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Chapter Text

It starts with a cat.

A very fluffy, very angry cat, stranded on the diving board of a very locked private pool. It’s pacing in small, dramatic circles, tail puffed to cartoon proportions, issuing a stream of complaints that sound a lot like profanity.

Hen squints through the iron bars of the gate. “Technically,” she says, already regretting everything, “we’re not allowed to break in.”

Buck leans in next to her, squinting like a detective in a noir film. “But it’s a cat.”

“A cat,” Bobby confirms, arms crossed, looking like he aged five years just on the drive over. “In distress.”

“Whose distress,” Chimney mutters, from the other side of the fence, “may or may not warrant a misdemeanor, depending on how loud Buck gets.”

The cat lets out a long, guttural screech. It sounds vaguely like a challenge.

Buck’s face splits into a grin so wide it should be illegal. “So what you’re saying is… I should go around back and check the gate.”

“No, Buck,” Bobby says slowly. “What we’re saying is—”

But Buck is already gone, jogging off toward the side of the property with the bounce of a man who has absolutely no intention of checking just the gate.

Chim sighs. “We should probably go ahead and prep the incident report.”

“Let him get it out of his system,” Hen says. “You know he’s going to do something stupid either way. Might as well get a cat out of it.”

They find him five minutes later perched on the fence like some kind of golden retriever gargoyle, hoodie snagged on the metal spikes, one leg over, grinning down at the team like he’s accomplished a great and noble feat. His hair is windblown, there’s a smudge of dirt on his cheek, and he looks so pleased with himself it’s honestly infuriating.

“You know,” Eddie says, staring up at him with the flat voice of a man who’s had this conversation before, “this is breaking and entering.”

“Only if I enter,” Buck replies cheerfully. He holds that position for dramatic effect, winks, then swings the other leg over and drops down into the backyard with all the stealth of a drunk raccoon.

The cat yowls.

Buck freezes mid-step. “Respectfully, sir or madam, I am here to help,” he announces like he’s greeting royalty.

The cat growls in response and bolts across the diving board like it’s preparing for a fight.

“Did he just talk to the cat like it was a person?” Chim asks, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Let him work,” Hen says, arms folded, totally unbothered. “This is art.”

“This is trespassing,” Bobby mutters.

“Let him art.”

The cat hisses. Buck hisses back.

“Why is he like this?” Eddie sighs.

“Genetics,” Hen answers.

Twenty-two chaotic seconds and one wet t-shirt later, Buck emerges triumphant.

Triumphant, and also bleeding slightly from the elbow.

The cat, looking far too smug for someone who just hissed at their own rescuer, is cradled in Buck’s arms like a prize. Buck himself is soaked from the waist down, one shoe missing, and a laminated ‘Pool Rules’ sign held in his left hand like a badge of honor.

The fence is miraculously unbroken, though the lawn chair that used to sit near the pool is now folded in half and floating.

“Technically,” Buck says, panting slightly as he hands the cat to its sobbing owner through the locked gate, “I didn’t break in. I just… creatively accessed an available route.”

Bobby stares at him. Long. Hard. The kind of stare that says I will be reading you for filth in the debrief.

“You’re buying me a coffee.”

“You got it, Cap,” Buck chirps, brushing pool water out of his hair like this was all part of the plan.

The cat meows. Buck meows back.

And that’s how Buck gets unofficially promoted to “morally flexible solutions coordinator” of the 118.

He thinks it’s the best title he’s ever had. It’s definitely the one that comes with the most opportunities for shenanigans.

Chapter Text

Technically, it was just a routine wellness check.

In reality, it was a hoarder house, a dozen cats, at least two mysterious smells (one of which might’ve been ghost-related), and a vibe so cursed even the sunlight refused to enter. One of the cats had three legs and a thousand-yard stare. Another was perched on a chandelier that had no visible means of support.

“We’re just here to make sure the resident’s okay,” Eddie said, stepping over a leaning tower of vintage tabloids and what might once have been a recliner but now had moss growing on it.

Buck nodded solemnly. “Got it.”

“So don’t touch anything. No poking, prodding, lifting, switching, petting, licking, or—”

Buck blinked. “Why would I lick something?”

“You tell me. I’m not taking chances.”

Buck opened his mouth.

“No,” Eddie said preemptively, pointing at what was probably a lava lamp but pulsing in a way no lava lamp should. “Not even that.”

Buck closed his mouth. Briefly.

They made it approximately six feet into the house before Buck touched something.

“What did we just say?” Eddie hissed.

“I didn’t touch it,” Buck said, already elbow-deep in what looked like a pile of vintage electronics. He emerged triumphantly with a rotary phone, the receiver dangling and the cord so dusty it might’ve been fossilized. “I rescued it.”

“From what? Retirement?”

“Oblivion,” Buck corrected solemnly.

“Put it down.”

Buck stared at the phone. The phone stared back. The air felt tense, like the moment before someone pushes the big red button.

“Buck.”

He put it down. Slowly. Like he was letting go of a friend at the end of a dramatic war movie.

Thirty seconds later, Buck found what might have been a switchboard, a vintage breaker panel, or possibly an interdimensional portal powered by static electricity and spite. He touched it.

There was a spark. Half the lights flickered like a horror movie jump scare. Somewhere deep in the house, a blender roared to life. A radio popped on and began playing “Take On Me” at full volume.

Eddie turned slowly, like he already knew what he was about to see and just needed a moment to emotionally prepare. “Did you just—”

“No?” Buck offered, one hand still hovering guiltily over the panel.

The lights shut off again. A loud pop came from somewhere upstairs. A cat screamed. Another cat screamed back.

“I didn’t mean to,” Buck added helpfully, flinching as something fell over in the kitchen.

Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why are you like this?”

“Honestly? At this point, I think it’s just momentum. And possibly mild possession.”

By the time Animal Control arrived, Buck had touched: a broken typewriter, another lava lamp filled with what appeared to be glitter and motor oil, seven ceramic frogs (all named, apparently), and a life-sized statue of Elvis Presley that Buck had repositioned into a dramatic singing pose.

“He’s harmless,” Buck told the officer, gesturing to the Elvis like a proud curator. “He told me so himself. Swore an oath of peace.”

The officer blinked. The statue sparkled faintly under the porch light.

Eddie just sat on the porch, head in hands, while one cat tried to eat his radio and another one curled up on his boot like it owned him now.

Later, in the truck, Eddie said, “You know, I really meant it when I said don’t touch anything.”

Buck, nursing a scratch on his arm and still somehow holding one of the ceramic frogs like it was a comfort item, shrugged. “I heard you.”

“You just ignored me.”

“No, no. I logged it. Deferred obedience.”

Eddie gave him a long side-eye. “You are the reason we have a team group chat rule that just says ‘No Buck Unsupervised’ followed by three fire emojis and a gif of a raccoon holding a knife.”

Buck grinned. “That was Hen, by the way. She added the gif.”

Eddie didn’t disagree.

He just cranked up the sirens like they had somewhere urgent to be—anywhere but here, with Buck explaining frog names.

Chapter Text

It all started with a ladder and a very suspicious “back entrance” to a restaurant that may or may not have caught on fire again. There was a handwritten sign taped to the door that said “Not an Exit (unless you mean it),” and Buck had stared at it like it was a personal invitation.

Bobby was negotiating with the manager out front. Eddie was dealing with a sprained ankle situation inside. Buck was gone.

Not like—missing. Just Buck-gone. The kind of gone that made people instinctively check for structural damage.

Hen checked the time. “Okay, so we’ve got a five-minute window before he breaks something, touches something, or ends up in a duct.”

Chim, leaning casually against the truck, sipped his coffee like a man who’d been through this exact sequence of events before. “You want over or under?”

Hen tilted her head, doing fast math based on the layout of the building and Buck’s last known level of restlessness. “Let’s set the line at four minutes.”

Chim’s eyes narrowed like a man who’d once lost a pair of shoes to a grease fire. “Over.”

Hen smirked. “Bold.”

They shook on it. Somewhere in the distance, a crash rang out, followed by a suspicious sizzle.

“…Timer starts now,” Hen said.

Two minutes and thirty-seven seconds later, the fire alarm went off inside the kitchen. Then a second alarm. Then something that might have been a sprinkler system or possibly just a very angry espresso machine letting off steam.

Hen didn’t even flinch. She held out her hand without looking away from the scene like a queen accepting tribute.

Chim groaned and slapped a five-dollar bill into her palm. “He didn’t even make it to the three-minute mark. That’s almost impressive.”

“He’s been training for this his entire life,” Hen said solemnly.

“Do you think he actually starts fires or if they just happen around him?” Chim asked, eyes narrowed like he was considering a case study.

Hen considered it. “Honestly? I think the universe senses chaos and just adapts. Like some kind of Buck-based climate event.”

Chim nodded. “Forecast: 80% chance of Buck with scattered emergencies.”

Hen smirked. “With a high probability of something breaking.”

Inside, Buck stood beneath a dislodged ceiling panel like some kind of soot-covered gremlin who had just emerged victorious from a culinary war. His face was streaked with ash, one glove was missing, and he was somehow cradling a half-melted fondue set like it was a newborn.

“So good news,” he said brightly, smoke curling from behind him. “The smoke’s mostly contained.”

Eddie, standing ankle-deep in soapy water and several broken ramekins, took a slow breath. “Buck,” he said, voice already dangerously calm, “what did you do?”

“Technically? I climbed up to check the ductwork. Accidentally bumped the grease trap. Which—okay, not ideal—but I improvised.”

“Improvised how?”

Buck gestured to the fondue set. “With cheese.”

Eddie blinked. “With cheese?”

Buck nodded, still holding it like a sacred artifact. “Very melty. Very effective. Mostly brie.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Is that raclette in your hair?”

“Might be. Hard to tell at this point.”

Back outside, Hen texted the group chat:

Hen: 2:37. Pay up.

Bobby: I’m not even asking.

Chim: This man is a menace.

Buck: You’re welcome for the fondue. Also, I may be mildly on fire.

Hen: You what?

Buck: It’s fine now.

Athena: I swear to God if you set one more commercial kitchen on fire I will personally revoke your oxygen privileges.

No charges were pressed. Buck still has cheese on his boots and the fondue set mysteriously disappeared from evidence. Hen’s five dollars now lives on her dashboard, taped above the glove compartment and labeled: “Emergency Chaos Fund — Buck Division.”

Chapter Text

Technically, Athena was off-duty.

She had been planning to spend her day off drinking coffee, reading a book, and absolutely not getting involved with any nonsense involving ceiling fans, smoke, or Evan Buckley attempting physics.

And yet.

Her radio chirped with a neighborhood disturbance — minor smoke, erratic power surges, and someone yelling about “thermal expansion” and “data integrity.” A neighbor called it in after seeing a man climb out of a second-story window holding what appeared to be half a ceiling fan and wearing what looked like homemade safety goggles made from Tupperware lids.

So Athena showed up. Out of habit. Out of dread. Mostly dread.

She parked just far enough away to avoid being drawn into paperwork.

From her car, she had a perfect view of Buck, streaked with soot and some kind of blue powder, emerging from the house looking thrilled with himself. In his hands was the ceiling fan, now somehow taped to a whiteboard covered in chaotic equations. He looked like a man who had just successfully split the atom in someone’s garage.

Hen and Chimney stood on the sidewalk, watching with the resigned air of people waiting for the fallout. Hen was filming. Chim was betting with a neighbor. Eddie sat on the curb next to what looked like a partially dismantled microwave, visibly counting to ten.

Bobby leaned against the rig with his eyes closed, like he was trying to remember a time before Buck had access to duct tape and Google.

Athena cracked the window and called out, “Buck.”

He perked up. “Hey, Athena! You’re just in time to see phase three!”

She scanned the scene: scorch marks on the siding, melted extension cords, a questionable tower of PVC pipe lashed together with rope and optimism.

“Are you attempting a wind tunnel in someone’s yard?”

“Not attempting,” Buck said proudly. “Succeeding.”

The PVC tower shuddered ominously.

Athena stared for a long beat, then rolled the window up halfway. She sighed. Deep, weary, soul-level sigh.

“Nope. Not today.”

And drove off.

Later, Buck insisted she had smiled.

Hen swore it was a grimace of secondhand embarrassment.

Chim bet five dollars it was gas station coffee regret.

Athena never commented.

No report was filed. The whiteboard reappeared in the firehouse kitchen, where Buck used it to explain airflow dynamics to a very confused Dalmatian during dinner.

Bobby moved it to storage, muttering something about liability.

Hen put a sticker on it that read: “Crime Adjacent” and added a doodle of Buck with goggles.

The ceiling fan blade was later spotted duct-taped above Buck’s bunk with the words “Science Wing” scribbled underneath.

It rattles during thunderstorms.

Buck still maintains phase three was a complete success. No one has dared ask about phase four.

Chapter Text

The call was simple. Just a check-up after a windstorm knocked a tree onto an old, half-collapsed property on the edge of the city—technically condemned, definitely cursed-looking.

“In and out,” Bobby said. “Look for damage. Don’t touch anything. Don’t take anything. Don’t do anything illegal.”

He said it like a general giving orders before a siege.

He looked directly at Buck. Like he was trying to beam the warning directly into his soul.

Buck nodded solemnly. “Absolutely.”

There was a pause.

“Buck,” Bobby added. “I mean it. Not even slightly illegal. Not ‘mildly unethical.’ Not ‘legally gray.’ Nothing.”

Buck raised his hand like he was swearing into court. “Scout’s honor.”

“You weren’t in Scouts.”

“Which means I never broke the code. Technically clean slate.”

Bobby closed his eyes and muttered something that sounded like a prayer.

Three minutes later, Buck was halfway through a second-story window, one leg dangling into the void, the other braced on what looked like a rotted drainpipe.

“I said don’t do anything illegal!” Bobby yelled from below, hands on hips, voice carrying the fury of someone who knew exactly how this would go.

“It’s not illegal,” Buck called back. “It’s resourceful!”

“What part of climbing through a broken window into a condemned building is resourceful?”

“I’m minimizing risk,” Buck said, like a man delivering a TED Talk from a windowsill. “See the gloves? This is textbook safety.”

“You’re literally entering through a shattered window like a burglar.”

“A burglar wouldn’t announce it over radio. That’s transparency.”

Hen and Chim were placing bets again, arguing over whether he’d fall before or after triggering a squirrel ambush. Eddie stood nearby with the expression of a man mentally drafting his resignation letter.

Inside, Buck found:

• A surprisingly intact spiral staircase leading nowhere
• Three squirrels who were not happy to see him and one that seemed to be guarding something
• And a dusty briefcase labeled “DO NOT OPEN” in permanent marker, resting on a pedestal of old encyclopedias and empty cat food cans

So of course, he opened it.

“Guys,” Buck said over the radio, voice already too excited. “I may have found classified documents. Or possibly a hex.”

“Put it back,” Bobby snapped.

“Too late. It’s open. There’s… a lot of glitter? And a VHS tape labeled ‘DO NOT WATCH’.”

“Did you just open a cursed briefcase in a structurally compromised house and uncover a haunted media format?”

“I prefer the term ‘investigative curiosity’. And it’s not haunted until it moves.”

The house groaned ominously. A light bulb flickered.

The guarding squirrels hissed.

They got him out with only one minor floor collapse, three startled squirrels (two of which somehow ended up in the ambulance), and one very shaken VHS tape now sealed in a Tupperware container labeled “DO NOT ENGAGE.”

No charges were pressed. Technically. Mostly because the building was already condemned, and the squirrels refused to press charges.

Hen taped a new sign to the firehouse gear rack:

BUCK RULE #7: “Don’t = Definitely Do”

Buck framed it. Added glitter. Hung it above his locker.

Bobby did not find that encouraging.

He added Buck’s radio to the charging dock with a post-it that read: “DO NOT ISSUE WITHOUT DIRECT SUPERVISION.”

Chapter Text

Technically, it wasn’t stolen.

It was just… temporarily reassigned. Relocated. Borrowed in the spirit of public service, urban exploration, and a profound inability to resist low-speed vehicles.

Buck had found it behind a community center while they were responding to a minor call about a downed sign. It was parked next to a dumpster like a forgotten treasure. It was unlocked. It had keys. Buck viewed that not as a coincidence, but as destiny.

“Where did you get that?” Eddie asked, watching Buck cruise down the street in it like it was the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and he was the grand marshal of nonsense. Hen was riding shotgun, inexplicably wearing aviators. Chim was filming with full commentary.

“It found me,” Buck said serenely, sunglasses on, elbow draped over the side like he was auditioning for Miami Vice: Retirement Village Edition.

Bobby was not amused.

He stepped directly in the golf cart’s path and held up a hand. “Return it.”

“I’m improving morale,” Buck argued, doing a very slow, deeply committed donut in the firehouse parking lot—six miles per hour, no music, just vibes.

“Return it now,” Bobby said.

“That feels like a lot of negativity for a man who just got surprise valet service,” Buck replied.

Bobby blinked. Once. Slowly.

The golf cart returned itself. Sort of.

Buck drove it back the next day like nothing had happened—like he hadn’t casually borrowed municipal property, paraded it down Main Street, and stashed it behind the firehouse like a raccoon with a shopping cart.

It was clean. It was shining. It was… upgraded?

“Did you armor-plate this?” Chim asked, squinting at the bumpers.

“Just reinforced. For stability,” Buck said, tossing the keys to no one in particular.

“Did you refuel it?” Hen asked, frowning. “Because it’s showing half a tank more than when it left.”

“Maybe,” Buck said. “Might’ve rolled it down a hill for a while. Conservation of energy.”

Hen stared at him. “That’s not how anything works.”

“We all do our part,” Buck replied.

Bobby confiscated Buck’s universal keyring.

Buck had already made another. It had a glitter keychain shaped like a golf cart with a smiley face sticker on the windshield and the words “STUNT VEHICLE A-1” written in Sharpie.