Chapter Text
The alarm on Buck’s phone blared at 06:00 sharp. From somewhere under a heap of blankets came Freddie Mercury’s voice, bright and unstoppable: “Tonight, I’m gonna have myself a real good time…”
Buck groaned and swatted at the nightstand until the music stopped. He didn’t know why he kept that old Queen playlist as his alarm, but it was hard to stay in bed when the universe was yelling Don’t Stop Me Now.
By 06:45 he was walking into the firehouse—coffee in one hand, turnout bag over his shoulder—the tune still lodged behind his eyes. B-shift was clocking out, the kitchen already smelling like strong coffee and oatmeal.
Bobby stood at the island surrounded by bowls and jars. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. We’re trying something new—oatmeal bar. Choose your own toppings.”
Hen eyed the spread. “You made a buffet of beige.”
Ravi wandered through with a clipboard, eyeing the spread.
“I like oatmeal,” he offered.
Chim slid his bowl across the counter. “Congratulations, you can have mine.”
“It’s base,” Bobby corrected. “You add the flavour.”
Chim made a face. “Captain, there are eight different kinds of raisins.”
Eddie dropped into the chair across from Buck, already halfway through a bowl. “It’s fine. You just have to add stuff.”
Buck stirred his oats. “Like regret?”
Hen snorted; Bobby rolled his eyes. “Eat up. You’ll need the energy.”
The tones dropped before anyone could reply, slicing through the chatter. Every spoon hit the table at once.
“Engine 118, Ladder 118, respond to a possible electrical fire at Northcrest Elementary School. Multiple calls reporting smoke in the gymnasium.”
“Alright, let’s go,” Bobby said, already moving.
The easy warmth of the kitchen vanished in the scramble for gear. Buck grabbed his turnout coat, Eddie tossed him his helmet, and they piled into the truck with Hen and Chim trading predictions.
“Calling it now,” Hen said over the siren. “Baking-soda volcano meets faulty wiring.”
“Never underestimate a fifth grader with a soldering kit,” Buck said, bracing as Bobby turned into the lot.
Northcrest sat just three blocks over, its parking lot already a chaos of parents and teachers waving them down. A banner fluttered above the gym doors: SCIENCE FAIR 2025!
Inside, the air smelled of burnt plastic and melted crayons. Smoke curled from a table of half-melted projects: cardboard rockets, vinegar volcanoes, paper circuits—and, in the middle, a metal coil spitting blue sparks beside an upended bottle of gold glitter. The floor looked like a disco crime scene.
“Breaker box!” Bobby ordered. “Eddie, Buck—check that generator thing. Chim, start clearing the kids.”
Buck crouched by the device. “Okay, who gave a ten-year-old a Tesla coil?”
“You can scold the parents later,” Eddie said, dropping to a knee beside him.
“Noted.”
Buck reached for the main switch. The casing was cracked and humming. He could feel the vibration through his gloves. For a split second, light flared white-hot and the hum sharpened into a high-pitched ring that filled his ears.
Then it was gone.
“Buck?” Eddie’s voice cut through the haze. “You good?”
Buck blinked hard, vision swimming. The coil was dead now, smoke thinning. He glanced down; he was covered from shoulder to knee in fine gold glitter. “Yeah,” he said, coughing out a laugh. “Just… buzzing. And sparkly.”
A small boy, clutching a half-melted poster board, looked up at him. “It’s okay, mister,” the kid said earnestly. “You can try again tomorrow.”
Buck smiled, not sure why the words made the back of his neck prickle. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”
Chim ushered the last group of kids toward the doors. The principal thanked them so many times the words started to blur. Everything looked normal again—contained, handled—but when Buck glanced at the wall clock, its second hand wasn’t moving. 06:00. Perfectly still.
He rubbed at his ear, trying to shake the lingering ring.
Eddie clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Come on, hero. Let’s get back before Bobby decides we all need more fibre.”
Back at the station, Hen picked a glitter fleck off Buck’s sleeve. “You planning to start a trend?”
“Only if it breaks OSHA regulations,” Buck said, dropping into a chair.
Bobby ran through a quick debrief—good response, quick containment, send the school a safety flyer about electrical demos—and dismissed them. The rest of the day rolled on in its usual rhythm: a minor traffic collision, a cat actually stuck in a vent (Hen refused to comment), paperwork that multiplied when no one looked, and Bobby’s relentless insistence that oatmeal could, in fact, be lunch too.
By the time shift ended, Buck was still dusting glitter out of his hair. Eddie leaned against the truck, watching him with a small smile. “You sure you’re alright?”
“Yeah,” Buck said, a little too fast. “Just tired.”
Eddie’s eyes softened. “Okay. Get some sleep.”
At home, Buck showered twice. Glitter still clung to his collarbone like it had signed a lease. He flipped his phone alarm on without thinking and collapsed into bed, the day buzzing faintly in his ears. For a second, he thought he heard a classroom full of kids and the whine of a coil, a tinny clock stuck at six o’clock, a small voice saying you can try again tomorrow.
He shook it off. Tomorrow would be different.
He closed his eyes.