Buck blinked, hand still in the man’s grip. The 118? Of all places. Everyone at the academy knew about that station—hell, half of Los Angeles did. It wasn’t every day the LAFD made national headlines for a captain getting booted for discrimination. Captain Vincent Gerard’s downfall had been the scandal of the month, complete with TV segments, op-eds, and a city-wide debate on leadership reform.
The aftermath had left the 118 in chaos, and its reputation buried under the media storm. No one wanted to touch that job. Chief Alonzo had apparently ended up bringing in a captain from out of state just to get it running again.
“From Minnesota, right?” Buck asked after a moment, brow furrowed as he tried to recall the details. “How’s the California heat treating you, sir?”
Nash looked slightly surprised by the question, then smiled faintly. “I am—and it’s been a challenge at times. But nothing I can’t handle.”
“I feel you,” Buck chuckled. “It took me forever to adjust when I moved here for school. I’m from Pennsylvania, so I went from snow days to heat waves practically overnight. Not exactly a smooth transition.”
“California State University, Los Angeles, right?” Nash said as he opened the manila folder, his tone shifting into something more evaluative. Buck realized, a little belatedly, that the folder had his profile in it.
“You graduated with a bachelor’s in Fire Protection Administration and Technology,” Nash continued, scanning the page. “All while working part-time as a 9-1-1 dispatcher. Pretty impressive, if you ask me.”
Buck couldn’t help it, he straightened up and puffed out his chest just a little. And honestly, who could blame him? He’d worked his ass off for those four years.
“Then this summer, you took on the Fire Academy while also completing your paramedic certification.” Nash closed the folder and looked up, his expression settling back into that unreadable expression. “Even with the double workload, you’ve managed to break academy records. Only twenty-two, and you’ve already stacked up all these achievements.”
He paused, considering him. “You’re an overachiever if I’ve ever met one. And your time as a dispatcher gave you something most probies don’t have—a broader perspective of what being a first responder really means. One that goes beyond just firefighting.”
Buck gave a small shrug, smiling a little at that. “I needed to pay for university somehow. Dispatch offered more flexible hours than a firehouse. And even if it meant pushing my dream of becoming a firefighter down the line, I still got to help people. The call center ended up being a good place to learn.”
He thought back to those long nights spent juggling emergency calls, coordinating between LAPD and LAFD, riding the emotional highs and lows that came with it. There were losses he still remembered vividly, but also there were also saves that made it all worth it.
“You know,” Buck said, half-thinking out loud, “I’ve been meaning to suggest that the academy include a few shadow sessions with dispatchers. There’s a lot of future firefighters could learn from them, emergency management, multitasking, and situational awareness being the key ones. After a while you start noticing patterns too—what kinds of accidents happen most often, which neighborhoods get more calls, what tends to go wrong out there.”
Nash listened quietly, one hand resting on the closed folder, that small, thoughtful smile tugging at the corner of his mouth again.
“It also teaches you how to work in a team—especially with the LAPD,” Nash went on. “No matter what state you’re in, those two departments have a bit of a rivalry going. Sometimes it gets in the way of the job, particularly with the younger ones. Luckily, that doesn’t seem to be an issue with you.”
He tapped the folder lightly. “According to your notes, there are a few officers still mourning the day they lost you to the LAFD. Apparently, they didn’t realize you planned to leave dispatch, or they might’ve tried to poach you first. You made quite the impression coordinating some big calls.”
Buck laughed, shaking his head. He’d seen some of those notes himself, his instructors had been all too happy to brag about them, mostly because it meant scoring one over the LAPD. Nash wasn’t wrong, the rivalry existed everywhere. But if you asked Buck, it wasn’t the rookies and probies you had to worry about, it was the older guys, the ones too set in their ways and with grudges a mile long.
“I really did love my time at dispatch,” Buck said, smiling fondly at the memory. “I made friends there I’ll keep for life. But I was always meant to be in the field, sitting still isn’t really my thing. And as much as I respect what the LAPD does, I don’t think I’ve got it in me to ever carry a gun.”
“The job’s not for everyone,” Nash agreed quietly.
Buck tilted his head, studying him for a moment. “Somehow, I doubt you came over here just to talk about my résumé or my thoughts on the LAPD.”
“You’re right,” Nash said, a small smile ghosting across his face. “I came to talk about the possibility of you joining my team as the new probie for the 118. I believe you’d be a great addition.”
For a moment, Buck just stared at him. Of all the things he expected to hear today, that wasn’t even on the list. His expression must’ve given him away, because Nash’s brow furrowed slightly.
“You don’t seem convinced,” the captain noted.
Buck winced. “With all due respect, sir, I don’t think bringing me in would be the best move.”
He stopped there, taking a second to organize his thoughts, something that, once upon a time, he wouldn’t have done. Dr. Copeland would be proud. He’d finally learned to slow down before his mouth ran faster than his brain.
“Why is that?” Nash pressed on.
“Well, from what I’ve heard, the 118 under Captain Gerard was… a toxic place to work,” Buck started explaining carefully. “And not just recently, it’d been that way for a long time. Gerard went as far as blocking transfer requests from his own firefighters, basically trapping them there. The station, which should’ve been a safe space for them, turned into somewhere they dreaded to be in.”
“Gerard is gone. And the A-shift isn’t a toxic environment anymore,” Nash snapped, a bit harsh if you asked Buck, but he couldn’t really blame the man for being defensive about his team.
Buck was always the first to jump in defense of his friends. Still, there was something in the captain’s tone that caught his attention. There’s a lot of repressed anger sitting just under the surface. Whatever had made him leave Minnesota clearly hadn’t stayed behind. It had followed him here, and if he didn’t deal with it, it was bound to cause trouble sooner or later.
“He might be gone, sir, but his influence isn’t.” Buck said carefully. “When you spend too long in an abusive environment, you start picking up habits that help you get through the day. People develop defense mechanisms, even if they don’t realize it. Some try to lighten the mood with jokes whenever things get tense, using humor so they don’t have to deal with what’s actually bothering them. Others do the opposite; they close off completely. They stop trusting, assume everyone has an angle, and that makes it almost impossible to build any kind of real connection.”
That earned him a pause, which Buck took advantage of to press on. “And then there are the ones who, without meaning to, start acting like the person who caused all the damage in the first place. They pick up the tone, the behavior, the way of handling conflict, because that’s what they saw day after day. In Gerard’s case, that kind of influence doesn’t just disappear when he walks out the door.”
As he spoke, Buck noticed the way Nash’s expression shifted. There was a flicker of recognition there, something that told Buck the captain had already seen traces of this in his team. He almost winced but held himself steady. The 118 might have gotten rid of Gerard, but they were still carrying the fallout.
“Some of them probably picked up Gerard’s mannerisms without realizing it,” Buck went on. “Even the ones who were in the receiving end of all the hazing and the victim-blaming. You live in that kind of environment long enough, you start to think it’s normal. It’s not that rare. The phrase ‘the abused becomes the abuser’ didn’t come from nowhere. You get caught in a pattern, and before you even realize it, your reactions start to become routine.”
Buck didn’t enjoy pointing it out, but he’d learned a long time ago that to get better one needs to start by being honest with yourself and accepting that there’s a problem. Pretending the damage wasn’t there wouldn’t fix it.
“They’re finally starting to feel safe at the station, and I almost mess that up by invading it with a white boy to a place that’s been living under white supremacy,” Nash sighed, his defensive posture slipping away, leaving his shoulder slumped in defeat. “They’ll see you as the enemy, even if they don’t mean to.”
“I might be bisexual, sir, but that won’t help my case,” Buck said, shrugging. “I’m sorry, but like I said, I don’t think I’m the right fit. And if you’ll let me suggest something…” He waited until Nash gave a small, tired nod before continuing. “Don’t introduce anyone new for a while. I know you’re short-staffed but that might be better for now. They need one-on-one time with you to heal and build trust. Maybe therapy — honestly, they need therapy.”
Now it was Nash’s turn to grimace. That was when Buck knew he’d made the right choice not to accept his invitation. Captain Nash seemed like someone who didn’t believe in therapy, at least not until a person was falling apart right in front of him. If you acted functionally and didn’t mess up the job, then in his eyes you were fine.
Buck thought that this old-school mindset was exactly why addiction was such a problem among first responders. If firefighters and police officers were more used to getting help for the pressure and trauma that came with the job, instead of pushing it down until it exploded, they wouldn’t need alcohol or drugs as an outlet.
He remembered hearing about the dozen or so firefighters who’d been fired after the LAPD uncovered an illegal fight club. Of all things. When that scandal hit, Buck had been quietly grateful that Sue had made it mandatory for her dispatchers to see a professional at least every two weeks. It probably saved more than a few careers.
Buck nodded once, said goodbye to Captain Nash, and walked off. As he left, he made a mental note for Dr. Copeland: if Buck ever claimed he didn’t need therapy, she should probably have him committed, because clearly, he’d lost his mind.