Chapter 9: Firehouse Introduction
The discharge papers were a single sheet of warm thermal paper, curled at the edges. Buck folded them roughly and shoved them into the back pocket of his soot-streaked bunker pants. The rigid material made a heavy, swishing sound as he moved. He kept his left arm slightly bent, the movement stiff and careful.
Outside, the autumn sun felt incongruously cheerful. Kenny held Laura’s keys, the metal teeth biting into his palm. The adrenaline of the news, the rush to the clinic, was seeping away, leaving a hollow, confused space in its wake. He looked at Buck, standing on the curb looking simultaneously vulnerable in his bandages and utterly solid in his uniform.
“So,” Kenny started, his voice quieter than he intended. “Where do I… I mean, do I drive you home? Or back to the station? Or—” He jingled the keys. “I guess I need to get this back to Laura. Is she at the bookstore? Or her place?”
Buck leaned against the passenger side door of Laura’s sturdy pickup, a faint smile touching his lips. He looked tired, but his eyes were clear and focused on Kenny. “You’re overthinking. It’s cute.” He pulled his phone from his pocket, winced slightly at the movement in his shoulder, and tapped the screen. He held it to his ear.
“Vance. Where are you roosting?” A pause. He listened, his gaze locking with Kenny’s. “Yeah, I’m out. No, he’s with me. We’ll come to you. Tell Perez to save me a slice, I’m starving.” He ended the call. “She’s at the firehouse. They just got back from a medical assist. Early lunch. We can go there, you can give her the truck back, and I can grab my gear and my own vehicle.”
“The firehouse,” Kenny repeated. The word felt significant, heavy. It was the epicenter of Buck’s other life, the professional, dangerous one he’d only heard about in stories and seen in the aftermath today.
“It’s just a building,” Buck said, as if reading his mind. He pushed off from the truck and walked around to the passenger side. “Come on. I’ll navigate.”
The ride was short, just a few blocks through the quiet downtown and into a more mixed-use area. The fire station was a long, low brick building with two enormous red garage doors, one of which was rolled up, revealing a cavernous, brightly lit interior. Kenny pulled Laura’s truck into a visitor spot beside a row of personal vehicles—pickups and sensible sedans. He killed the engine. The silence that followed was filled by the deep, dormant purr of a massive fire engine visible inside the bay.
“Ready to meet the circus?” Buck asked, popping his door open.
The air in the engine bay was a complex layered scent. Diesel fuel, clean rubber, the sharp tang of antiseptic floor cleaner, and underneath it all, the distinct, not-unpleasant smell of smoke—not like a bonfire, but like something institutional, absorbed into concrete and canvas over decades. The floor was spotless, gleaming epoxy painted in reflective red and gray. The primary engine, a beast of red and chrome, sat dormant but potent, its coiled hoses and polished ladder suggesting latent, violent energy.
A chorus of male voices, talking over each other, echoed from an open doorway leading deeper into the building. The smell of tomato sauce and baked dough wafted out.
“Buckley! You’re not dead!” a voice boomed.
A man in station sweats emerged, holding a paper plate laden with a gigantic slice of pizza. He was built like a retired linebacker, with a close-cropped beard and sharp, amused eyes. Two other guys followed, one younger with a nervous energy, the other older, calmer, wiping his hands on a dish towel.
“Disappointed, Cap?” Buck shot back, a familiar ease settling over him. He walked forward, but Kenny noticed he kept his injured shoulder angled away from any potential back-slaps.
“Moderately.” The bearded man—Cap, presumably—took a large bite of pizza. His eyes slid past Buck and landed on Kenny, who hovered near the truck’s bumper. His expression shifted to one of open, delighted curiosity. “Oh. Hello.”
Laura appeared from the same doorway, a can of soda in her hand. “Took you long enough. I’m starving for my own lunch, which my truck is currently blocking me from acquiring.”
“Your chariot, my lady,” Buck said, gesturing grandly with his good arm toward the pickup. He then turned, his movement deliberate, and reached back for Kenny. His hand found Kenny’s wrist and gently pulled him forward into the circle of light and scrutiny. “Everyone, this is Kenny. Kenny, this is the motley crew that pretends to keep this town safe. The mouth with the pizza is Captain Riggs. The kid trying to look serious is Probie Mike. The only one with any sense is Hernandez. And you’ve met the traitor, Vance.”
“Hey,” Laura said, but she was smiling.
Kenny felt every pair of eyes on him. He offered a small, awkward wave. “Hi.”
Probie Mike’s eyebrows shot up. Captain Riggs chewed slowly, his gaze flicking between Buck’s protective stance and Kenny’s flushed face. A slow, wide grin spread across his features.
“No,” Riggs said, pointing a greasy finger at Buck. “This is the bookstore guy. The one Maggie Harlow’s been hiding. Vance said you’d finally mustered the courage.”
Buck’s hand slid from Kenny’s wrist to the small of his back, a warm, firm pressure. “That’s him.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” Riggs swallowed his bite. “Buckley gets clocked by a building and it’s the damsel in distress routine that finally gets the boy to bring a date to work.”
A unified, good-natured laugh rose from the group. A series of exaggerated whistles and catcalls erupted from the doorway where a few other firefighters now leaned, grinning.
Kenny’s face burned, but it was a different heat than the clinic’s fear. This was a baptism by teasing, loud and irreverent and strangely welcoming. He ducked his head, a helpless smile tugging at his own lips.
Buck just grinned, the expression crinkling the corners of his bright blue eyes. He didn’t move his hand from Kenny’s back. If anything, he pulled him a fraction closer, into the solid, comforting line of his body. “Alright, animals, enough. You’re scaring off the only good decision I’ve made this year.”
“The only good decision?” Hernandez asked, dry as dust.
“The only one that matters,” Buck corrected, his voice dropping from a performative boom to something lower, meant just for the small circle. He looked at Riggs. “He’s the reason I’m gonna start being more careful. So cut me some slack, yeah?”
The teasing subsided into a murmur of approval. The captain nodded, his expression softening into something that looked like genuine relief. “About damn time, Buckley. Seriously. Welcome, Kenny. Make sure he follows doctor’s orders. He’s terrible at it.”
Laura tossed her keys in the air and caught them. “My work here is done. I’m getting real food. You want the five-cent tour, Kenny, before this lunkhead remembers he’s supposed to be resting?”
Buck rolled his eyes but nodded. “Come on. I’ll show you where the magic happens. It’s mostly where we complain and wait.”
The tour was brief but immersive. Kenny saw the locker room, rows of neat metal lockers, Buck’s slightly ajar with a worn paperback on the top shelf. He saw the kitchen where the pizza boxes were piled, the communal living area with massive recliners facing a large TV, the weights room that smelled of sweat and determination. It was a world of utilitarian efficiency and forced camaraderie, a home that wasn’t a home, filled with men and women who had to trust each other with their lives.
Everywhere they went, Kenny was met with nods, curious smiles, a few more subdued greetings. The news had traveled. He was no longer just the new guy at the bookstore. He was Buckley’s guy. The realization settled in his stomach, warm and light.
They ended up back in the bay, standing beside the towering ladder truck. The overhead lights made Buck’s hair look almost white-gold. The bandage on his shoulder was a stark white square against his station t-shirt.
“So,” Buck said, leaning back against the truck’s running board. “Not too terrifying, right?”
“It’s…” Kenny looked around, at the polished equipment, at the closed door to the world where they joked and ate pizza. “It’s you. All of this is just… you.”
Buck’s expression shifted. The easy confidence melted into something more raw, more open. The vulnerability from the clinic returned, but layered now with a deep, quiet certainty. He looked at Kenny, really looked at him, his blue eyes tracing every feature.
“Yeah,” Buck said finally, his voice a rough scrape. “It is. And you’re here in it now.”
The space between them in the shadow of the ladder truck crackled, compressed by the weight of Buck’s words. Kenny could hear the distant clatter of dishes from the kitchen, the low rumble of a dispatcher’s voice from a hidden speaker. But here, it was just the two of them and that stark white bandage.
Kenny leaned in. He moved slowly, giving Buck every chance to pull away, but Buck just watched him come, his breath hitching. The kiss wasn’t like the ones from that morning. It was softer, a deliberate press of reassurance in this temple of chaos. It tasted like dust and the clinic’s antiseptic and something fundamentally, unshakeably Buck.
“Get a room, you two! We’ve got sensitive equipment!”
Laura’s shout shattered the moment. They broke apart, Kenny jumping back as if scalded. She stood in the doorway to the kitchen, arms crossed, holding a fresh can of soda. Her grin was predatory.
“The couch in the lounge is technically a room,” Buck called back, not taking his eyes off Kenny’s flushed face.
“And it’s where Hernandez naps. Don’t subject him to your fledgling romance.” Laura walked over, her boots silent on the clean floor. She looked at Kenny. “Shift’s over in an hour. You sticking around? Could use someone with a functioning left arm to help me restock the ambulance bays. Buckley here is officially decorative.”
Kenny glanced at Buck. The thought of leaving him now, after the clinic, after seeing this part of his world, felt entirely wrong. “Yeah. Yeah, I can stay.”
“Good.” Laura nodded. “You can drive His Majesty home in his own truck afterwards. Ensure he actually goes home and doesn’t try to stop by the hardware store to lecture a dumpster.”
“I wouldn’t,” Buck protested.
“You absolutely would.” Laura turned and headed back towards the apparatus floor. “Come on, rookie. Gloves are in the cabinet.”
The last hour passed in a blur of mundane, revealing activity. Kenny followed Laura into the cool, bright ambulance bay, its vehicle doors open to the afternoon. She handed him boxes of sterile gauze and rolls of tape, directing him to refinch supply cabinets while she checked oxygen tank gauges with a practiced, rhythmic tapping.
They worked in companionable silence for a while, the only sounds the rustle of plastic and the metallic click of cabinet latches. “He likes you,” Laura said abruptly, not looking up from her clipboard.
Kenny fumbled a box of bandages. “I… I like him too.”
“I know.” She finally looked at him, her green eyes sharp but not unkind. “I saw his face when I told him you were on your way to the clinic. It wasn’t his ‘I’m fine’ face. It was his ‘oh, shit’ face. He was scared you’d be scared.” She slid the clipboard into a holder on the wall. “That’s new. For him.”
The statement hung there, heavy with unspoken history. Kenny didn’t know what to do with it, so he just kept stacking supplies, his hands moving automatically.
When the shift-change bell finally echoed through the station, the atmosphere shifted instantly. Laughter grew louder as the off-going crew emerged, their relief palpable. Buck appeared from the locker room in faded jeans and a soft gray henley, his hair damp from a shower. He carried his duffel bag in his right hand, his left still held carefully at his side.
“Keys are in it,” he said, tossing a single key on a simple ring to Kenny. It was warm from his pocket.
Buck’s truck was an older, well-kept Ford, its interior smelling faintly of pine air freshener and the leather of his turnout coat, which was folded on the backseat. Kenny adjusted the seat and mirrors, the routine motions calming his nerves. Buck slid in beside him with a slow, careful exhale.
“You don’t have to do this,” Buck said as Kenny started the engine. “The nursing thing. It’s just a bruise.”
“I know I don’t have to,” Kenny said, pulling out onto the quiet street. The late afternoon light was long and golden, washing the town in a honeyed glow. “But Maggie closed the shop for me. Laura gave me her truck. Your captain told me to make you behave. I’ve got orders from a higher chain of command.”
A low chuckle escaped Buck. “Fair enough.”
They drove past The Rusty Page, its lights already off, and wound through streets Kenny was still learning. Buck directed him to a small, standalone cottage on the outskirts of town, painted a weathered blue with a wide porch. It was surrounded by tall, untamed pines that whispered in the breeze.
Inside was a quiet revelation. It was tidy but lived-in—a large, comfortable-looking sofa faced a stone fireplace, books were stacked on an oak coffee table, and the kitchen was small but clean. There were no glaring signs of bachelor neglect, just a gentle, solitary order. A framed photograph on a shelf showed a younger Buck, smiling broadly between an older couple who shared his blue eyes.
“Home sweet home,” Buck said, dropping his duffel by the door. The act of finally being still seemed to amplify his injury; he sank onto the arm of the sofa with another one of those measured exhales, his shoulders slumping.
“Okay,” Kenny said, closing the door behind them. The familiar scent of Buck—soap, skin, that faint smokiness—was stronger here, woven into the fabric of the place. “First, where’s your ibuprofen or whatever they gave you? Second, have you eaten anything that wasn’t pizza? Third, you should probably get that shirt off so it doesn’t stick to the bandage.”
Buck looked up at him, a slow, tired smile spreading across his face. “Bossing me around already.”
“Someone has to.” Kenny stood his ground, hands on his hips, trying to project a confidence he didn’t entirely feel.
“Medicine cabinet. Top shelf,” Buck relented, nodding toward a hallway. “And no. No real food.”
Kenny returned with the pill bottle and a glass of water. Buck swallowed the pills obediently, his throat working. Then, with a grimace, he began to awkwardly tug the hem of his henley up with his right hand. The movement pulled at his left side; he hissed through his teeth.
“Let me.” Kenny stepped forward. His fingers were trembling slightly as he gently took over, gathering the soft fabric and lifting it. He helped guide it over Buck’s head, careful to avoid the bandaged area. The shirt came free.
In the soft light of the living room, Buck’s torso was a map of his life. The defined muscle from his work, a pale, thin scar along one rib, a smattering of freckles across his shoulders. And now, the angry, blossoming purple and blue bloom high on his left deltoid, the clinical white pad at its center. Kenny’s breath caught. It was one thing to know about it, another to see the violent proof impressed upon his skin.
“Looks worse than it is,” Buck murmured, watching Kenny’s face.
Kenny didn’t answer. He just let his fingertips, feather-light, trace the unmarked skin just below the bruise. He felt Buck shudder under the touch. The silence in the cottage deepened, filled with the rustle of trees outside and the thrum of their own heartbeats.
“Sit down,” Kenny said, his voice rough. “I’ll find you something to eat.”
He turned toward the kitchen, the image of that bruise seared behind his eyes, a stark reminder of the risk that walked hand-in-hand with the man now sitting in his quiet, blue house. His job, for now, was simple. Get him fed. Get him comfortable. Keep him still.
The rest, the fear and the fierce, protective ache expanding in his own chest, he would have to sort through later.