Beau's crying, and he can't stop.

     Jimmy's dead. His wife and kid are leading the procession. He's being strangled by his Class A uniform, sweat dripping down his spine like a ski slope. And they're playing the fucking Irish bagpipes.

     It's a little difficult trying to keep it together when there's a mourning family an arm's length away, a casket handle burning his palm and the world's saddest fucking sound blearing around him. Seriously. Try to listen to it without crying. It's like trying not to pass out with your balls in a bear trap. Impossible.

     It's not the light, teary-eyed crying most of the men around him are donning either. He's fucking weeping. The tears are catching in the crooks of his nose, pooling in the indent above his lip, cascading into the seams of his mouth so he can taste their saltiness, dribbling over his chin, dangling from his jaw before they catch in the collar of his shirt. He hates that he's walking center-stage through it. That people are bearing witness to his pain.

     But Jimmy had been his partner, his only partner, for the last four years. His pain needed to be on display. Otherwise, he was just the asshole who didn't die on that call. The asshole who went into a scene hot and lost his partner because of it.

     It all feels like a blur now. The call, the patient, the gun, the absolute zero hesitance they'd moved through the scene with, how they'd both looked at each other and knew they were going inside. How they hadn't even gotten up the front porch before shots went flying through the door. (A Remington 870, Beau would later learn. Unregistered with slug ammo.)

     Several bullets, Beau remembers that. The pop, pop, pop. The splintering door, a confetti of wood chips flying at them. Jimmy pausing in front of Beau like he'd been caught in a fisher's net, only to become the fisher's net. The last bullet flying through him, hitting Beau. And then Beau hitting the ground, from four steps up, head clocking the cement. Lights out for only a few seconds.

     But in EMS, every second matters.

     It's long enough that when he comes to, Jimmy's breathing is agonal, and the puddle around him is warm and wide. Beau packs his wounds. Beau starts compression. Beau watches him die.

     It's Beau who shows up at Helen's door. It's Beau who catches Jimmy's wife in his arms and cradles her as she lives out the moment she's imagined a million times. It's Beau who's walking through the funeral procession, a pallbearer among the Chief of Fire, Chief of Police, the accompanying Captains, and Lieutenants. Beau who wears no title other than former partner, but is maybe the important title there.

     Jimmy Sullivan was the best of them. He'd been Beau's FTO and his full-time partner at Station 3 for the last four years. Beau went to his Sunday dinners and his daughter's dance recitals. Jimmy had a life outside of their work, and he'd invited Beau into it. And now Beau knew him not just as the guy who taught him everything he knows, but the guy who'd opened his home to him when he needed a place to go, and became his first real friend. His only real friend.

     Now Beau's walking at the front of a funeral procession, leading the way, one hand wrapped around the handle of Jimmy's casket, the weight of it this gentle reminder of the heaviness loss bears.

❧

     Shepherd knew Jimmy from back when he was a kid. He'd come over for barbecues when his dad was chief. Back then, Jimmy was in his early twenties and didn't want much to do with Shepherd. But things changed, the way they always will. Shep's dad died. Jimmy transferred to Station 3. They only ever ran into each other in passing, when the extra resources were needed.

     Still, Jimmy took Shep out for drinks when he was promoted to Captain. He did what his father would have done and got him proper drunk. Told him he was proud.

     The shitty part about being in this field is that you're constantly saying goodbye to people. He never expects it when it happens, and it always feels too soon.

     He sits back now at the end of the bar, looking out at everyone. All of his crew is here, everyone from Jimmy's squad, too, and whoever isn't on duty. Some officers and a few nurses have stopped by. It's a first responder convention, but the worst kind.

     A shot glass materializes under Shep's nose, smelling strongly of peach schnaps. "Here," Shannon coos, flipping her dirty blond hair over her shoulder. She's wearing a tight black dress, both appropriate and somehow inappropriate for the occasion.

     "You look tense," she says, explaining the shot she's wiggling before him.

     If he looks tense, it's because he is. He's wearing the thickest wool pants to come into existence in the middle of May and a heavy blazer. Even though he undid the buttons at his neck, he still felt restricted. And another one of his people is dead. So yeah. He's tense.

     "That's okay," he says, trying not to grimace as she spills some of the drink on his thigh. He takes her tiny wrist and moves the shot back towards her.

     "You sure?" she asks, batting her lashes at him. They fucked a few times but they're friends, or friendly maybe. It's not weird the way it sometimes can be when you shit where you eat.

     He grabs his drink and tilts it towards her shot. She raises her brows flirtily, clinks his glass, and then takes the shot. "God," she says, slamming the shot down on the bar beside them. "Funerals are fucking dismal."

     "Yeah, I don't love it either," he says blandly. She laughs anyway.

     "Well, you look good if that's any consolation."

     It's not, but he doesn't say so. He shifts, widening his stance on the barstool. "Women always like a man in uniform."

     She purses her lips, humming lowly in agreement, before she leans back and rests an arm against the bar next to him. "So who's eligible here?"

     "Don't your friends say not to fuck around with any of us?"

     "Depends on the friend," she says. "I have friends that don't fuck with cops. Some that don't fuck with EMTs. And others that only fuck with firemen."

     "Oh?"

     "Firemen happen to be my favorite," she says, licking her lips. They're soft—he remembers that much—but she wears a lot of lipgloss. It gets in the way. "What're you drinking?" she asks, looking down at his hand, her stare centered at his lap.

     "Scotch," he says. "You wouldn't like it."

     "Try me." She takes the glass out of his hand, sniffing it first, before she drinks from it slowly. She leaves a stain on the edge of the glass. He watches her wince, then cough, sputtering as she slaps at her chest. "Oh my god, you drink that? Casually?"

     "I wouldn't say casually," he answers.

     She pouts. "I feel like it just scorched my mouth."

     "A bit dramatic."

     She's full-on flirting when she says, "Look," and opens her mouth, rolling her tongue out like a red carpet. And he entertains her because she's laying it on thick, and he doesn't want to embarrass her, grabbing her chin and tilting her head down so he can pretend to analyze her tongue.

     "Oh yeah," he says unconvincingly. "Your tastebuds have all shriveled up and died."

     "So this is why you have bad taste, then."

     He almost says it would explain you, but that's unnecessarily cruel. And he likes Shannon all right, even though she comes on strong. Their short-lived fling was enjoyable enough. They're not co-workers, but they're work-adjacent. He doesn't want to make things hostile or awkward.

     "Oh, hi, Shay," Mac says, coming up behind Shepherd. Shep drops her chin, tucking his hand into his lap like he just got caught touching something off-limits.

     Shannon grins and skirts around Shepherd to fling herself at Mac, draping her arms around his neck so he has to lift her to hug her. If Shep didn't know any better, he'd say they were fucking. Maybe that's Shannon's goal since his ship has sailed.

     "What're you two doing over here being antisocial and shit?" he asks, slugging Shepherd in the arm. "Oh, don't mind if I do." Without waiting for a response, he reaches over and takes Shep's glass, drinking the whole thing in one big gulp. He grimaces and then belches loudly. "That tastes like motor oil."

     "It wasn't meant for you, so."

     "I was doing you a favor. That can't be good for you. Should really get poison control on the phone."

     Shay throws a hand up. "That's what I was saying!"

     "Let's do a round," Mac says grinning at them both. "Tequila. On Shep."

    Shep rolls his eyes. "Oh, yeah, on me. I'm getting you drunk tonight, is it?"

     Mac makes a circle between them with his finger. "Us drunk, yes."

     Shepherd shakes his head as he stands. "Count me out. And make sure it's bottom shelf. I'm not wining and dining you tonight, Mac."

     Mac says playfully, "What's that? Don Julio on Shep?"

     He flips him off, and Mac laughs, patting him on the back as he slips out between him and Shannon. He heads for the back, looking for a bathroom. There's a short, narrow hall, dark and a little damp—kind of like the rest of the pub. It smells like stagnant water. It's definitely not a place that's up to code, but the liquor's cheap. Since he's covering the tab, that sort of thing matters.

     The bathroom door doesn't have a latch, swings open as he pushes into it with his shoulder. There's a half-wall that he rounds a little sharply and nearly knocks into Beau Decker at the sink.

     Beau Decker, who's leaning over the sink with his mouth under the tap. His dress coat's gone and the front of his white shirt is drenched, clinging to his broad chest. He startles and rights himself, wiping his mouth on his exposed forearm. He's rolled the sleeves of his shirt up. It's not a Class A uniform anymore, but it's something.

     He's clearly been in the bathroom for a while. Shep can't remember when he last saw him out by the bar. He thinks it was around the same time Shannon had walked over.

     "You know water is free, right?" he asks after a strangely drawn-out silence between them. One in which his eyes keep catching on the dampness of his shirt. This isn't just from the sink. In the mirror, he can see the line of sweat down his back and under his arms.

     "Are you alright?" he asks next.

     Beau's breathing heavily, his chest visibly rising and falling. He looks shittier than he looked earlier, and he looked pretty bad during the procession. Shepherd had tried not to notice, not to fixate on it. How he had probably been walking blind; he was crying so much his deepset eyes looked like they were being squeezed out of their sockets.

     They're still swollen now. Shepherd wants to tell him to go home and put some ice on his face. Pull it together. He's wearing his mourning a little loud, which makes Shepherd uncomfortable.

"I'm fine," Beau says finally, coming to, as he reaches for a paper towel out of the dispenser, moving to wipe his face and neck.

     "You should wrap it up for the night," Shepherd says, his tone less friendly and more stern. If it means anything, he had been aiming for friendly. "Go home. Get some sleep."

     Beau raises an eyebrow, puckering his rosy lips like he's mulling over Shepherd's words. Which are notably less of a suggestion and more of an order. An order but a casual one. It's a hey, you just lost your partner, and some of us have been there, but all of us get it, so maybe it's time to put the liquor down and sleep it off.

     There's no judgment here, in this place of grief.

     "Yeah, I'll take that under advisement," Beau mutters snarkily. His tone seems to jab Shepherd in the throat. It's completely unnecessary.

     This. This right here is Shepherd's problem with Beau. Why they'll never actually get along. Because the man absolutely refuses to fucking listen to him. For the simplest reason of just not listening. Shepherd's not asking him to do anything unreasonable.

     So he says next, "You're drunk. Get a ride home." And the force of his words are biting.

     "You can fuck off," Beau snaps, pushing past him. He stumbles and has to reach out for the wall. "Take your orders back to Station Two with you."

❧

     Technically speaking, Beau has a head injury.

     But while they're being technical, Beau also has an absolute fucking disdain for Captain Shepherd. Who totes around his title like it means anything outside his engine. Which is notably not the same engine Beau's assigned to. And while he may be the fire Captain of their county, which technically makes him Beau's captain, Beau actually reports to his direct Lieutenant, Lt. Abrams.

     And since he's currently off-duty and not a direct report to Captain Shepherd he does not have to take a single fucking order from the guy. Which is all the man seemingly likes to do. Is bark orders at people.

     Listen, Beau's seen him around. Seen him on calls, seen him at fundraisers and at the fire convention. He knows what Shepherd's like, and he's like this: constantly bossing people around, treating everyone like he knows best. His superiority complex is completely unchecked. And Beau will happily stand at the gate and check that shit for him every day if he has to.

     Shepherd really only got the job because of his dad, anyway.

     All that's to say Beau isn't even drunk. Doesn't think he is, anyway. He's on vancomycin for the bullet wound and motrin as needed for headaches from his head injury. He's sure they're not mixing well with the alcohol. Never mind the dizzy spells he's had as of late. So he's not drunk; he's just a little under the weather.

     It's not for Shepherd to go off on him. So, of course, he stays, drinks more, and makes sure that by the time the crowd starts dispersing, he is drunk.

     If Jimmy were here, he'd take him home with him and set up the pull-out. In the morning, Lily would be sitting on the end of his bed watching the Winx Club. Not tonight, though. Tonight he'll go home alone. As soon as he remembers where home is. As soon as he closes his tab and then remembers where home is.

     "You alright man?" someone says to his left as he stumbles into the bar, gesturing for the bartender. His brain's having a hard time grasping large concepts; at this point, he's thinking in terms of tasks.

     Close tab. Find home. Walk there. Unlock door. Climb into bed. Don't choke on vomit. It's a mantra, one that usually works.

     He glances at the guy, recognizing him but only vaguely. He's wearing his station's pin on his lapel. A Shepherd acolyte, so no friend of Beau's. He nods back, slurring a fine yeah.

     "Oh, you were, uh, you were Jimmy's partner, right? Rough. I'm sorry for your loss."

     "Yeah, thanks," Beau responds, flagging the bartender again. He finally walks over, looking unamused as he dries off a glass in his hand. "I can have my tab, please," Beau thinks he says. It's some variation of those words. There's definitely a request for his tab in the sentence.

     The bartender gestures with his thickly bearded chin and goes, "He took care of it."

     Beau doesn't want to look because he knows what he'll see before he even does: golden brown hair, with a perfectly full beard that's against regs, bright blue eyes that are flame-like in their cool intensity, somehow both icy and warm. An overall irritatingly handsome face for a fire captain—a face that could moonlight as a model any day of the week (but especially after a call, when his hair is pressed back and damp with sweat, and his lips are a biting pink and damp from the water he's just guzzled.)

     Fucking Shepherd. He's at the end of the bar, signing a receipt, not paying attention to Beau. He's still in his dress coat, and he looks stuffy as hell. He doesn't actually look how Beau imagined. His hair's cleanly parted and brushed, and his face is clean-shaven and boyish, only emphasizing how young he is to be in his position. He hadn't noticed in the bathroom, a little busy trying to field what felt like a heart attack.

     "Of course he did," Beau mutters before he turns and leaves, pushing away from the bar to give him the momentum to walk. He's steady for about three steps. Manages to get himself to to the door, before he has to grip it for support, hoping no one's seen him as he bursts out into the cool, damp night. He gulps down the fresh air like it's water and will help flood some of the alcohol out of his bloodstream.

     And then he's turning in a dizzying circle, trying to remember his apartment's direction, when the guy from earlier steps out of the pub with someone else. He's shorter, but they're both still taller than Beau. Everyone's taller than Beau. He's in the worst field to be five seven.

     "That him?" the shorter guy asks as he cups his hands around the cigarette in his mouth. The words come out muffled from the corner of his mouth. The thing lights and he sucks in, the red end of it flaring, before he takes it out of his mouth and walks over to Beau, who's stopped spinning.

     The guy holds out his hand. "Sorry for your loss, brother."

     Beau fumbles, and his palm is sweaty as he shakes his hand. Guys from Station Two don't really fuck around with Station Three on a personal level. It's a weird thing. They're fine on calls, but outside of that, they don't really know each other.

     "Thanks," Beau says. "Appreciate it."

     "I'm Tony," he says, huffing from his cigarette but having the decency to blow the smoke to the side of him. "This is Mac. Station Two."

     Beau nods, squinting at them. "Yeah, I figured."

     "Heard you were pretty balls to the wall on that call," Tony says next, a question hidden in there somewhere.

     "Stupid, is what I think you actually mean to say," a voice spits out, breaching their circle. Shepherd steps forward, a blonde girl hanging on his arm. Beau immediately recognizes her as one of their nurses at CUH (pronounced like queue, which he always thinks about because the first time he'd said the acronym, he'd said k-uh and was roasted for it.)

     Shepherd regards Beau with mild disgust. And this is what he doesn't get. Why Shepherd so clearly dislikes him. He's a likable guy, the most likable some might even argue. Whereas Shepherd's just fucking intolerable. Constantly oozing I'm better than you vibes.

     And he's looking at Beau now with that stupid ass expression. Like he'd have done something different and better on that call, that would've spared Jimmy his life.

     Beau puffs up, taking a step closer to Shepherd. "We can't all run from our calls like you."

     "Right," Shepherd says with a dry laugh, a laugh that's anything but this is funny. "Well, we don't all wanna get people killed like you."

     Beau flinches. And then he throws. His fist, that is. Which is maybe the last thing he should be throwing when he's drunk and the person on the receiving end is something of his boss.

❧

     Shepherd takes the punch to his jaw, squaring his shoulders right before impact so he doesn't fall back and pull Shannon down with him.

     It's a bad punch on all accounts. Clumsy and weak. Beau's short but he's a meaty guy, clearly keeps up a regimen. Either he regretted the decision moments before he landed and pulled his punch, or he's just that drunk.

     Mac cackles beside him, covering his mouth with his hand and the sound with a cough. And Tony's grinning around the cigarette in his mouth, amused. They've both wanted to punch Shepherd on occasion. There's latent enjoyment in watching it happen.

     There's also enjoyment in the horrified expression on Beau's face, like he knows he just lost his job. His jaw hangs open like someone pulled the screws out the sides. Shannon's really the only one who reacts accordingly, gasping loudly as she shouts, "The fucks wrong with you!"

     She grabs at Shep, trying to turn him to face her. Shepherd reaches up, working his jaw in a circle. Everyone watches him, and he feels like he's moving in slow motion. He knows he should be reacting, but he isn't. The only thing he actually feels is this seedling of regret, blooming in his chest, like maybe he crossed a line, saying that to Beau.

     But he's not going to apologize, so instead, he says, "Get him home." His words aren't directed to anyone in particular. He doesn't care if Tony or Mac sees Beau home, just that someone does, and quickly.

     They both grab an arm and pull him out of the circle they created. Once he's halfway down the street, Shannon steps forward and goes, "That was harsh—what you said to him."

     Shepherd shrugs. "It's his lesson to learn."

     She tuts, a huff and click of her tongue at the same time. "He's a good kid, you know. You can tell he really cares about the patients he brings in. And anyway," she shrugs, "I heard they were shot at through the door. Who can really prepare for that?"

     Shep hears her. He does. He gets it. There are certain calls, certain scenarios, they'll all break the rules for, but the rules are there for a reason. The rules keep you alive. Beau plays fast and loose with the rules. He gets people hurt. He gets himself hurt. Those aren't risks Shepherd can take when he's responsible for so many lives.

     He's thinking about it as he leads the way to his truck and takes Shannon home. Thinking about it as he adamantly declines going inside her place. Thinking about it as he gets himself home. Still thinking about it when he finally lays down, the ache of his jaw keeping him awake.

     Shepherd still thinks he's sleeping when the following morning he's sat across from Henry Moore and his honorable Chief tells him he's reassigning Beau Decker to Station Two.

     It was a shitty night's sleep. Shepherd ended up sleeping with a bag of frozen strawberries on his face. Something had made him restless last night. He's just assuming it was the pain. The pain that was a dull throb now. His jaw looked a little swollen, but you'd only notice if you were really looking.

     It wasn't anything worth Beau losing his job over. No matter how much latent satisfaction it would bring. Chief Moore had called him that morning while he was brewing his coffee and asked him to come in at eleven. So he had, expecting it to be about their traditional wet-down. They'd successfully fundraised to replace their Dive Truck.

     But instead Chief is giving him some shit news.

     Shit news that Shepherd unthinkingly declines with a stern, "No, thank you."

     "No, thank you?" Chief repeats back.

     Shepherd swallows and says more firmly, "Transfer him to One." He should be more professional about this, but he and the Chief are friendly enough that he can speak freely. "I don't want him in my station."

     "He's a fine medic," Chief says. "I've never had any complaints from Lieutenant Abrams."

     He speaks with a little too much candor when he says, "He's insubordinate. He doesn't listen. He deliberately breaks the rules. I have had nothing but issues with him since he started."

     "So he doesn't listen to you, then?" Chief responds, a question but also not really. "That sounds fixable. In fact, it might be more important now that he does move to Station Two."

     He makes a face, confused and a bit annoyed. "How is it important at all that he's reassigned?"

     Chief huffs, leaning back in his chair. It's a big leather thing that squeaks with his movement, and Henry's a burly man, all width. He could've been a linebacker with that body. "He just lost his partner, Shep," he says rather plainly. "He was his FTO and his partner for three years. And he died right on scene."

     Shep grits his teeth. He's not one to make the same mistake twice. And what he'd said to Beau last night had been a mistake. He wasn't going to repeat it. No matter how much he wanted to.

     Chief sighs, taking his thin wire-frame glasses off and rubbing at the indents on his nose. "Look, I understand he's young. He's green as hell. And he doesn't understand the very real risks. Or maybe he didn't, and now he does. But he is a damn good medic. Jimmy made sure of that. If I let him stay in Station Three, it will haunt him, and we will lose him. You know the statistics as well as I do."

     He swallows, knowing those statistics too well. He was fourteen when his father came home, sank to the floor in front of the fireplace, and wept like he was a dying animal. His partner and best friend, Ben Carter, had shot himself in his car at the ER entrance of the hospital.

     "Right now, I want him a little closer. I want eyes I trust on him. He's too good to lose this way. But also. I got that new kid joining you, and he's gonna have to be his FTO."

     "That Taylor kid?"

     "Yeah. Says he goes by JT. Either way, his cards still wet, so I really need someone competent on this."

     "And you think that's Beau Decker?"

     Chief shrugs. "I know it is. And you'd know it, too, if you put aside his authority issues. Which are fixable, you know. He needs some discipline. That's your particular forte."

     Shepherd is ready to argue that it's not his forte, so much as a necessity in his role as Captain. He has to discipline his men and maintain routine otherwise — chaos. And that's when people get trampled and lost and die. Not on his watch.

     Instead he goes, "What's his deal?"

     Chief looks at him strangely and then asks, "What do you mean?"

     "I mean, no one knows anything about him. He just showed up one day as far as I know."

     Chief shrugs. "Why would you know anything about him? He wasn't at your station." Shepherd makes a face because that's a cop-out. He may not be particularly close to other squads but he knows them, socializes with them at fundraisers and conventions. But Beau's a closed book.

     Chief makes a face, leaning towards Shepherd. "Look, I shouldn't even be telling you this. It's confidential and I was expressly asked not to share it. But, I trust your discretion. And maybe it'll change things for you. You know Mildred Mae? Over in the Creekside Park?"

     Shepherd nods. Of course, he knows Mildred Mae, a messy drunk who sometimes calls when she falls and can't get up. His station's area includes the whole of Creekside Park, and it's a poor trailer park with some of the worst of them.

     "That's his legal guardian."

     Shepherd balks. "Legal guardian? What's that supposed to mean? She's his mom?"

     Chief shakes his head quickly. "No, legal guardian. She adopted him. Her and Henry Lee, if you remember him."

     Not particularly, Shepherd thinks. And he can't really think, his thoughts running in all different directions. It's a bit of a wrench in his perception of Beau. Softens it a little, that he was raised by her. She's awfully fucking mean. He can only imagine what she was like with him.

     He wants to press Chief for more information. Does he still live with her? What's their relationship now? He starts racking his brain, trying to remember the last time he was called out to her trailer if it looked like she was living with someone.

     But a knock at the door behind him interrupts him. He shifts in his seat, turning to look over the back of it as Em, the Chief's secretary, pops her graying head in the room with a soft smile. "Your 11:30's here."

     "Send him in," Chief says so Shepherd starts to stand. He waves him back down. "You stay."

     He doesn't realize why he asks him to stay until Beau Decker walks inside. He's dressed casually in loose jeans and a baggy tank top with Ray Bans balanced on the end of his nose. Hard to tell, but Shep knows he's hungover. He seems off balance, especially as his gaze flickers between Shepherd and Chief at least three times before he removes his glasses and rubs at his temple.

     "Is this what I think it is?" he asks, mumbling, so Shep has to strain to hear his question. He's confused, trying to figure out what Beau thinks this is.

     "Why don't you have a seat, son?" Chief asks, gesturing to the chair beside Shepherd. Chief opens his mouth, about to say something else, but Beau cuts him off.

     He says, seemingly in one breath, "I'm not going to apologize for punching him, but I do understand, and regret, the implications it has on my role in this company."

     Chief, for what it's worth, maintains a fairly neutral response even as his expression twists with confusion. "You punched Captain Shepherd?"

     Shepherd clears his throat. Chief goes on, looking at him, "He punched you."

     "It was a misunderstanding," Shepherd says quietly.

     "You weren't aware of this?" Beau asks, surprised.

     "I was not," Chief says sharply.

     Shepherd winces and goes, "Again, a misunderstanding."

     "Did you run into his fist?" Chief asks. "Is that what I'm not understanding?"

     "So, wait. If you didn't tell him, then why am I here, and why are you here?" Beau shifts, looking between them again. His expression is well past confused now. Shepherd's trying not to seethe. If he'd just walked in and kept his mouth shut, he would know exactly what's going on without implicating them both.

     Chief cups his hands on his desk. "Why don't we start with you both explaining this punch?"

     Shepherd heaves a breath loudly. "It was nothing. After the funeral last night—emotions were high; there was alcohol onboard, and some things were said. I have no intention of taking it up the chain."

     "I see," Chief mutters. "Would've been good to know. Provide some more context on your stance."

     "What's..." Beau trails, confused. "What is going on exactly? Why am I here if I'm not being fired? Unless I am being fired."

     "No, son." Chief shakes his head, smiling gently at Beau like he's about to break some terrible news. "You're being reassigned to Station Two effective immediately. And Captain Shepherd will now be your direct report."