Fire & Ice (Extended Edition)

Chapter 11

There’s a strange pressure around Tripp’s face when he begins to wake. His eyes blink slowly, heavy lids sticking together in protest before he manages to get them all the way open. For a moment, he can’t for the life of him figure out where the fuck he is. Last Tripp can recall, he was at Lee's place. They were fucking and cooking and being pretty disgustingly domestic together—Tripp had been thinking that it was a good thing he needed to go to work, otherwise he might’ve developed a cavity from all the sweetness passing between them.

Lifting a hand to his face, Tripp realizes that he’s looking out through dirty, smudged plastic, staring at a fire-rated glove. He closes his eyes for an extended minute, and then everything comes flooding back, albeit in clips and flashes.

Searching the building for ages before finally stumbling upon the homeless encampment initially reported to be there. The heat of the fire, and how the floor shivered ominously before collapsing underneath his feet. The way his arm muscles strained, tossing that unconscious, presumably homeless teenager to safety in Gunnar’s arms, seconds before the fire sucked him down. Gunnar’s screaming face and outstretched hand, useless as Tripp slipped away into the burning pit.

All of that comes flooding back, yes. But so does everything before it.

Arguably, recovering the memory of Lee awkwardly dodging his question—when both of them knew full well what the hell Tripp was asking about—hurts a hell of a lot more than the fiery plunge into the depths of the burning warehouse.

Groaning, Tripp tries to rub at his face, abruptly being reminded that he’s wearing an SCBA mask, responsible for piping in the fresh(ish) air he’s currently breathing. As if on cue, the little alarm that monitors the level in his oxygen tank begins beeping a warning in Tripp’s ear. He hits the button to silence the sound—it’s not as if there’s anything he can do about that now. Either he has enough air to survive until he’s rescued, or he doesn’t.

Above him, the hole Tripp fell through isn’t even visible anymore, the entire floor caved in directly overhead, creating a hovel of broken concrete, pipes, and ductwork. The dust hasn’t even fully settled, so he can’t have been down here that long. On the other hand, the throbbing in his head tells Tripp the helmet he’s wearing didn’t completely protect him from knocking it but good, so who the hell knows?

As he glances around and takes stock of the situation, Tripp’s budding fear begins to compound. With everything in his immediate vicinity partially collapsed, there’s no way to identify which direction is which, and if Tripp remembers correctly, he and his team weren’t even searching in a room that was bordered by an exterior wall.

He might be in some real trouble, here.

The visible flames are weak, which is a small miracle. They’re busy at the edges of the room, eating up some of the insulation and drywall packed into the rubble above Tripp’s head and piled to his left. The result is a low-level glow that at least allows him to see at all, but Tripp’s not soothed—those flames are only going to get bigger, and as he’s experienced so many times in the burn building, concrete holds heat like an oven. He’ll cook to death if he stays put, and that’s if he doesn’t run out of clean air to breathe first.

Wincing, Tripp pushes up on the assortment of debris and broken concrete that he’s landed on, fumbling around and struggling until he’s finally sitting relatively vertical. In the process, he cries out in surprise pain not once, but twice. The first happens when he puts pressure on his left hand—his wrist, he’s pretty sure—the second when he tries to move his left leg. Safe to say, that side of his body must have taken the brunt of his fall.

Great. That’s just great.

His vantage point from sitting upright isn’t much better, unfortunately, but it does give Tripp access to the portable radio clipped to his pants that he was previously lying on. Cradling his injured arm across his lap, Tripp grimaces as he uses those sore fingers to tug off his right glove, freeing his hand so he can reach across his body and work the radio’s controls. The first thing he does is activate his panic button, a little orange circle on the top of the radio that will—theoretically, if he’s not out of signal range—temporarily truncate other transmissions so that he can patch through.

Once it’s pressed, a whole lot of nothing happens, and it takes Tripp a few seconds to realize that his volume is flipped all the way down. As soon as he twists the dial to turn it up, the air in the increasingly stifling room is filled with the end of the emergency notification alert, and then, relievedly, Mickey’s anxious voice.

“Tripp! Boy, you better come in right now and tell me you’re alright.”

Clearing his throat a little, Tripp finds himself oddly thankful that Mickey can’t see the way tears are welling in his eyes at the familiar sound of his surrogate father speaking. Shaking the emotion off, he squeezes the button on the mic that’s clipped to his shoulder in order to open the channel. “Can’t get rid of me that easily, old man,” he retorts, though his snappy comeback comes out far less cocky than Tripp was hoping.

“Thank God for that,” Mickey replies, and then there’s a muffled exchange Tripp can’t quite make out in the background, though he strains to hear. “Noted,” Mickey says to whoever is beside him, and then, “Tripp, go to Four, will you?”

With practiced fingers, Tripp switches over from the Fire Ops channel he’s utilizing to the more private one Mickey requested, presumably so that communication about the active fire scene can continue on the main band. When he gets there, though, Tripp wastes no time in attempting to gauge the severity of his situation more fully. “C’mon, Mickey,” he demands with a sniff. “Don’t keep me in the dark. How bad is it?”

There’s a brief pause and then, “We’re working on it, Tripp. There are two teams on their way to you, both coming from different directions, but—it’s complicated.” Mickey hesitates. “Lot of rubble we can’t clear out of the way. Plus, where you are, it’s just not as simple as blowing a hole in the wall and pulling you out.”

Apparent unfortunate location aside, Tripp understands the logistical struggle all too well, in a way he maybe wishes he didn’t. In fact, he can bottom line it for himself: the building’s integrity is deteriorating by the minute. Taking out a wall could bury both Tripp and the entire rescue team in the process. It’s not encouraging news, but that doesn’t mean he can’t fight his own way out.

“Mickey,” Tripp says, glancing up. “I got a wall here, has huge lettering on it. Says, ‘LR-12,’ any idea if that’s useful?”

“Standby, Tripp. Hey—how’re you on oxygen?”

This time it’s Tripp’s turn to hesitate, eventually deciding that there’s no need to worry Mickey more than he already is. “‘S’alright. Just…I shouldn’t waste it.”

All Tripp hears in reply is a huff and a swear that’s probably going to earn the Chief a reprimand from the commissioners for saying it over the radio, but it’s doubtful Mickey gives a rat’s ass. More to the point, imagining Mickey chewing that group of balding suits out for bitching about language while he was busy trying to save a life is funny as hell, and Tripp laughs.

Too quickly, his smile fades away again. The silence that fills the room while he waits for Mickey’s voice to return feels more ominous now, increasingly hot and filled with the determined crackling of a fire that’s got a mind of its own.

Left alone with his thoughts, Tripp can’t help but let his own mind wander, and it goes where it always goes, like a moth to a flame. Lee. Despite everything, Tripp still loves him—of course he does. And even though Lee hurt his feelings earlier, Tripp regrets being such a dick to him about everything. If the way Mickey is not talking is anything to go by, that shitty interaction might end up being the last one he ever has with his best friend. Might be the way Leander will be stuck remembering him for the rest of his life, and Tripp can’t believe he left it the way that he did.

That’s morbid.

That’s life.

Tripp barks a depressed little laugh, raising his watery eyes to the wrecked ceiling and blinking wildly until tears track down his cheeks on the inside of his mask.

Lee.

Every single one of Tripp’s reasons for staying silent, for not sharing his true feelings, seem so fucking stupid now. He’s going to die here, in this goddamn dirty hovel, without ever telling the love of his life that that’s what he is.

At the end of the day, Tripp is pretty damn sure of what Lee feels in return, but that’s irrelevant, isn’t it? Tripp could have been the bigger person in all of this, just as easily. Could have been the one to step out on that limb, instead of waiting in the wings like a coward.

Let’s be real, Tripp thinks to himself. A person can worry, or they can act, and he’s always been a doer. Not a ‘sit around and drown in his feelings’ kind of douche, but here he fuckin’ is, drowning.

Looking back, Tripp wishes more than anything else that he’d been better than that. That he’d taken what he learned so painstakingly over the last few months, through BDSM and with Lee as his Dom, and applied it to their relationship as a whole. It seems so obvious in retrospect, with everything he’s practiced so faithfully as a submissive—all that open communication and building of trust—he should have run with it.

Lee ain’t off the hook, either, not in Tripp’s mind. He could have done that shit too, that’s for damn sure.

Both of them are idiots, that’s what Tripp thinks. If he ever gets out of here, the first thing he’s going to do is—

“Tripp, you there?” Mickey’s back, and he sounds friggin’ excited, which perks Tripp up immediately and helps him refocus. Parts of the precariously-stacked rubble are starting to crack and shift, and Tripp’s no stranger to this part of a working fire. Sooner rather than later, this whole room is going to cave in.

“I’m here, Chief,” Tripp replies reflexively. As he does, his eye catches on a particularly large concrete beam that appears to be holding up the majority of the stacked debris. It’s probably the reason he isn’t already buried, but it also has a worryingly- aggressive stress fracture creeping down its middle that’s only growing wider by the minute.

“Good catch on that wall, son. There’s a couple like it in the building, but we’re gonna make a best guess as to which one you’re near. Can you get over to it? There should be a door in the northwest corner, and if you can get through that, it’ll move you further away from the main blaze. Buy the boys some time to get to you.”

“Roger,” Tripp acknowledges, feeling slightly more hopeful now that they have a plan, tenuous as it may be. Tripp’s not a quitter, he’s not just going to lay down and die. Hell no, he’s going to fight with everything he has in order to survive—this, and any other wild thing God or Fate or whatever else sees fit to throw his way. All the same, though…

Tripp stops right before starting to drag himself over towards the wall and presses the ‘talk’ button on the mic again, licking his dry lips before speaking. “Mickey,” he says. “Beau?”

“I called him,” Mickey replies gruffly, and of course he did. He knows Tripp all too well. “He was over at Central, he’s on his way. Should be here soon.” In equal measure, that knowledge fills Tripp with both relief and dread. If this rescue mission fails, he wants to be able to talk to Beau one last time, but on the other hand—

“Mickey, you gotta promise me, something goes wrong, you keep Beau away. Don’t let him see—” Tripp breaks off mid-sentence, choking on his own words.

“Boy, I’m gonna smack you silly for even talkin’ that way once your ass is free,” Mickey growls back, but Tripp can hear the emotional edge marring his voice. He softens, then, and that scares Tripp more than anything else has yet. “You just worry about you, Tripp, and I’ll—I’ll take care of Beau.” There’s so much stuffed into that promise that it would break Tripp if he let himself think about it too much, so instead, he lets go of the mic and gets to work.

Cramming his hand back into his glove, Tripp leans heavily on his right hip—the intact one—and starts pulling himself across the floor. It’s awkward and difficult and it’s slower progress than he’d like, but Tripp doesn’t stop. Pushing with his undamaged foot and reaching out with his good hand to pull, steadily, Tripp propels himself forward. It’s rough going, and he’s forced to use both injured limbs more than is tolerable, but there’s no alternative.

There’s no door, either. Tripp knew that as soon as Mickey mentioned it. It’s either not there or covered by rubble: either way, it’s of no use to him. He’ll just have to find another way, and if he can’t go around, then through it is. Hell, he’s always been a ‘to the point’ sort of dude, so why not?

When he makes it to the wall, Tripp allows himself a break. Just a brief moment’s rest, leaning against the hot stone and breathing heavily, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain coursing through his body. Because he doesn’t have enough going on, the alarm on his tank picks that moment to begin sounding again, and this is it, this is his last warning. His oxygen is nearly out.

With any luck, the room on the other side of this one will be slightly less hazardous. If not, Tripp’s done for.

Running a gloved hand over the smooth drywall in front of him, Tripp zeroes in on a crack in the surface, picking and then yanking until a chunk comes free. Underneath is concrete cinderblock—not a surprise, considering the state of the rest of the room. Biting his lip, Tripp glances around frantically for anything he might use, and comes up with a busted section of metal pipe. He’s broken through cinderblock before during drills, but always with real tools, like crowbars and sledgehammers.

Also, he had two working arms, which Tripp can’t believe how much he’s taken for granted.

Never again.

He’s got no choice but to work with what’s in front of him, though, if he wants to survive.

Bracing himself for the onslaught of pain, Tripp picks up the broken pipe and holds it firmly in both hands. Taking a deep breath, he slams it full-force into the block and immediately rears back to go again, pushing himself to repeat the action before the jagged bolts of lightning-hot pain that are ripping up his arm can really sink in.

Again. He brings the pipe down over and over, over and over again, and miraculously, the cinderblock steadily chips away.

It’s working.

Tears stream freely down Tripp’s cheeks, his left arm so sore that it’s practically numb, and his right not faring all that much better. Still, Tripp doesn’t stop. With repeated, unrelenting blows landed one after another, he manages to break a hole through the wall, and to hack away at it until it’s nearly big enough for him to squeeze through.

With a gasp that’s partially from pain and equally from lack of oxygen, Tripp chucks the pipe aside and resorts to using his hands to pull away larger chunks of rock. When the breach in the wall is finally wide enough for him to crawl through, Tripp unclips his airpack and lets it fall from his shoulders, ripping his helmet from his head and tossing it through the hole. His hood and mask follow carelessly after, but he leaves his pack behind. It’s no use to him now, it’s heavy, and he’s exhausted.

Steadying himself mentally, Tripp tries to prepare for what might be on the other side—life or death: this is the moment of truth.

He crawls through head first, bad leg snagging on some cinderblock and dragging a yelp from his lungs, but he makes it. On the other side, there’s about a foot and a half drop to the ground, but it’s much cooler and much clearer. The air is lighter, more breathable, and the room is far wider than the space in which Tripp was trapped, so it’ll take longer to become smothering.

Tripp uses the adrenaline he’s built up from hacking through the wall to buoy himself forward, dragging his broken body as fast as it will go across the floor, just trying to move as far away from the blaze as he can get.

Right as he reaches the middle of the room, Tripp hears an ominous creaking noise following behind him. He reacts just in time to look over his shoulder and see through the hole he came through that the hovel has collapsed in on itself, a puff of smoke and dust the only other thing making it out.

Tripp’s mouth goes dryer than it already was, uncomfortable with how close he came to being buried alive. Breath coming short and fast, he fumbles for the mic and activates the radio again. “Mickey,” he croaks. “I’m through. I’m through, but—it’s spreading fast. I dunno how long I’ll be safe here.”

Peering around, Tripp registers yet another disappointing, windowless space. There’s one set of double doors at the far end, but Tripp’s fairly certain they point towards where the epicenter of the blaze lies. He thinks he might be in a basement, which is really a worst-case scenario, and likely why Mickey hasn’t suggested he access those doors at all. The fact is, there may not be any way for him to move that won’t lead directly into the bowels of a fully-engulfed fire.

He still has to ask.

“Should I—should I try the doors?”

“No,” Mickey replies sharply, his voice slightly staticky now. Radio signal must be weaker here. “Tripp, I’ve got the blueprints for the building in front of me—do not go through those doors. Just—sit tight, alright, son? Don’t—don’t you go giving up on me yet.” That spiel would have been a hell of a lot more convincing if Mickey bothered to take his finger off the mic before barking, “Get Lee,” at someone in the background.

Tripp’s heart sinks.

Mickey thinks he’s going to die. Mickey wants him to be able to say his goodbyes.

A normal person would probably panic, and Tripp knows that he should, but he’s too damn exhausted, in too much pain, and so broken about everything he’s about to lose. It hurts like hell to think that he’ll never wake up in Lee's arms again, never see Beau’s smile when he cracks a joke at Tripp’s expense, never get to know the joys of being an uncle—or a dad.

Devastated, Tripp lies flat on his back on the dirty concrete floor, doing his best to breathe shallowly and to stay as low as possible, away from the rising smoke and heat. A single tear makes its way down his cheek and into his sweaty hair, and Tripp doesn’t bother to wipe it away. What does it matter, now? For the first time in what suddenly feels like one very short life, Tripp prays—begs—to a God he’s never felt was listening before.

Please don’t let me die here.

The radio clip on his shoulder crackles to life once again, and Tripp tips his head, prepared to digest whatever crap news Mickey has to share. But the voice that comes over the line has him pressing a fist to his forehead, eyes pinching shut against the burning pressure behind them. He swallows hard past the lump in his throat, and it goes down like needles.

“Tripp? Tripp, it’s me,” the deep, familiar voice says, and Tripp nearly chokes trying to reply, struggling so much that it takes him nearly three false starts to get a single word out.

“Hey, sunshine,” is what he finally manages, trying hard not to sound anywhere near as wrecked as he feels. “What—what’s the weather like where you are? Me, I’m in a bit of a heatwave. Could do with some rain.”

“Oh, Tripp,” Leander replies, huffing a reluctant laugh, and Tripp can just picture him—clutching the mic two-handed like a lifeline, like he might grab Tripp through it if he can hold on tight enough. Such a Lee thing to do that the mental image actually makes Tripp smile. He really is the light of Tripp’s entire fucking life, and—oh.

Oh, shit. He can’t go out like this, not without letting Lee know. Maybe that’s not fair, not a nice burden to rest on his best friend’s shoulders, but Tripp’s the one who’s about to be cut down in his early thirties, so fuck fairness.

“Lee, I gotta tell you something,” Tripp begins, releasing the mic for a second so that Leander can acknowledge that he’s listening, that he can hear. Wouldn’t it be just Tripp’s luck that he finds the stones to confess his stupid feelings, and the damn radio cuts out over it?

“No,” Leander replies, and Tripp frowns, trying to press his mic’s button, but Lee is still talking, the stubborn asshole. “I owe you an apology, Tripp. I owe you—”

“Holy shit,” Tripp murmurs to himself, tensing as he processes Leander’s voice on the other end of the line, near-sobbing and fighting a losing battle to gain control of his speech. He finds himself clutching his own radio just as tightly as he was previously making fun of Lee for doing.

“Tripp, I didn't mean to add to your distress today,” Leander continues, teetering on the edge of hysteria. “I—Tripp, I just keep failing. Again and again. When you were dropping, I searched high and low and I couldn't find you. And then I screwed up with our aftercare, put you at risk, dropped on my own watch, and you bore the brunt of that fallout. And I just wanted—I needed to do this right, for this next step between us to be a win for you. For myself. For us. ”

He pauses, must let his finger slip off the mic, and Tripp quickly jumps in. “You think you're the only one rolling snake eyes here? Lee, hello? Look where I am.” Tripp can almost hear Leander’s eyes rolling, and it makes him smile again, despite the circumstances. He sighs, leaving the button pressed so Leander can hear him do so. “I shouldn’t have put you on the spot. I’m sorry. Or, hell, you know what? I should have, but only if I had the balls to put myself out there, too. And I’m not—I’m not gonna just... let this be it for us, not without—”

The words die in Tripp’s throat, not because he’s afraid to say them, not because he’s unsure about his place in Lee's heart, but simply because it hurts. This shouldn’t be the way this goes down for them, not after everything they’ve been through and all they’ve overcome. Lee deserves flowers and candles and a carefully curated, emotionally charged mixtape—all that girly, romantic shit Tripp secretly likes, too. He deserves Tripp in a collar and on his knees, and—and fuck, a goddamn ring, a house in the ‘burbs, and their whole lives in front of them.

Not here. Not like this.

Life’s shitty like that, though, sometimes. Tripp should have known better than to think that fate wouldn’t pull the rug out from under them. It was too easy with Lee, too good not to expect they wouldn’t be allowed to keep it.

“Tripp, I love you,” Leander’s voice crackles over the radio, and Tripp bursts into tears, the way his sobs have him sucking in polluted air quickly leading him to cough. “I would have gone with you into that building if I’d known, all the way, please know that. You don’t need to say anything in return, I just—I was going to tell you tonight. It kills me to imagine you—” His voice breaks a little, and he struggles not to say what they’re both thinking— dying. “—to imagine you not knowing.”

This is it.

Fuck what they should have had, this is what they get. Tripp’s heart is pounding, but he knows this is right, and now that it’s time, he can’t fucking wait to tell Leander how he really feels. Dragging a dirty sleeve across his face, Tripp inhales a deep, steadying breath and reaches to press the button on his mic once again.

Nothing happens, it doesn’t even key up.

“No! No, no, no,” Tripp mutters, ripping the mic from his jacket and sending the clip flying, but no matter how many times he presses down on the button, it stays silent. In fact, the radio doesn’t even beep, the display dark and lifeless. Looking down at it, Tripp realizes with dawning horror that it’s died, possibly from a drained battery or maybe from damage sustained during his fall.

“Oh, hell no,” Tripp growls. “This is— hell, no.”

Shoving a hand down into the pocket of the pants he’s wearing beneath his bunker gear, Tripp fumbles out his phone. Murphy’s Law—it was stuffed in his left pocket, likely positioned directly beneath his hip when he landed. Naturally, the screen is smashed, and when he tries to mess with the power button, the display flickers tauntingly back at him, offering nothing but a bunch of uneven, colored lines.

Useless.

Whipping his head around frantically, Tripp takes stock of his options. There’s really only the one door out, and it’s no secret that it just may lead him out of the frying pan and into the fire, literally. Still, what does he have to lose? If there’s one thing Tripp is not going to do, it’s sit around with his busted leg and his useless arm, waiting to die. Not when—not when Lee didn’t even get to hear what Tripp has waited goddamn years to say.

A beat-up metal chair is sitting by its lonesome nearby, the kind that looks as if it belongs in a school room, and Tripp uses the frame to drag himself to his feet. Once standing, he leans on the seat back like a makeshift walker, clinging to the rail with both good hand and bad so as not to put unnecessary weight on his busted leg. There’s no time to crawl, not with the way smoke is pouring through that hole he punched through the wall, so Tripp limps as quickly as possible in the direction of the door.

It takes longer than he’d like to get there. He’s forced to alternate pausing to breathe through the pain with crouching low just to suck in slightly less sooty air. Sweat pours down Tripp’s face, soaking the clothing layered beneath his gear and turning it sticky and uncomfortable, but that’s the least of his worries. Summoning every ounce of his training, every survival instinct he’s ever had, and all the crashing adrenaline left in his body, Tripp shoves both the chair and himself forward, one foot in front of the other, rinse and repeat until he finally reaches the door.

Slumping against it in relief, Tripp recoils immediately from the powerful heat seeping through the metal. That action sends him off-balance and stumbling, flopping heavily to the floor and leaving him sprawled out in fairly dramatic fashion. In the chaos, Tripp accidentally flings his makeshift walker halfway back in the direction he came from, cursing as he flails. He cries out as he lands roughly on his injured leg, tears springing to his eyes as he cradles his thigh and rocks compulsively until the searing pain abates enough for him to keep a coherent thought inside his head.

The door is scorching hot, and that can only mean one thing—there’s fire directly on the other side, and Tripp can’t risk opening it. He could cause a backdraft in the room that would burn him to a crisp, leaving him dead within seconds.

Defeated, Tripp slumps the rest of the way to the ground, letting his head drop back onto the concrete as he stares up into the increasingly dense smog swirling above. The warm glow of the flames from the other room reflects off the smoke and reminds him of one particular Fourth of July—feels like a hundred years ago, now—just him, Beau, and some fireworks. Tripp had saved up a little money from his after-school job and subsisted on dry cereal for an entire week just to get them, but the look on Beau's face made it all so worth it.

As Tripp slowly lifts his eyelids, the time between each opening grows longer and longer from blink to blink. In between, he can almost see the memory playing out in front of him. Feels like he’s in it, like he’s really there.

It’s not so terribly hot, anymore.

“Bozo,” he says softly, turning his head to the side and smiling down at his kid brother, who grins back happily with a popsicle smile.

“Come on, Tripp!” Beau takes off running across the open field, racing to light some more exploding rockets. Tripp follows behind, even though—even though there’s something he’s supposed to be doing, he’s sure of it—but there’s no pain here. No worries, no tightness in his chest, and no rising fear. The grass feels soft beneath his feet, and the air is cool, crisp.

Just as Tripp is about to call out for his little brother to wait up, there’s a loud explosion to his right that doesn’t sound at all like a firework. No, this particular blast sounds like rock crumbling, metal screeching, and— people yelling?

Tripp’s eyes snap open and he whips his head to the side, clocking the most relieving sight he’s ever laid eyes on, bar none. A handful of firefighters equipped with a Reeves stretcher, all of them packed up and making their way towards him as a group. Is he dreaming? Weakly, Tripp blinks against the tears and stinging smoke in his eyes, reaching up to pinch his own cheek. The action hurts his wrist as much as his face, so he decides that he’s alive.

A firefighter with a white helmet, piercing, ice-blue eyes, and a very familiar gait crouches next to Tripp’s head and cups the side of his face. “Good to see you, brotha,” Gunnar manages, and while they’ll likely never talk about it, Tripp can hear the relief in his voice, the stress of whatever he’s been through over the last hour causing it to break. He grabs Gunnar’s gloved hand on his face and holds on, nodding but not trusting himself to speak.

Gunnar takes care of that. “Let’s get you outta here.”

“My leg,” Tripp finally says, as one of the other guys slips an oxygen mask over his face and the rest of them open and spread the collapsible plastic stretcher next to his body. “Think it’s broke. Wrist too.”

“Shit, if that’s all that fall did you, I’d say you got someone lookin’ out for you upstairs. Now don’t talk anymore, sugar, you got soot all over your nose and mouth. Your throat hurt? Just nod, yes or no.”

Tripp nods his ‘yes’ and Gunnar claps him on the shoulder, standing and turning away to speak into the mic on his shoulder. “My radio. My helmet,” Tripp whispers, pointing over his head to where he tossed those items, not bothering to mention his airpack still in the other room—that thing is toast. As he’s doing so, the crew rolls Tripp onto his side, shoving the Reeves underneath his body before rolling him back.

Being tipped onto his bad leg makes Tripp grimace and grit his teeth, but he doesn’t say a word about it. Within seconds, he’s being lifted into the air and carried through the gaping hole Gunnar and crew made in the wall with their tools.

Strangely, Tripp is kind of jealous—punching through walls is a good time, one of his favorite things to do. At least, when he’s not trapped in a life-size EZ Bake Oven and trying to create an emergency exit. Or , you know, working against the clock to rescue a good friend and co-worker, probably. Maybe Tripp will just not ever mention that thought out loud.

The adjacent room is yet another windowless space, but Gunnar’s team walks across it confidently now that they have Tripp safe and in tow. Right next to him, Gunnar’s talking away on the radio, and if Tripp had to make a best guess, he’s giving Mickey a countdown to starting surround-and-drown ops. Surround and drown means they’re done trying to save the building—as soon as Tripp and his rescuers are clear, the pump-equipped fire apparatus will circle the entire thing and dump continuous streams of water from above until the fire is out.

From his position on the stretcher, Tripp’s truly starting to struggle to breathe, but he keeps quiet about it. There’s nothing his crew can do but get him out of here, and they’re all moving as fast as they physically can. Instead of dwelling on the tightness in his chest, the sharp soreness in his throat, the wheeze even he can hear when he exhales, Tripp looks around and watches the scenery.

Turns out, his theory about being in a basement was correct, so he couldn’t have tunneled his way to safety if he tried. The door they pass through in the second room has broken chains, and Gunnar picks up bolt cutters from the floor as they pass. All of that considered, Tripp hazards a guess that he wouldn’t have faired very well on his own here, either, even if he had managed to break through a second wall.

After those doors, there’s a right turn, a long hallway, a left, another hallway, and eventually, a staircase that leads to— fucking finally —an exterior metal door with a glowing red “EXIT” sign hanging above it.

Gunnar’s team carries Tripp up the stairs.

One level higher and what feels like halfway down the block from where Tripp was trapped, the air seems clear and everything is wet, the walls still actively dripping with water. Vaguely, Tripp contemplates whether that damage is from the fire department’s intervention or from the sprinklers, and then immediately wonders why he can’t turn off his work-brain.

“Stop,” Gunnar orders his crew. “Let’s get him out of this gear before we head outside. Things are gonna get crazy fast, I don’t wanna be taking bunkers off in the back of the rig. I have blankets to cover him.” As the guys lower Tripp to the ground, Gunnar shoots him a meaningful look, and Tripp realizes that he’s trying to help him retain his dignity.

Gunnar was right to worry, though—getting him out of his jacket, boots, and fire-rated pants is difficult, and Tripp screams more than once from the pain. They move quickly out of necessity, they aren’t particularly gentle, and by the time Tripp is down to his duty pants and a t-shirt, he’s shivering and tears are leaking from his eyes again. Defensively, Tripp cradles his sore arm to his chest.

“Alrigh’, sugar, you’re alrigh’ now,” Gunnar soothes, draping several hospital blankets over his shaking body. Nice gesture, but Tripp knows full well they aren’t going to do shit for him out in the cold, especially with the way his skin is damp all over from sweat. “Boys, get him to the rig quickly, we don’t need to be adding hypothermia to Tripp’s list of troubles.”

There’s a low murmur of acknowledgement, and then the Reeves stretcher is being lifted again, the doors to the outside creaking as they’re pushed open and Tripp is carried through.

The air is frigid, colder than Tripp remembers it being before, and his shivering ramps up immediately. Beneath the oxygen mask, Tripp’s teeth chatter and he struggles to pull in a deep breath, the rapid shift in temperature more painful than relieving to his battered throat and lungs. When he opens his mouth to say so, his words come out in nothing but a croak, followed by a pained moan.

There’s some kind of yelling commotion happening ahead of them, increasing as Tripp is carried down the length of the building and towards the street where the emergency vehicles are parked. Unfortunately, the way he’s positioned, Tripp can only really see where they’ve come from , not where they’re headed. That makes it difficult to decipher what’s going on, but he nonetheless cranes his neck and tries his level best.

Eyes still bleary and stinging, Tripp has to blink several times before the line of people gathered at the caution-taped edge of the scene comes into any kind of focus. It does so just in time for Tripp to see Leander break through the line and come running towards them at full-speed. Not even thinking about what he’s doing, Tripp immediately responds by sitting up and trying to stand.

That results in a predictable rush of, “Whoa, whoa there,” responses and hands on his body, plus other, well-intended nonsense that’s aimed at trying to stabilize the swaying and tilting stretcher and convince Tripp to lay back down, none of which he pays any attention to at all.

It only takes Leander twenty, maybe thirty seconds to reach them, but by then, the guys have given up on fighting Tripp. They lower the Reeves to the ground, muttering about how Lee is a medic anyway, and take the free moment to pull off their masks and breathe the fresh air.

“Lee,” Tripp croaks, failing to get to his feet but not needing to because Leander skids to a stop in the mud and crashes to his knees at Tripp’s side. Tripp’s throat hurts like a bitch, he’s shaking from head to toe, and his breath is coming short and sharp against his ribs, but he’s not going to lose out on this. Not again. Throwing his arms around Leander’s neck, Tripp drags him in close, basking in the solid, warm weight of his body, the thump of Lee's heartbeat in his chest, his own harsh and jagged breathing puffing right next to Tripp’s ear.

“I love you,” Tripp says plainly, though his voice is hoarse and scratchy and a cough stops him from saying it again right away. He hacks into his fist, chin still resting on Leander’s shoulder while Lee thumps at his back and grips him like he can’t bear to let go.

“Oh my god, his breathing,” comes a familiar voice from somewhere above them, and Tripp glances up to see Marley peering worriedly down. “Lee, can’t you hear—”

“I know, Marley,” Leander says sharply, squeezing Tripp one last time before pulling back and cupping his face. “Tripp,” he says seriously. “We need to get you to the truck, and then Zosia and I are going to put you under and put a tube down your throat. If we don’t do it quickly, things could go very badly for you. Understand?” While he talks, Leander rocks back on his heels, motioning for the firefighters to pick Tripp up again, but keeping his big, warm hand on Tripp’s face, right next to the oxygen mask, as they do.

Tripp’s eyes widen, he can’t help it, and he starts to shake his head— no, no, he can’t, anything but that—

Leander sees his panic, slides his hand further around Tripp’s head as they walk, tightening his grip on Tripp’s hair at the scalp. “Listen to me,” he says fiercely. “I will not lose you again. Let me help you, Tripp, so you can—” Leander breaks off abruptly and swallows roughly, only glancing away for a split-second to compose himself. “So you can tell me what you just said every damn day until you finally get sick of me.”

The paralyzing fear gripping Tripp’s chest starts to subside, and he nods, though his teeth still chatter away in the cold.

“Also, fair warning, Beau is here. He’s in the rig, setting up. You’ll be in good hands.”

Tripp raises his eyebrows to protest but Leander just shrugs, reading him easily. “It’s not like any of us were going to opt out of treating you voluntarily. They didn’t have any luck keeping me away, and they won’t have any with Beau.”

Doing his best to relax, Tripp stares up at the starlit sky, trying not to worry that he’s about to be put to sleep only to never wake again. After what he just went through, that’s maybe the most terrifying news he could possibly have received. But Lee is right—if Tripp is going to put his life in anyone’s hands, he couldn’t ask for better options, even if they’re both secretly as scared as he is.

The stars disappear, replaced first by hazy, ambient flashing red and white lights, and then the ceiling of the ambulance as Tripp is loaded inside. Beau's face materializes upside down in front of him, and Tripp does his best to smile weakly, though his tight, wheezy breathing is really taking its toll.

“Don’t talk,” Beau says immediately, grabbing Tripp’s hand. “One for yes, two for no.” Tripp nods. “Lee told you we’re going to put you under, protect your airway?”

One squeeze.

“Kay,” Beau nods. “Just until the swelling goes down. I’ll be with you the whole time, the ICU nurses are going to hate my guts. I’ll make sure you’re sedated, that you’re not in pain. We’ll pull the tube just as soon as it’s safe, I promise. Tripp, I promise. We’re going to get you through this. You with me?”

One squeeze.

To Tripp’s left, Leander’s wrapped a tourniquet around his bicep and is poking around the inside of his elbow, looking for a place to start an IV. When Tripp catches his eye, he winks and slides the sixteen-gauge in like butter, before Tripp can even react. With practiced hands, he retracts the needle and adds a saline lock, tapes it down, and starts running some fluid that’s already primed and hanging from the ceiling. Next to him on the bench seat are a neat row of syringes and vials that Beau must have set up, but Leander doesn’t touch any of them yet.

Beau taps a thumb against the side of his hand. “Before I put you out, does anything hurt?”

One squeeze.

“His left leg,” Leander interrupts. “Left arm. Anything else?”

One squeeze.

“Alright, let’s do this.” Beau passes Tripp’s hand off to Leander and then starts running both of his own over Tripp’s body, moving quickly from the top of his head to his toes. “Squeeze Lee's fingers when I touch something that hurts.” As Beau works his way down, Tripp does as he’s told, almost forgetting to do so at one point because he’s busy staring into Leander’s eyes, and isn’t that fucking ridiculous?

Down by Tripp’s feet, the doors slam shut and the ambulance rumbles into high idle as Marley prepares to navigate them away from the scene.

“Hey there, big boy,” Zosia’s voice declares brightly, and Tripp has never been happier to see her smiling face when she appears above him. Someone in this friggin’ truck should be not closely related to or in love with him, that seems like a smart move. He waves tiredly, and coughs as a greeting.

Beside him, Leander glances at the cardiac monitor Tripp’s now hooked up to, and even Tripp can understand the threat of his dropping oxygen level—eighty-two percent and holding, not great. When he holds his free arm up towards the light, the tips of his fingers look dusky, and it’s not from soot. Leander catches him looking and squeezes his hand.

“It’s time,” he says, and when Tripp opens his mouth to try and reply, to do something stupid like say his final goodbyes, Leander knocks his oxygen mask out of the way just to clamp a hand over his mouth. “Don’t you dare,” he warns, stern and fierce, even though his eyes are shining. “Tell me again when you’re better.”

Against Leander’s palm, Tripp coughs avidly until he removes it, swiftly replacing the mask. Above him, Beau and Zosia switch places, Beau taking his spot at Tripp’s head, presumably because he’s the guy that’s going to actually stick the piece of plastic down Tripp’s throat. Now there’s a heartwarming, brotherly moment if Tripp’s ever seen one. He snorts a little at the thought and promptly regrets it when his airway burns.

Glancing to the side again, Tripp notes that Leander is busy triple-checking his syringes and dosages, and so he takes advantage. He grabs Beau's arm, tugging it away from where he’s messing around in the airway kit.

“Beau,” he says, and everyone protests, but Tripp holds up a finger and they very reluctantly fall silent. “I love Lee,” he says croakily but with a big grin, pleased that even now, he’s managed to thwart Leander’s rules.

“Jesus Christ, Tripp,” Beau breathes, rolling his eyes and covering Tripp’s face with a bag-valve mask that spews oxygen forcefully. “We know. Lee, put him out.”

Lee's smile is the last thing Tripp remembers seeing before he slips under. What a way to go.

***

Leander

Watching Tripp’s eyes flutter closed as the first sedative hits his veins is one of the hardest things Leander has ever had to do, never mind cause. He feels Zosia’s reassuring hand on his shoulder, very nearly allowing himself to shut his own eyes and lean into it for strength.

The world spins madly on.

“Zosia, cricoid pressure,” Beau instructs, and Zosia’s hand disappears as she complies. She leans over to press gently but firmly on the cartilage rings in Tripp’s throat, compressing his esophagus to tilt the trachea and make it easier for Beau to visualize sliding a tube between the vocal cords.

Beau doesn’t pre-ventilate using the bag-valve-mask he’s holding, just lets the high-flow oxygen do its thing, since Tripp is still breathing on his own. While he’s not practiced working in a bumpy, swaying ambulance like this, the procedure is still something Beau has clearly done hundreds of times, and Leander is glad he’s here. So glad, otherwise he’d have to use his own brain, and that’s—well, Leander’s brain is not one hundred percent online at the current moment.

“Lee,” Beau snaps, and when Leander looks up, he gets the sense that it’s not the first time Beau has called his name.

“I’m with you,” he replies quickly, as Beau looks on uncertainly, hand poised and hovering over the Mac 4 blade he’s set aside to use when intubating Tripp. Beau knows Leander’s lying, knows he shouldn’t be anywhere near Tripp’s medical care right now, but needs must, and EMS is always about doing the best you can with what little you have. Always about saving lives and making things happen, despite your own feelings about the situation, or the permanent lack of other people to rely on.

After a fleeting, scrutinizing second, Beau nods, back to business. “Give that lidocaine. There’s one hundred and twenty milligrams drawn up, check it if you want. I don’t know how hard Tripp hit his head, but I’m not taking any chances. Go ahead and flush once that’s in, then give the etomidate straight after. I started with thirty and we’ll switch to ketamine if needed. He might go easy—let’s see if we can avoid paralytics.”

“Do you want to switch?” Zosia asks quietly.

Leander sincerely considers it, but shakes his head ‘no’ in the end. As hard as this might be, relinquishing Tripp’s care to someone else sounds harder. If nothing else, Leander can take comfort in the fact that he’s doing something, that he’s actively working to keep the man he loves alive. He needs to be a part of that right now.

So he gives the medications Beau requested, making sure to push the etomidate slowly so as not to lock up Tripp’s jaw and induce the need for a paralytic. It’s an easy order to carry out, because Beau drew up both medications earlier while he was waiting in the truck—along with a few others—just in case.

Any other time, Leander would patently refuse to administer a syringe full of something that someone else prepared, but these aren’t exactly normal circumstances. Even if Leander didn’t trust him, or even defer to him as a physician, Beau's stakes in this might be even higher than his own. The bubble they’re in right now is just that.

The ambulance hits a bump as it turns, sirens wailing in the background that Leander barely hears. He sees Tripp’s sats on the monitor changing, watches him become even more floppy and lifeless than he previously was, watches as Beau springs into action when that happens. Smoothly and with practiced hands, Beau opens Tripp’s mouth and slides the lighted blade inside, sweeping Tripp’s tongue up and out of the way. He uses the handle of the blade to lift Tripp’s jaw from the inside, opening his airway structures so they can be properly visualized as Beau bends to squint into his mouth.

Leander finds himself wincing, despite having performed the exact same procedure many, many times by his own hands. It’s so much more brutal as a bystander, though—or maybe that’s solely related to who is lying on the stretcher today.

“Tube,” Beau says, extending his palm but leaving his eyes locked onto Tripp’s vocal cords. Zosia grabs the endotracheal tube Beau previously selected, prepared, and left sitting on top of the airway kit, half out of its plastic wrapping and covered in lubricant. Leander swallows the lump in his throat and tries not to feel useless. He cycles the blood pressure cuff on Tripp’s arm, not overly interested in the results, and tries not to feel worried about the way Beau grunts and struggles to get the tube situated.

After what feels like hours but was really only seconds, Beau exhales a sigh of abject relief as he removes the blade and inflates the balloon that’ll hold the tube still in Tripp’s trachea, prevent it from becoming displaced. Zosia threads a tube holder around the back of Tripp’s head and screws it into place, ensuring their setup doesn’t move while Beau test-ventilates. In sync with his team, Leander gets his stethoscope into his ears and checks Tripp’s lung sounds.

“Pull it back a centimeter,” he suggests, when he listens to the left side of Tripp’s chest. “You’re deep.” Beau loosens the structures keeping the tube in place and does as Leander suggests, ventilating again as Leander listens and flashes a thumbs up. “It’s perfect.”

They go through the motions: attaching a carbon dioxide detection device that helps monitor for accidental displacement, checking Tripp’s vital signs, and assessing his awareness level. The whole entire thing, from med push to matching sighs of relief, takes less than five full minutes, which is about the time the etomidate lasts in Tripp’s system.

He starts to stir, groggy and irritated and lifting his hands up to his mouth almost immediately. Leander feels awful—while the meds they’ve administered mean that Tripp will likely have absolutely zero memory of this, he’s still in pain now . The tube is inevitably irritating his already sore throat, and he’s not awake enough to reason why it’s necessary to refrain from yanking it out on the spot.

“He needs to be sedated again,” is what Leander says out loud. Beau nods, standing and beckoning for Zosia to take his place with the bag ventilations while Leander restrains Tripp’s wandering hands gently, down near his stomach.

Attempting to change positions in the small space has the two other medics doing an awkward dance that involves Zosia standing on the narrow seat across from Leander and Beau half-hanging from the pole that runs the length of the ceiling overhead. It’s the kind of thing Tripp would have laughed at, would have cracked some kind of inappropriate joke about, just to break the tension and lighten the mood.

Once they’re situated, Beau reaches over and takes the ketamine from next to Leander’s hip, dosing it correctly and pushing it himself. “We’ll get him through with this ‘til we’re inside. Probably start him on a propofol drip then, depending on how he does and whether or not he’s going into surgery. Speaking of which…”

Bypassing the radio completely, Beau pulls his phone from his pocket and swipes it open. Choosing a contact, he dials, and within minutes is giving report and consulting with one of the ED physicians. When he hangs up, Leander has questions.

“You’re the trauma surgeon on call,” he says bluntly. “If it’s necessary, will you..?”

“I don’t think so,” Beau answers, still poking at his phone but nevertheless anticipating Leander’s concern without him having to voice it. “When I left to come down to the scene, they called Aliyah in—she’s my boss, Chief of Trauma. Hey, you know she’s Cornell’s sister, right? Your medical director?”

Leander squints up at him in confusion and disinterest. Beau rambles when he’s nervous. He’s no less competent for it, though, crouching down to insert a second IV line in Tripp’s other arm and securing it effortlessly, like it’s second nature for him to do so.

“Anyway, I think they knew I’d be useless for the rest of my shift. Short of something crazy happening, if Tripp needs surgery, I won’t scrub, but I’ll watch from the balcony—keep you updated.”

At that, Zosia leans over and touches Leander’s shoulder again. “No one expects you back, either,” she says gently. “We called in county support to hold down rehab at the fire, and I talked to Chief Maxwell personally. He’s going to recall C Platoon to come in right away, tell them to bring one of the other trucks down to the scene. He said you can give him a call when you figure out what kind of time you need off.”

“That’s uncharacteristically generous of him,” Leander mutters. “What is the catch?”

“I wouldn’t make plans for Christmas,” Zosia snorts, and Leander sighs, because she’s probably right. The last time Maxwell was on an actual bus was when Leander was riding the yellow one. Being that out of touch tends to make him a particularly unreasonable negotiator when it comes to time off, but that’s Future Leander’s problem.

The truck’s backup alarm sounds and Leander starts, surprised to look up and see that they’re arriving at the hospital. He cycles Tripp’s cuff so they can have fresh vitals for the trauma team, and then helps Beau prepare Tripp to be taken inside while Zosia continues to ventilate.

Oxygen tubing comes off the wall adapter and attached to a portable tank, the cardiac monitor goes in-between Tripp’s legs. Since he continues to be well-sedated, Beau and Leander clip the stretcher’s chest-level seatbelt over both of Tripp’s arms so that they can’t drop. All the while, Leander averts his eyes from Tripp’s face, unable to decide whether it’s harder to see him sedated and looking barely alive, or anxious, confused, and uncomfortable.

As their somber group wheels Tripp’s unmoving form through the doors to the ER, security is waiting to direct them immediately into Trauma One, or “The Bay.” Inside, a mass of gowned and gloved personnel are lined up and waiting, all kinds of equipment fired up and at the ready. Surprisingly—or maybe not so much—Leander feels nothing but relief at handing over Tripp’s care for good.

Right now, he needs to be a nervous, scared family member, not a healthcare provider. He needs to hold Tripp’s hand, to be spoken to slowly and kindly by professionals who use small words and careful phrases, who treat him like a lay person who doesn’t understand what’s happening and needs compassionate guidance to do anything.

Beau very clearly does not feel the same, transitioning immediately into full-on, hardcore doctor-mode. As Leander watches the trauma team descend on Tripp, Beau is in the thick of the fray, ordering films and a battery of blood tests, alongside an assortment of medications that EMS doesn’t have access to in the rig. Having absolutely no desire to join him, Leander glances around.

He catches sight of Briana lingering just outside the wide, sliding glass doors to the trauma bay, and he makes his way over to her side. She doesn’t say anything, just wraps his hand in hers and squeezes, resting her head on his shoulder as they watch the dramatic scene unfolding inside the room.

They’re in an odd position, the two of them—not exactly members of this particular team, but not unwelcome, either. They stay out of the way.

In front of them, Tripp’s clothes are swiftly cut away, his body is prodded this way and that, and Leander begins to go numb, with one minute quickly becoming indistinguishable from the last. Vaguely, he registers that the room is loud and bustling with commotion, but nothing translates into more than a low-level buzzing in Leander’s mind.

The whole thing is a blur.

The F.A.S.T. ultrasound reveals some concerning bleeding in Tripp’s belly, so he’s taken to the O.R. for an exploratory laparotomy. Bri has to return to her shift on the unit, but Autumn shows up before she leaves—and thank God for that, because Leander is barely functioning.

While he spaces out, Autumn guides him around the hospital, wherever it is he needs to be. From the ED to the O.R. waiting room, to yet another, smaller waiting room outside the I.C.U., Autumn's steady presence by his side keeps Leander from simply curling up in a ball on the floor or possibly going catatonic.

She manages his phone, relays messages from Beau ( “everything is fine, bruised spleen, they’re closing him up”), and rubs his hand comfortingly, softer than Leander’s ever seen her before. She puts coffee in his hand, inserts herself between Leander and nosy well-wishers who show up or text to find out what happened, and eventually, she walks Leander into the I.C.U. to see Tripp, once he’s finally out of recovery.

Beau's status in the hospital has the I.C.U. bending the rules just slightly—Leander shouldn’t even be allowed in, not technically. And yet, he finds himself welcomed, like a brother ( or a husband), accepted by Beau's word alone that he’s important enough to remain at Tripp’s side.

Tripp is—well, that’s hard to describe. When Leander first walks in, and despite being incredibly prepared for what he knows he’ll see, it’s a shock. His usually bright and vibrant friend is pale, small-looking in his hospital bed, buried under wires and multiple IV lines attached to assorted medication pumps. There’s a cast on his left forearm, another running from thigh to ankle on his left leg, and a compression garment encouraging circulation on his right.

On top of all that, he’s still intubated, the breathing tube now hooked up to a giant ventilator that hums and hisses steadily, but only beeps occasionally.

Each of those things, Leander expected. He knew that Tripp’s left radius and ulna were both broken in the fall, that his left kneecap was cracked, too. He knew that Tripp was lucky enough to avoid surgery for both of those things—for now. He knew that Tripp had a couple of fractured ribs, still more that were badly contused, plus additional severely-bruised bones in his hips, pelvis, and a likely concussion in his head. He knew what a post-surgical ICU patient on a vent would look like. He knew.

But what he didn’t anticipate was having to reconcile Tripp as that patient: still, vulnerable, sick .

When Leander steps to Tripp’s bedside and takes his hand, Tripp’s eyes flutter partially-open and he grimaces around the tube, which has Leander feeling a strange flood of relief. Not relief over him being uncomfortable, but over the proof that Tripp’s in there, that he’s still himself and still fighting. The moment is brief, though, with Tripp slipping back off into a medicated sleep almost immediately.

That slice of life, with very little deviation, is how the next few days pass by as well. Brief and marginal progress immediately followed by some setback, tiny victories that Leander is told he should celebrate as if they’re big ones.

He just wants to take Tripp home.

Instead, he zombie-walks through the hours, assisting with Tripp’s care as much as he’s allowed, which mostly amounts to cleaning him up and changing his bed linens alongside the staff. Sometimes, he’s permitted to help with cast care to Tripp’s injured arm and leg, and with the frequent turning and repositioning of his limp body. He’s not supposed to, but Leander is quick to do things like empty Tripp’s catheter bag, and use the oral swabs Beau nicks from the supply room to carefully clean Tripp’s teeth and tongue and around the tube.

He makes sure that everyone who enters the room knows how precious Tripp is and that they treat him as such, but mostly, Leander sits and waits. The white noise of daytime talk shows and the kind of trash that airs on TV at three a.m. become the soundtrack to his life, overlaid with the ever-present beeping and hissing of multiple IV pumps and the vent.

The I.C.U. nurses and aides fuss over Leander nearly as much as they do Tripp, bringing him half-sandwiches and tiny plastic juices, ginger ale poured into styrofoam cups, and donuts from the nurse’s station. They also come with chastisement for his lack of rest, admonishments to be ‘careful,’ and not ‘wear himself out.’

“Tripp is going to need you even more in these coming days,” they warn.

That sounds like heaven—Leander can’t wait for Tripp to need him. To be fucking useful again, instead of eternally occupying the comfy chair someone dragged into the room, acting like he’s a tumor growing out of the seat cushion.

Beau is there often, too, of course, though he manages his well-being a lot better than Leander does, or perhaps that’s Briana taking the wheel. It’s probably Briana. Either way, Beau actually leaves the hospital most nights to sleep at home, he showers and shaves and doesn’t lose ten pounds in five days. He also continues going to work—hanging out, signing orders, and doing his charting from the ICU where he can keep an eye on Tripp, which is almost suspiciously convenient.

On day four, Tripp is supposed to be extubated, but instead is diagnosed with pneumonia. An aggressive course of antibiotics resolves the worst of that in another day and a half, but early on, Leander and Beau are told to “prepare themselves,” because infection after smoke inhalation is frequently fatal.

Tripp fights hard and beats the odds once again, not that Leander ever doubted him, even for a second.

(Maybe for a second. The dead of night is a lonely, painfully quiet time in the hospital.)

During their stay, Leander comes to learn the cracks in the wall of Tripp’s I.C.U. room like the lines on his own face. Using his non-dominant hand, he could draw perfectly the borders of the small water spot marring the ceiling overhead. He knows all of the staff by name—from Kevin Lee, the environmental services kid who empties Tripp’s trash most nights and is attending graduate school for physics, to Tripp’s slightly strange, but clearly competent attending, Aliyah Reading.

By day five, Leander is sporting a beard that he thinks Tripp would absolutely hate. He’d probably demand it be dragged all over his thighs before insisting Leander shave, but he’d hate it.

On day six, Beau parks him in front of the mirror in the hallway bathroom and demands he do something about it. Eventually, Beau switches out with Bri, throwing his hands up in exasperation when Leander simply stands there with the razor in his hand and stares blankly at his homeless-looking reflection, glaring furiously at the bags under his eyes.

Bri shaves his face. She does so with the practiced, gentle, and non-judgemental touch of a nurse who is entirely used to caring for people who are unable to care for themselves.

As a thank you to Bri for his newly-shaven face, Leander takes a shower.

That evening, Tripp’s treatment team stops the sedation, and Tripp wakes up.

They crank the head of Tripp’s I.C.U. bed vertical so that he’s sitting, and the “superior Doctor Reading,” as Aliyah calls herself, pulls the tube free just as soon as Tripp makes it clear he’s back with them. Once it’s out, Tripp coughs and wheezes and makes a series of disgusted and irritated faces that Leander would find both amusing and adorable, if not for the current set of circumstances. His nurse swoops in to stick a nasal cannula under Tripp’s nose and around his ears, and he looks as if he likes that even less.

Leander’s chest feels tight, but his heart is full.

“Can I—” Tripp starts, but abruptly breaks off to cough, wincing and touching his fingers to his throat. Leander shifts where he’s sitting on the side of Tripp’s bed, looking around for something to offer him, but his nurse is already coming to the rescue. She holds out a cup of water, fixing the straw so that it’s easy for Tripp to take a sip.

“Slowly,” she cautions, as Tripp slurps gratefully, though it clearly hurts him almost as much to swallow. “You haven’t had solid food in a few days, we’ve been bypassing your stomach completely. You can thank your brother for pulling that tube long before you woke up.”

“I remember,” Tripp mutters hoarsely, shrugging one shoulder before accepting another sip of water and then flopping back against his pillow. “Little. Sucked.”

The fact that Tripp is already joking, as exhausted and uncomfortable as he must be, has Leander stifling a somewhat distressed laugh and covering his mouth. Hoping fervently that Tripp doesn’t notice, Leander closes his eyes and squeezes, willing the tears that are welling up behind them to disperse.

No such luck.

When Leander opens again, Tripp’s hand is on his thigh and he’s gazing back at him with warm, if tired, fondness, and he winks.

“Alright, gang,” Aliyah declares, after doing the world’s quickest physical exam in history on Tripp. She turns and sweeps her white-coat-clad arms towards the doorway in a gesture that can only mean, get the fuck out . “Tripp needs to rest. One of you may stay, and I’ll make that choice an easy one—Beau, come with me now and I’ll let you consult on your brother’s plan of care.”

Beau's face lights up. After giving Tripp a gentle hug and murmuring some words of encouragement in his ear, he follows his Chief out the door like a puppy. He’s hand-in-hand with Bri, who’s just gotten off her own shift, and that takes care of half the room. It’s just Leander and Tripp’s nurse now, and he’s relatively certain that direct care staff were exempt from the shooing.

Despite that, the nurse doesn’t stick around. Briefly, she has Tripp rate his pain, adjusts a few things on the various IV pumps, administers a push medication, and warns Leander not to try and keep Tripp awake.

“I’m not an idiot,” Leander mutters, sliding off the side of the bed and into his own chair, which, at this point, probably has the outline of his butt permanently imprinted on the cushion.

“No,” the nurse agrees amiably, adjusting one of Tripp’s infusions for the last time before heading for the door. “But you’ve been waiting for this since the moment y’all walked in. What he’s been through and what you’ve been through are two totally different kinds of trauma, and you both need time to recover. Just…keep your expectations low for tonight.” Before Leander can reply, she wiggles her fingers at them and slips away.

That leaves Leander alone with Tripp, but when he turns his attention back to the man, Tripp’s already fast asleep. “Low expectations,” Leander says softly. “Check.” Still, he can’t resist scooping up Tripp’s hand just to feel the warm weight of it, the lines and bumps of Tripp’s fingers interlacing with his own. Many times over the past several days, Leander has sat like this, pressing the pads of two fingers down onto Tripp’s pulse point anytime he needed tangible proof of life.

Doing so makes Tripp stir, pretty long lashes batting against his cheek as his eyelids flutter open, just halfway. “Hey,” he croaks, licking his lips, and Leander immediately holds up the water cup for Tripp to take a sip. He drinks slowly, head falling back heavily when he’s done. Tripp looks positively drained, and once again, Leander wishes that there was something he could do.

He’s so busy worrying about how useless he is, Leander forgets to say anything to Tripp, who tugs at his hand, weakly but impatiently. “Sorry,” Leander tells him, when he realizes Tripp is trying to get his attention. “I just—” He stops, drops his head to where their hands are joined against the mattress, and presses his forehead to Tripp’s knuckles, swallowing a treasonous sob before it can escape.

Against his skin, Tripp’s hand turns, something it hasn’t done in days, despite Leander doing this very thing so many times. Tonight, Tripp’s hand cups his jaw, tries to encourage him to sit up. When he does, Leander knows he looks awful, probably red-eyed and with tears streaming down his cheeks, but Tripp still looks at him like he’s the only person who matters in the world. The way his eyes crinkle and the corners of his lips curl up, it’s so Tripp, and so fucking relieving, Leander can barely breathe.

“Come,” Tripp says huskily, spreading his arms like he wants Leander to crawl into them. He can’t—the bed is too damn small even if he wanted to, never mind all of Tripp’s wires and tubes running into and over him. Still, hell if he isn’t going to try . He’d try to lasso the moon and drag it into bed with them if Tripp asked him to.

When all is said and done, Leander has somehow managed to wedge his hip onto the side of the bed right next to Tripp’s, and he curls forward, tucking his face into Tripp’s neck, careful to avoid the central line in his chest that was placed way back on Day Two. Tripp isn’t strong enough to do much more than drape his arms loosely around Leander’s waist, but he tries—nosing in Leander’s hair, humming a little and sighing with obvious happiness.

It’s—it’s not even remotely the way Leander imagined this moment playing out. Not how he dreamed the way their first time being alone together after sharing their feelings would be. They’re worlds away from anything resembling fantasy, but Leander hasn’t a single complaint. The moment may not be ideal, but it is real, and Tripp is alive, and right now, that’s more than enough.

Remembering Tripp’s doctor’s warning and his nurse’s reinforcement of it, Leander forces himself to pull away much sooner than he wants to— he never wants to— and when he does, Tripp’s eyelids are heavy, barely staying open.

“I’m with you all the way here,” Leander promises, squeezing both of Tripp’s hands tight between his own, but Tripp just rolls his tired eyes. His easy, flippant response has Leander huffing a laugh, even as another tear escapes.

“Dramatic,” Tripp scolds, his voice cracking in the middle of the word, but Leander gets the point.

“Alright,” he concedes, raising his hands in surrender before sinking back into his stupid chair and regarding Tripp with untempered affection. “I understand. No ‘chick-flick moments,’ right?” Tripp’s smile widens at Leander’s use of air quotes, and he tips his chin up, presumably in agreement to the sentiment expressed.

Leander grins, beyond thrilled to have his asshole friend— boyfriend?— back. He clears his throat before gruffly saying, “Go to sleep, you incorrigible bastard.”

Tripp salutes, barely getting the tips of his fingers to his temple before his eyes are closing the rest of the way, whether he wants them to or not. When Leander is very sure that he’s passed out cold, Tripp surprises him by roughly murmuring, “Love you.”

“Oh, sweetheart, I love you too,” Leander replies immediately, surging out of his seat to press a kiss to Tripp’s forehead, lingering to draw a hand down his cheek, fingers catching on the oxygen tubing. “My whole life, I’ve never loved anything else.”

Even though he’s stuck in the “comfy” chair, even though he gets jolted awake every hour on the hour when a nurse comes in to check on Tripp, Leander sleeps better that night than he has in ages . He dreams vividly about the day he’ll do so next to Tripp, in his own apartment, in his own bed— not in the playroom.

Even fast asleep, Leander can’t wait.