Fire & Ice (Extended Edition)

Chapter 10

When Leander wakes, he’s alone. That’s not entirely unusual—there’s no unspoken agreement regarding Tripp remaining in the bed until both of them are fully conscious—it’s just that more often than not, Leander simply beats him to the punch. Out of the two of them, he’s also the least petulant about mornings, not that Tripp will ever admit to being such a bear. In fact, before Tripp began staying over regularly, Leander would frequently wake long before the sun in order to go down to his complex’s gym and knock out a treadmill session before work.

Speaking of which —Leander lifts his head, looking down guiltily as he pokes at his stomach in the dark. To anyone else, there would hardly be a difference to notice there, but he can tell, and that’s what matters. Too many nights of extra drinks and decadent dishes, too many mornings spent stealing extra minutes with Tripp rather than doing the responsible thing and exercising. Still, Leander would be faking modesty if he claimed he thought he didn’t look good, despite all of the recent indulgences. He merely needs to phase regular workouts back into his routine, preferably before that actually changes.

Across the room, there’s light spilling from the cracked door leading to the attached bathroom. Through it, Leander can hear Tripp grumbling quietly about something, but he can’t make out any specific words. Lazily, he stretches, yawning dramatically while pressing both palms flat against the wall, in-between the intricately-carved twists of the headboard. With a sigh, Leander glances skeptically towards the drawn curtains. No light leaks out from around their edges, which means that it is far too soon for Tripp to be out of bed. Everything else aside, Leander wants him back.

They both have to work later tonight, which means there are approximately fourteen hours left for them to make the most of the remaining weekend. Thus far, it’s been one for the books, and Leander can’t remember a time in his life that he’s ever been happier.

He was fairly intoxicated at the reception the night before, though. Sober enough by the time they reached his apartment to not be wholly irresponsible in dominating Tripp, but perhaps not quite as sober as would have been ideal. Not that he has any regrets—their scene was beautiful and intense, and Leander’s cock perks up at the barest thought of how Tripp responded so perfectly to everything he asked him to take. Tripp is perfect, and the more Leander tastes of him, the hungrier he feels.

But did he almost ruin everything with that near-declaration of love? The mood had felt so right—the wedding, the music, the way their friends were unceremoniously shoving them together all night long. With the way the alcohol was flowing freely and clouding his mind, it’s hard for Leander to be fully certain now, looking back on it.

At the time, he’d been so sure that Tripp was right there with him, giving as much of a green light as Leander thinks he’ll ever get from the man. There was one moment in particular, after the garter ceremony—Tripp hadn’t shied away from acknowledging their friends’ scheming, and then that kiss— even in the harsh light of day, that sequence of events is hard to paint as anything but tacit approval.

It’s just so hard to believe. Leander could, in theory, come to terms with the idea that Tripp’s feelings may be changing. That they may have morphed into something more in his mind than simple friendship and lust. It’s certainly not that he doesn’t want to acknowledge it, to ask Tripp and find out for sure — no , that’s no longer the problem. Now, it’s that Leander just wants to go about things the proper way, lest he move too quickly or sharply and scare Tripp off for good.

In truth, he has no idea what’s going on in that man’s head. Even if true feelings for Leander are rattling around in there somewhere, Tripp has yet to say so—and wouldn’t he?

Just as Leander decided that night after the rehearsal dinner, he must continue to tread lightly. There will always be more time. In fact, if there’s one important realization Leander has had, it’s that Tripp doesn’t seem interested in going anywhere. It would appear that the two of them have all the time and space necessary to feel this thing out slowly and to work through it properly, whatever that might mean. Leander only has to be patient and let Tripp show him what he needs, just as they’ve been doing.

Except— screw patience when it comes to early morning cuddles. Leander’s not a saint, after all.

Fed up with waiting for Tripp to return, he kicks off the covers, wincing at the stiffness in the movement of the linen and making a mental note to change the sheets once Tripp departs. At the bathroom door, he raps but doesn’t wait for a reply before pushing it open—if Tripp truly wanted privacy, he would have closed it. Besides, he’s cursing up a storm on the other side, and Leander doesn’t want to give Tripp the opportunity to deprive him of finding out why.

It takes Leander a minute for his eyes to adjust to the comparatively bright light of the bathroom, and he blinks against the discomfort. When Tripp comes into focus, he’s naked and scowling back at him via the mirror above the vanity. Leander tips his head to the side, momentarily confused but then abruptly understanding when Tripp’s fist opens above the sink in front of him and releases a flutter of tiny wax pieces. They drift down like snow and stick in the basin.

Upon more careful inspection, Leander notes all the many tiny reddened marks littering the front of Tripp’s body. They’re not burns, just minor irritation from where the leftover wax has adhered to the tiny, fine hairs on Tripp’s skin. Leander suppresses a smirk and plasters himself (in what he feels is a cleverly ironic fashion) to his friend’s back, wrapping arms around his middle and tucking his chin over Tripp’s shoulder.

“You’re being very dramatic about all this,” he scolds good-naturedly. “My tough, strong, pain-loving submissive, moaning and groaning over a bit of wax that’s meant for this very purpose.” Leander tsks and shakes his head slightly, taking the opportunity to nose at Tripp’s ear. “Whatever shall I do with you?”

In his arms, Tripp softens, and no matter how many times Leander watches his demeanor change in that fashion, it never gets old. What a profound effect they have on each other, he and Tripp. In ways that no one else can, Leander is able to make Tripp soft, pliable, subservient. And Tripp—Tripp can make him love.

Tripp clears his throat, and Leander recognizes the gesture, the hesitation—Tripp has something to say, there’s something that he wants. So he waits, and lets Tripp work it from his brain down to his tongue.

“Sir,” he starts, and oh, yes, this is promising. “I know that you had plans for a scene this morning, with the—the feeding, and riding me, and, uh—don’t get me wrong, okay? That sounds fuckin’ awesome.”

“Mmm,” Leander agrees when Tripp pauses, tipping his head down to kiss at his neck, an idle distraction that will hopefully assist Tripp in admitting to whatever it is he’s working towards. “But?”

Huffing a small laugh, Tripp reaches behind them both to grab Leander’s ass and bring their bodies together flush. The way he does it has Leander’s semi-hard cock nudging just between his cheeks, not enough to brush his hole. Seemingly in direct response, Tripp releases a disgruntled sound, leaning forward against the vanity to present his ass more effectively.

“Hello,” Leander says, surprised, but not displeased in the least.

“Get up in there,” Tripp grunts, prompting Leander to glare disapprovingly at him in the mirror. “Don’t worry, I cleaned up again. Just feel, okay?” His elbows are on the marble countertop and he’s looking over his shoulder expectantly.

Quirking an eyebrow up, Leander obliges, brushing two fingers firmly over Tripp’s hole and understanding immediately what he’s getting at. Despite being dry, Tripp’s rim is soft and gives easily, though Leander doesn’t press inside, just touches gently. Clearly embarrassed, Tripp ducks his head, but not before Leander can catch the pretty flush staining his cheeks.

“Are you worried, or—?”

“No,” Tripp replies quickly, too quickly, and ah —that isn’t all he was trying to say. Interesting. Leander waits, his index finger still lazily circling Tripp’s rim, while Tripp takes a deep breath and then lets it out.

“I’ve been thinking,” he continues, finally, “about… doublepenetrationinonehole .” He says the last part so quickly, like it’s all one word, and Leander struggles not to crack a smile. The phrasing, of course, is lifted directly from their kinks negotiation list, where Tripp rated his interest in this particular activity an unenthusiastic “maybe.”

One of the least compelling selections possible, aside from “No,” it’s a significant reason as to why Leander has not ventured to test-run that particular kink just yet. That, combined with the fact that each Wednesday when they review their lists, Tripp never waivers in his answer to that section—he hasn’t exactly been flashing green lights. Until now, that is.

“I’m stretched the fuck out from last night,” Tripp explains bluntly, rubbing at the back of his neck, which, like his cheeks, has turned a rosy shade of pink. “I dunno what you did back there, but I’m pretty sure I could shove a baseball up my ass if I wanted to right now. At least a tennis ball.”

“What a sight that would be,” Leander replies, struggling and failing miserably at not picturing Tripp as one of those machines firing balls in cages for people to practice hitting. It’s incredibly unfortunate that this is a sensitive subject and he can’t share. Tripp would undoubtedly get a kick out of that joke made at anyone else’s expense. Somehow, Leander doesn’t think he’ll feel the same when the punchline is his own ass.

“So?” Tripp prompts, breaking Leander out of his ridiculous reverie, only to see him hesitate.

If Tripp had been a ‘hard no’ previously, Leander wouldn’t even consider diving in like this, but he knows Tripp pretty well these days. It seems likely to him that Tripp’s ‘maybe’ response was rooted in both fear of the unknown and anticipation, perhaps a few other things that aren’t quite as important as those. The bottom line leaves Leander fairly certain that Tripp was never disinterested, exactly—just perhaps not ready.

Not to mention, there’s no reason for Tripp to go out of his way now to ask for something he isn’t completely sure that he wants. Something he clearly finds embarrassing to admit aloud, at that.

Other issues aside, Leander needs to reward Tripp for using his words, for communicating his desires so effectively the way that he has. Leander’s proud and wants him to know that, wants to give him the world in return. On the other hand, he also takes a lot of pleasure in teasing Tripp, so.

Without first replying, Leander pulls one of Tripp’s cheeks to the side before taking his own steadily-filling cock in hand. He rubs the smooth crown of it against Tripp’s hole, leaving wetness behind and Tripp gasping, still bent over the counter next to the sink.

“Eager,” Leander remarks offhandedly, right before letting go of Tripp completely, stepping to the side, and grabbing his toothbrush from its holder.

“So tell me,” he says casually, squeezing some toothpaste onto his brush like he and Tripp are discussing nothing more controversial than the weather. Meanwhile, Tripp gapes up at him in disbelief. “What is it that you want me to do?”

“Sir, please,” Tripp groans, turning his face into his forearms so Leander can’t watch it flush as he scrubs away at his teeth, creating a foamy mess that drips into the sink. Mouth occupied, he doesn’t bother to dignify Tripp’s complaint with a response, just continues about his business and waits. Tripp will answer, he always does.

From beside him, there’s a long-suffering sigh. “Fuck me,” Tripp tells the countertop. “With your dick. And a fake dick. At the same time. Please. Sir.”

Leander spits into the sink and rinses out the basin, filling a Dixie cup with some water. “Any fake dick? We have that Jeff Stryker model—” Before he can even finish that sentence, Tripp’s head shoots up with alarm in his eyes. At least, until they meet Leander’s and subsequently narrow.

“I cannot believe you’re fucking with me right now! That is so not cool, dude— Sir. ” Tripp flinches a little, clearly prepared for Leander to punish him for the slip, but Leander just laughs. In fairness, Tripp’s not wrong, that was somewhat cruel. The Stryker dildo is…true to size. Leander finishes rinsing his mouth, replaces the toothbrush, and tosses the little paper cup into the trash before slipping an arm under Tripp’s and helping him stand, pulling him in tight to his body.

“Tripp,” he says sincerely, once Tripp is secure against his chest and can’t look away. “I’ll take care of you. I promise you that.”

***

As stretched and loose as Tripp might already be, it’s not enough to comfortably take two cocks (or a tennis ball, no matter what Tripp thinks). So Leander lays him out on the bed, stepping away briefly to grab a particular toy that he’s long had in mind for this, should the occasion ever arise. It’s a realistically-shaped dildo that has vibration capability and a very natural, skin-like feeling when touched. Slightly smaller in girth than an average-sized cock, which seems about right for Tripp’s first time with two.

In truth, Leander is definitely suspicious that Tripp would gladly consent to (and enjoy) being fucked by more than one man (or woman) at a time, but that is not on the menu in their dynamic. It has nothing to do with trust, either. Ultimately, Leander’s never going to be the sort of person who can share, never going to be comfortable with casual strangers in his playroom. It’s a hard limit—no, more than that, it’s part of who he is —and he doesn’t see that changing in the future. In light of those things, the least he can do is try to make experiences like this mimic the real thing as much as possible. For Tripp’s sake, but also his own. Monogamy should be as interminably spicy as a person cares for it to be.

If Tripp winds up enjoying this, perhaps Leander will obtain one of those torsos meant for riding—that would certainly push things to the next level, as far as realism goes. And perhaps they could take this scene to the BDSM club, allow others to participate with them in a controlled and safe manner, one in which they’re both comfortable engaging.

Tripp has responded more than favorably to the semi-public sex they’ve had, as well as the times they’ve discussed it, and Leander has absolutely no objection to watching or being watched—they just haven’t made time to actually go down to the club yet. It’s something to prioritize, though—Tripp deserves to explore his kinks and his limits. Perhaps the next weekend they’re both off, they can make a night of it.

Returning to the bed, Leander smiles down at his wonderfully patient sub. Tripp is so good when he wants to be, splayed out exactly where he was placed, ass propped up on some pillows and his arms above his head.

“I don’t want to restrain you for this,” Leander says. “But I’m going to give you the cuffs to hold onto, something to pull on, should the need arise.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Tripp says softly, and nothing more. Leander recognizes the nerves kicking in high-key, so he sets the items he’s holding down on the mattress and crawls between Tripp’s legs, covering Tripp’s body with his own. He kisses him, soft and deep, smoothing a hand over the side of his head and into his hair, reassuring and sweet, until Tripp relaxes beneath him.

Once he does, Leander grabs the restraints from where they’re each already locked onto a respective post at the top of the bed, closing Tripp’s fingers around one cuff at a time.

“You won’t need them,” he assures his anxious sub, adding a cheeky wink. “But you may want them. I’m going to make you feel so good, Tripp.” As Leander sits up again, he pauses. “Having your hands free is a gift, so don’t make me take them away. Keep them above your head until I instruct you otherwise.”

“Yes, Sir,” Tripp agrees, still sounding more subdued than normal, but that’s not unusual behavior for him when they’re trying something new. Leander expects that Tripp will come apart beautifully beneath his hands, just as he always does, and the thought makes his own cock twitch.

“Safeword?”

“Halligan.”

“And are you using it?”

“No, Sir.”

“My good boy.”

Tripp preens, and Leander has a strange thought. “Tripp,” he says carefully. “You know that using your safeword is the right thing to do, if you need to?”

“‘Course, Sir,” Tripp replies, shifting a little against the sheets and blinking up at Leander curiously.

“And that being good has nothing to do with the fact that you are not using your safeword?” Something flickers across Tripp’s face, and Leander is suddenly glad that he followed his instincts on this. He grabs Tripp’s chin, forces him to maintain eye contact.

“Tripp, you are wonderfully good and sweet, and will never be less so for enforcing your boundaries and limits. Please assure me you understand that.” Leander softens his tone on the last sentence, wanting Tripp to comprehend that this is important to him, personally. That he truly cares whether Tripp accepts and internalizes what he’s saying.

He must look upset, because Tripp’s brow furrows and he visibly slips back into his normal persona, self-dissolving any subspace that might have been creeping in. As Leander stares down at him, Tripp struggles up onto his elbows, balancing on his left so that he can reach out and touch Leander’s face with his right.

“Yeah, Lee,” he says pointedly, voice full of solemn empathy. “I hear you. I promise.”

The little smirk Tripp then immediately offers is enough to snap Leander right back into Dom-mode and the scene, proving so by shoving at Tripp’s shoulders so that he flops down flat on the bed with a pleased gasp.

“Fuck, yes,” Tripp whispers.

Leander doesn’t waste any more time getting busy in between Tripp’s legs. He starts with two fingers, lubing them up and slipping without resistance inside Tripp’s hole, watching his face for any reaction. Tripp doesn’t disappoint, biting his lip and letting his eyes flutter closed, flexing his hips down onto Leander’s hand. If they didn’t have an end result in mind, Leander could do this endlessly—just touching and teasing Tripp until he falls to pieces and begs for release. He’s beautiful that way.

Today’s playtime has a goal, though, and they will not reach it like this. Even four of Leander’s fingers aren’t going to cut it for where they’re headed, which makes it time to up the ante. When he withdraws his hand, Tripp writhes against the mattress and complains— as expected —but Leander pays him no mind. He wants Tripp lost to the sensations, wants him really into what they’re doing. Swallowing a small dose of brattiness will be a necessary rub.

“Sir, come on, don’t treat me with kid gloves!”

Again, Leander ignores him, except to say, “All good things in time,” which makes Tripp snort and drape an arm dramatically across his forehead. Leander responds by shoving the fake cock he’s holding inside of him in one go, and Tripp abruptly stops mouthing off.

The dildo helps move things along, and Tripp is relaxed enough that Leander is fucking him easily on its length within a scarce two minutes. Feeling bold, he adds more lube and starts to test Tripp’s limits, fitting first one finger and then the next inside his ass around the silicone. In working him open, Leander’s been both careful and patient, and Tripp’s rim is therefore stretched but willing, allowing both to pop past with little issue.

On the receiving end, Tripp’s breath is coming short now, and Leander has to stop working the dildo to soothe a hand up his abdomen and chest several times. “Breathe,” he commands softly, leaning down to kiss Tripp, keeping it open-mouthed and deep until he has no choice but to slow himself down and unclench his muscles again.

They proceed like that for a while, a cautious give and take while Tripp’s body and mind adjust and accommodate. Any time his cock begins to flag alongside a new intrusion, Leander leans down to suck him off until it’s hard and leaking again. Tripp remains wonderfully pliant in his hands, taking everything he’s given and still crying out for more. It’s a beautiful sight.

It’s therefore a struggle, a testament of will, for Leander to hold out on swapping the fake cock he’s wielding for the real thing, but he is nothing if not a professional. The angle and the slip of the silicone both make it much easier to work his fingers inside, so he resists. Still, he’s not hesitant when he does deem it time, and Tripp’s pleas to feel Leander inside of him fuel the already roiling heat in his stomach into an unruly blaze.

Pushing inside Tripp feels like coming home, and despite what they’re doing, despite the fact that this is a scene, Leander can’t help but indulge his desires—just for a minute. He rolls his hips gently into Tripp’s warm, wet heat, feels the rumble of Tripp’s answering groans echoing through his chest when he covers the man’s body with his own.

As Tripp’s arms close around his back to hold him tight, Leander sighs into the crook of Tripp’s neck, presses a kiss to the sensitive area just below his right ear. Tripp’s skin is warm and soft, and Leander craves this feeling, the way it is when they’re pressed together infinitely like this. It doesn’t happen very often during sex—not the way he and Tripp do it—and so now that it is, the sensations are nearly as intoxicating as the alcoholic drinks consumed in excess the night before.

Beneath him, Leander can feel Tripp’s stomach muscles tensing and relaxing as he rocks his own pelvis to take the cock inside of him deeper. Leander can feel the hard planes of Tripp’s chest, his racing heartbeat, and the way Tripp’s head tips back in ecstasy against his cheek. He relishes Tripp’s thighs tightening around his hips, the way Tripp’s ankles lock and his heels dig into his ass, urging him on. Leander could drown in every delicious sound Tripp releases, could suffocate in the exhaled rush of breath from his chest through his lips, and oh— Leander loves him so.

It’s perhaps one of the hardest things Leander’s ever done, drawing back from this exhilarating, heady, fucking boring, totally vanilla sex they’re having, but he does, because Tripp— Tripp has expectations, and… and? Leander fumbles, even in his own head, to come up with solid reasons why he needs to pull away. He’s sure they’re there—just slightly out of his conscious mind’s addled, Tripp-drunk reach.

Once he’s straightened up and has Tripp’s thighs in his hands, the look on Tripp’s face nearly has Leander diving back in all over again. Truly, he’s a wonder to behold—drowsy and aroused, heavy-lidded, swollen-lipped. His lush green eyes are dark, nearly all pupil, and his freckles stand out brightly against the flush in his cheeks.

“Sheer perfection,” Leander murmurs, dragging his own thumb down over Tripp’s mouth. He lets it catch, reveling in the way Tripp’s breath subsequently stutters on its way past. “The things you do to me.”

Trapping his bottom lip in-between his teeth, Tripp’s eyes fill with mischief and he bucks his hips. “Show me,” he demands, and then cheekily adds, “Sir.”

With a low chuckle, Leander resumes thrusting into Tripp, languid strokes that make it easy for him to reach down and work fingers around his cock once again. It’s all Leander inside Tripp now, and he almost wants to keep it that way, out of some bizarre, possessive notion that hardly makes a lick of logical sense.

Tripp slips back into the rhythm easily, and after a few brushes against his prostate that have him incredibly loose and whining, Leander picks up the dildo again. Slicking its length, Leander pulls almost all the way out, enough that he can line the fake cock up alongside his own and they can press in together. Slowly, carefully, and with Tripp alternately tensing and forcing himself to relax, Leander guides them both inside.

It’s a tough thing, being a Dom in a situation like this, because the pleasure on his end is fucking exquisite. Between the vice-like tightness, the heat of Tripp’s walls, and the pressure-sensation mix from the veiny silicone sharing his space, it’s all Leander can do not to let his eyes roll back in his head and ram them both home. It’s only through years of depriving himself gratification and practicing the extremes of self-control that Leander is able to grit his teeth and resist the urge to buck his hips and chase the stimulation he craves. Against every baser instinct, he ignores the way his body ripples with fire, sweat rolling over his shoulder blades and down the sides of his face.

“ Tripp,” he murmurs. “Are you alright? Color, Tripp.”

Both cocks are nearly fully-seated, and Leander stops moving until Tripp pulls himself together enough to murmur, “Green.” Cuffs forgotten, his right hand is wrapped around Leander’s bicep, nails digging into the muscle, but Leander’s not about to chastise him for touching before he gave the go-ahead. Not now, and not when he so conveniently ignored the issue when it was serving him to indulge his vanilla whims.

Below him, Tripp’s chest heaves and glistens with its own thin sheen of sweat, and he pants, licking his lips while his eyes roam wildly across the ceiling. “Tripp,” Leander repeats. “Talk to me, sweet boy.”

“‘M good,” Tripp manages with a nod, head tipping back as he tries to force his hips down the rest of the way, but Leander holds firm and doesn’t give it to him just yet. “C’mon, Lee, I can take it,” he begs. “I want it—please, please , Sir.”

Leander obliges, how could he not? He’s so pleased and proud of Tripp, so turned on by the way he’s spread out and willing to do almost anything Leander desires of him. When both cocks can go no further, Leander gives Tripp another moment to adjust and then starts to move. He’s careful to hold the dildo in place, to not be too rough or demanding, but there’s plenty of lube in the mix, and Tripp’s rim is doing just fine. Leander fingers the edge admiringly as he rolls his pelvis forward, and Tripp moans, flexing his hips up for more.

With his ass so full, Tripp’s prostate has to be receiving fairly constant stimulation, and it’s not long before he’s completely undone, near-sobbing and clawing at Leander’s shoulders, begging for contact, for release. Not that Leander has any intention of denying him such, but Tripp can come untouched, and Leander definitely thinks that this is the right time to do so.

A few more drawn-out internal strokes have Tripp tensing up all around him, and just like the night prior, that’s enough to wrest Leander’s last ounce of self-control from his grasp. While Tripp cries out and grabs a handful of his hair, Leander is burying his face into Tripp’s chest, second dildo forgotten and slipping out as he shoves himself deep, shaking and finishing with a final thrust against Tripp’s body that is anything but gentle.

The world turns hazy for a few minutes as Leander sighs into Tripp’s skin and slowly comes back to his senses. Usually, he’s fairly alert once a scene ends, jumping up and out of bed right away, grabbing aftercare items for Tripp and generally ensuring that his sub gets what he needs.

Today, Leander is wiped. Whether from the alcohol or the multiple rounds of intense sex, or something completely else, that last orgasm did him in. When his arms stop tingling and his brain stitches itself back together enough that he can process a coherent thought, Leander realizes that Tripp is holding him and petting his hair.

“Apologies,” he says swiftly, casting Tripp a rueful look as he tries to shove his way up and off of the bed. “Let me just—”

“Hey.” Tripp stops him, reaching out to cup Leander’s jaw and drag him back down for a deep, unhurried kiss. That’s new, too. “No worries,” Tripp says when they part, Leander feeling slightly dazed and off-kilter all over again, especially at the brightness of Tripp’s smile. “I only needed that.”

Leander smiles back before glancing down at the way their torsos pressing together has smeared the sticky mess on Tripp’s stomach around. He sighs, narrowing his eyes at Tripp and gesturing towards it.

“Look what you did. Who’s going to clean that up?”

Mere suggestion is all Tripp needs, green eyes flashing before his head dips down, mouthing enthusiastically over his own spend as Leander works fingers into his hair encouragingly. “Use your tongue,” he suggests, and Tripp huffs a laugh against his skin but complies. When he’s done, Tripp drags said tongue all the way up Leander’s chest and neck, nipping at his jaw before capturing his mouth one more time.

The cooling, wet trail and the feeling of Tripp’s lips against his own have Leander shivering, wanting to grab at Tripp again, to throw him down and see what else he can wring from his body, but the truth is, he’s also pretty fucking tired.

With great self-restraint—which is apparently today’s theme—he forces himself to go retrieve a warm washcloth, some cream, and Tripp’s juice. On his way back to the bed, Leander stops at the beside table and taps at the screen of his phone. After checking the time, he’s pleased to discover that it’s barely approaching seven—they have hours with which to sleep and then share a shower, followed by a greasy brunch together.

Perhaps Tripp would even like to watch a movie after that, before they go their separate ways. After all they’ve been through this weekend, some extra cuddling and contact is certainly in order.

Tripp seems to feel the same, anxious as he is to drag Leander back underneath the covers before he’s done even a passable job of cleaning up and caring for him. Though he has to hold the glass himself and tip the liquid into Tripp’s mouth near-forcibly, Leander does manage to get most of the juice into his belly before Tripp’s adamant twisting of their limbs together wins out and he has to set the cup down or lose it.

“You need to drink that,” he admonishes sternly, which is hard to do with a sappy smile on your face.

“I need you, ” Tripp counters, eyebrows raised, and if that isn’t a checkmate, game over, Leander doesn’t know what is. Poking Leander in the ribs, Tripp grins and waggles said eyebrows. Leander rolls his eyes, because he certainly can’t admit that he’s putty in Tripp’s hands.

“C’mon,” Tripp wheedles, “Give me something good to think about tonight when I’m all alone and stuck in the shitty bunk by the door with the janky frame.”

“I believe I’ve already given you many ‘good things’ to think about, greedy. Also, Station Fifteen’s mattresses were at least replaced sometime in the last decade,” Leander reminds him, as Tripp settles easily into his arms, head pillowed on his chest. “I’m fairly certain that ours were purchased in the estate sale from that defunct nursing home over on Fourth Street.”

“That’s maybe the most disgusting thing you’ve ever said, Lee.”

“It’s true,” Leander replies defensively. “At least, I think it’s true.” Tripp snorts and buries his face into the side of Leander’s neck, one arm slung casually around his torso. Leander’s eyes slip closed as he feels Tripp inhaling a deep, satisfied breath, holding his own as his friend blows it back out, hot on Leander’s skin.

It would be so easy to tell him, right now. The moment even feels right.

I love you, he would say, and Tripp—what would Tripp say in return? Leander hopes, prays, feels the way Tripp holds him so tenderly, and it’s hard to imagine a situation where he wouldn’t reply in kind.

This can’t be imagined, he thinks. Socially awkward as he may be, this is Tripp, and Leander knows Tripp. Why is it so hard to fully believe that he might be right about this, too?

But then, why doesn’t Tripp say so?

Sucking in a deep breath and exhaling in measured motion, Leander pushes those thoughts aside. There’s no reason to taint their afterglow or the rest of their day together with confusing ‘ what if’ s. Later, when they’re away from the playroom and on even footing, when they’re not staring down the barrel of several nights in a row spent apart, Leander will consider testing the waters.

Not now. The worst thing he could do would be to send Tripp away on another misunderstanding or miscommunication. One that they’ll both have to stew over alone, inevitably twisting and blowing up into something that it was never meant to be. So, later it is. Not today.

In his arms, Tripp sighs blissfully, and Leander wraps both arms even tighter around him as he turns more fully to face his friend.

“I’m very grateful to have you, Tripp,” he ends up saying, because he just can’t leave well enough alone.

In response, Tripp nuzzles back, his hair tickling Leander’s lips and nose, making him smile. “‘S’me too, Leeee,” Tripp slurs, clearly having journeyed the better part of the way to unconsciousness already, so Leander stops needling at what’s between them and joins him.

***

Domestic. That’s the word for what they’re doing, the explanation behind the warm, fluttery feeling in Leander’s chest when he looks down and sees Tripp sprawled between his legs.

They’ve retreated to the couch, now, after waking lazily, showering slowly, and cooking a meal that’s going to take several hours on the treadmill to burn off. As much as Leander enjoyed the wedding yesterday, from the public play to the teasing, and— yes, he can admit it—the romance of it all, this is something different. As much as he wishes every night and every morning could be filled with the kind of wildly satisfying sex and submission they’ve shared, it’s these last few hours spent with Tripp that Leander has enjoyed the most.

And isn’t that bizarre? Despite the fact that Leander can recognize (now) that he’s harbored budding feelings towards Tripp for quite some time, since long before they ever slept together, this is an outcome he could never have foreseen. Having someone in his space who feels as if they belong, like they’re some kind of piece to his puzzle that Leander didn’t even realize he was missing. He can’t imagine attempting to return to a life without this version of Tripp in it.

Even when Autumn was around, she never stayed for this part—not that Leander wanted her to do so. The two of them were exclusively Dom and sub in the playroom, and in public, they were friends. They didn’t shower together outside of scenes, didn’t kiss for no reason at all, didn’t share the burden of chores and clean-up. Perhaps most notably, they did not spend days on end enjoying each other’s company, simply because they could.

This is brand-new territory he and Tripp are exploring, and it frightens Leander a little at how much he loves it. How desperately he yearns for this to be his everyday reality, and for Tripp to want the same thing. The boring, the mundane, the rote. Leander wants to be dull and domestic with Tripp, and he can’t quite figure out how and when that happened.

He wants today on repeat: stripping soiled bed sheets with Tripp standing on the other side of the mattress, cracking terrible jokes and acting entirely carefree. The way Tripp so easily gathered the dirty sheets and dropped them into the hamper before making his way over to the usually-covered windows and pulling the curtains, lifting the sash to circulate fresh air through the room. He’s so natural, so comfortable in Leander’s home.

Of course, Tripp has always been that way, hasn’t he? He just hasn’t been that way wearing nothing save for Leander’s collar, Leander’s fingerprint bruises, and Leander’s teeth marks.

That thought alone was enough to bring the rest to a screeching halt, Leander having to closely examine whether it was possessiveness over Tripp that’s been driving his feelings of late. Of course, that devastating thought was easy enough to discard as he watched Tripp finish re-making the bed, kneeing his way onto the crisp, fresh sheets with a mischievous grin plastered across his face.

“Wanna mess these up too, Sir?” he asked, and Leander melted.

Tripp is already his, and what Leander feels for him—what he craves from him— goes far beyond simple jealousy or the desire to keep him. No, Leander wants all of this. Wants Tripp here all of the time, wants this space to be their space, and for Tripp to always move around it as freely as Leander has watched him do today.

Because none of it stopped with the scene. It’s certainly not new territory for the two of them to forgo leaving their roles at the playroom door, but nothing they’ve done since stepping outside of that space earlier this afternoon has been about sex.

Service, perhaps. Submission, definitely, but not sex, and sex is what their relationship— their contract —is predicated on. Sex is all that contract is, really, at the end of the day. So the spillover must come from one of two things: either Tripp’s novice nature to the BDSM community is making him confused, or this is something that he wants, too.

Perhaps that’s the segue I need, Leander thinks. He could bring these things up in the context of their weekly contract review, test the waters that way and see how Tripp responds. It would be… safer, for both of their hearts and their friendship. That is, if Leander has somehow misinterpreted the signals he believes with increasing certainty that Tripp has been sending. In a review setting, Tripp will have an easy out, if he wishes to take it. He can simply say that he didn’t understand the boundaries and limits of a Dom / sub relationship and their contract. If that turns out to be the case, then they can fix it going forward, and Leander will let the rest go.

But God, Leander prays he isn’t wrong. He’ll bend to Tripp’s wishes, he’ll do whatever it takes to keep the piecemeal parts of Tripp that he’s allowed to share, but—it would be crushing. The first time he’s truly felt romantic love, to have it rejected and scorned—well, that possibility is not something Leander is able to look at too closely, not while Tripp is in kissing distance, anyway. It’s a devastating concept.

So Leander just hopes, hopes so badly that Tripp wants his love as much as he wants to give it.

This certainly feels like love. The way they move so easily around each other while cooking in the kitchen, the way Tripp thinks nothing of invading Leander’s space as he pushes eggs around in a frying pan. The way Leander’s coffee is made exactly to his liking and kept filled until they settle down together, and the way Tripp kneels at Leander’s feet without him even asking.

Hand-feeding Tripp could be sexual and certainly has been in the past, but today, it feels different. Tripp holds Leander’s eye contact, lingers while licking and sucking the food from his fingers, but the air between them is charged in a way that has nothing to do with simple arousal and getting off.

As Tripp settles against Leander’s thigh and between his legs, Leander keeps a hand in his hair while he’s there. Several times, he nearly sticks fingers into his coffee, all for his inability to look away. It’s worth it, though—it feels worth it. This feels like love blossoming between them, as much as Leander has any clue, any guess as to how ‘Love’ with a capital ‘L’ is supposed to feel.

Tripp is so unlike his usual self, or perhaps Leander has that backward. Maybe this Tripp is the true Tripp, the one who’s been granted permission to shed his tough facade and be the soft, gentle boy that lives inside of him. The part of Tripp that’s usually deemed weak and sequestered away where no one is allowed to see, set free. He’s so quick to take care of Leander, looks so entirely happy to be tasked with mundane chores and routine activities that Leander himself would usually loathe doing on his own.

Today, it all feels like some kind of magic.

Chores done, bellies full, and kitchen cleaned, they settled on the couch together to tackle the entirety of the Star Wars franchise . That was several hours ago by this point, after Tripp fussed excessively about the importance of watching the movies in a particular order. They have been, technically, but all Leander has to show for that is the hope that Tripp never asks for an in-depth analysis of his thoughts, because he’s barely glanced up at the screen.

In fact, he’s been so taken with the way Tripp looks and feels in his arms that he truly can’t conjure even one good reason why he should watch anything else. The miraculous rise and fall of Tripp’s chest is all the entertainment Leander thinks he could ever need.

Plus, they’re snuggling. Over Tripp’s bare stomach, their right hands are twisted together, and the blanket Leander keeps on the back of the couch is draped lazily over Tripp’s hips and his own legs just below that. When Tripp hums in quiet satisfaction, Leander resumes petting his hair from where his free arm has fallen away in distraction.

Absently, Tripp shifts and reaches out from under the blankets towards his phone, which is sitting next to them on the coffee table. He presses the home button and groans when the screen lights up.

“Gotta take off soon,” he says softly, the reluctance clear in his voice, and privately, Leander savors it.

“I know,” he replies, unable to resist pressing a soft kiss just behind Tripp’s ear.

“Hmm,” is the only response, save for Tripp wiggling some against Leander’s chest and groin, which makes him smile.

“Don’t start,” he warns. “We do not have the time.”

“I didn’t start shit,” Tripp retorts, and he’s not exactly wrong, there. “But you’re right. Hey, lucky you—get to lay around doing nothing for another hour at least before it’s time to get moving. You’re already home.”

Just barely, Leander resists the urge to tell Tripp that he could be home, too, if that’s what he wanted.

Not the time.

When Tripp leans forward and stands with a luxurious stretch that highlights every carved muscle in his back and shoulders, Leander can hardly enjoy it. Apparently, he’ll be playing the role of “petulant brat” in their relationship today.

Tripp should spank him .

Not the time!

As he pouts and Tripp wanders about gathering his things, Leander tries half-heartedly to identify the plot of the movie that’s still playing, but it’s too far in, and he’s irredeemably lost. Instead, he watches as Tripp reverently replaces his collar in its box before dipping over to Leander’s bedroom, emerging wearing one of his old t-shirts and a pair of sweatpants that fit him like sin.

Somewhat belatedly, Leander realizes that he must have made some sort of face at the sight, because Tripp grins, flashing the smile that means he’s truly amused, the one where he presses the tip of his tongue just behind his teeth.

Someone stab me in the heart, it would be less painful, Leander thinks.

Wednesday cannot come soon enough. And yet—

“Hey,” Tripp says off-handedly as he’s pulling on his boots, snapping his fingers like he’s just recalled an important thought. “Wasn’t there something you wanted to tell me? Something you wanted to talk about? I could swear we got interrupted last night, but I’ll admit,” he pauses to tap his temple, “It’s all kinda fuzzy.” He straightens up, and suddenly, his expression becomes weirdly intense.

Leander fidgets. Almost everything in him is screaming to just tell Tripp how he feels, and something about Tripp’s faux-casual-bullshit is setting off alarms in Leander’s head. On the other hand, every worrisome thought from earlier comes flooding back, along with the hauntingly frightening possibility that Tripp doesn’t love him the way he loves Tripp.

That sends Leander’s anxiety flaring, has him clutching nervously at the blanket in his lap, has him scared. Scared enough that he freezes and can’t do anything but default back to his previously-made plans to test the waters surrounding this in a way that ensures Tripp has an out. An out that might be the difference between preserving what they do have, or losing it completely.

Losing Tripp completely. That, Leander can not risk.

He swallows heavily and tries to look innocent, blinking back at Tripp with wide eyes and shaking his head. “No idea,” he lies. “I’m sure I did, at some point, but…I also had too much to drink.” Leander licks his dry lips and watches Tripp’s face carefully. To the casual observer, it would appear that Tripp has virtually no reaction, but Leander knows him so much better than that. The light in his eyes dims slightly, and his smile becomes just a little tight.

Right away, Leander starts to panic for an entirely different reason, wondering if that was the opening he’s been waiting for and he just— oh, no.

Tripp is already turning towards the door when Leander jumps off of the couch and follows. “Tripp,” he calls out. “Tripp, wait.”

“No worries, Lee,” Tripp says, huffing a little laugh and turning to face him. Up close, Tripp just looks tired, but his smile is genuine again, and Leander wonders if he imagined the strain being there at all. It’s certainly possible, the way he’s been all up in his own feelings about this mess. As a test, he opens his arms imploringly, and Tripp moves so quickly, he nearly falls into them. Squeezing Leander tight, he rocks them both back and forth, from side to side.

“Alright,” Tripp says, reassuring. “We’re good, pal.”

When he pulls back, Tripp winks and claps Leander on the shoulder. “Text me when you get to work. Lemme know who you’re on with and stuff. If my guys are up for it, I’ll see if they wanna grab coffee and donuts, bring the engine down, we can all hang at your place. Play cards or something. Cool?”

It’s been a while since they’ve done anything like that, and Leander finds himself nodding enthusiastically. It would be a real pleasure to see Tripp socially at work, and it would probably go a long way towards soothing his own frayed nerves and fear of some potential misunderstanding brewing between them. Plus, poker and company will make work seem hardly like work at all.

“Yes,” he agrees. “That would be wonderful. I’ll look forward to it.”

Tripp waves as the door closes behind him. “I’ll see ya, Lee.”

Despite their apparent resolution, the click of the lock leaves Leander feeling totally unsettled. No one is dropping and everything, on paper, is fine. And yet, something doesn’t feel right. Leander can’t help but worry that he’s made a huge misstep, missed an opening he was too busy looking for to actually see.

That would be so like him, Leander is reluctant to dismiss the possibility.

He stands in the middle of the entryway, wiping his suddenly-sweaty hands against his pajama pants and angsting over the possibility. Hopefully, if he did screw this up, it’s nothing he can’t fix in time.

***

“And your medical history, tell me again about that,” Leander prompts. He’s balancing his clipboard on his thighs while bracing his feet against the bars of the stretcher to keep himself from sliding around on the bench seat. Sirens wail in the background, not so much out of necessity for their patient, but the need to get the ambulance back in service quickly—all of the area’s trucks are tied up on calls.

“Well,” begins the slight, frail, elderly woman who is currently strapped to Leander’s stretcher. “There’s my high blood pressure.” He plasters on a practiced, ‘interested and empathetic’ expression, but inwardly, he’s sighing. Mrs. Baxter calls 911 several times a month complaining of chest pain, but in reality, she’s just very lonely and prone to indigestion. Still, Leander’s job isn’t to judge—everyone with “chest pain” gets the same workup, regardless of his opinion on it.

Thus, for the second time in two weeks, Mrs. Baxter is riding in the back of City Medic Two, hooked up to a cardiac monitor, blood pressure cuff, and pulse ox, having been given aspirin and a nitroglycerin tablet left to dissolve under her tongue. She particularly dislikes that part but always says that it helps with her pain, so Leander can’t even get away with skipping it.

He taps his pen on the side of the clipboard and cycles her blood pressure again, absently glancing out the back window to see the lines on the highway whipping along through the ambulance’s tail lights before disappearing into inky blackness.

Mrs. Baxter is rattling on about her diabetes and the stent she had placed in 2002, but Leander’s only half-listening. Nothing about her medical history has changed in the five or so days since he brought her in last, and the hospital will have an accurate record to print for him. His question was mainly to give Mrs. Baxter something to chat about, since left to her own devices, she’s eternally trying to set him up with her (supposedly) very accomplished and attractive single granddaughter.

They’re headed to the smaller, rural hospital just beyond the outskirts of the city, so the ride is slightly longer than Leander is used to. When they’re five minutes out, he calls report in to the Emergency Department over the radio and transmits a copy of the EKG (normal, nothing acute going on that he can identify) along with it. Since Mrs. Baxter seems to be the very picture of stability, Leander disconnects her from the monitor to take her out of the rig and wheel her inside upon their arrival.

The ED is busy tonight, especially for the smaller hospital which tends to see less traffic, but the board above the EMS entrance has them already assigned to a room. Leander waves and nods a greeting to some of the staff members as he and Marley navigate the litter through the heart of the emergency room and then down a side hallway. As they’re transferring Mrs. Baxter from their bed to the hospital’s, both of their pagers and Leander’s radio simultaneously activate, creating an obnoxious clash of beeping sounds and static.

This far inside the hospital, the dispatcher’s voice is muffled and broken, but after squelching his pager and dimming the volume on his radio, Leander is able to discern that they’re being called to standby at a building fire.

Distractedly, he gives report to the ED nurse and kisses Mrs. Baxter goodbye on the cheek—as annoying as she might be, she’s basically family for how often Leander sees her—and wishes her luck. Marley replenishes their supplies and grabs a demographic print out from registration for Leander’s chart while he heads outside and clarifies with dispatch who is needed on the incoming call.

The unexpectedly dramatic bottom line turns out to be that everyone is needed. This is a multi-story blaze in an abandoned, industrial building on the south side of town. There are reports of homeless encampments inside, which will need to be checked for and cleared by the firefighters. Only one victim—a night security guard with complaints of difficulty breathing after smoke inhalation—has been reported. Several fire companies are already on their way, and Medic One, staffed with Zosia and Echo tonight, is clearing from Central and enroute as well.

Leander places Medic Two responding as Marley gets them back out on the road, flipping on their lights and sirens and putting the pedal to the floor. Over text message, Zosia and Leander coordinate a decision to request two other ambulances from the county to come and assist their efforts. There’s always a possibility that the extra support won’t be needed, but it’s infinitely better to have too many hands and nothing to do, rather than too many patients and not enough help.

At the very least, this looks to be an all-night sort of event, and one of their trucks will be grounded at the scene, unable to leave, overseeing both firefighter rehab and any necessary patient triage. Better to have the option of an additional transport truck, or even local 911 coverage.

Better safe than sorry, Leander decides.

Once all of that’s settled, there’s nothing to do but get there. He and Marley are quiet, listening to scene status updates over the fire band as they drive.

So much for poker night, Leander thinks dejectedly. He knows he shouldn’t be petulant. After all, this is his job, and he and Tripp had a wonderful weekend together. But Tripp’s been short with him over text messages this evening, not the warm and affectionate version of the man Leander’s become spoiled with lately.

He scrolls through their text thread anyway, sending off a, “Be careful,” message that he doubts Tripp will even see. In fact, Tripp may already be packed up and inside the burning building—likely, even, since his station is located right down the street.

Earlier, Leander was harboring some concerns that Tripp’s distant attitude meant that he was dropping. Unfortunately, they were both so busy, a physical check-in was patently out of the question. Leander’s learned from his past mistakes, though, so after transferring care of his patient and before putting the truck back in service, he stepped around to the side of Central’s ER for some privacy in order to make a call.

Upon hearing Tripp’s voice, Leander could tell that wasn’t the case, that he wasn’t dropping, and that, at least, was a relief. Something still seemed off about the man, though, and whatever it was, Tripp wasn’t sharing. When they hung up, Leander didn’t feel much better than before they spoke.

The twisted knot in his stomach hasn’t unclenched, either, and Leander knows it’s related. He’s fairly certain about what’s going on with Tripp, and it’s not something that can be fixed over text or a casual phone call. Part of him is remorseful, thinking that if he could rewind time and do this afternoon over, he would— he regrets letting fear control his response, now—but another part of him is irritated.

Tripp could certainly say something, too, instead of pulling this passive-aggressive, “I’m fine,” bullshit Leander thought that they were long past.

It’s a sore enough subject that he hasn’t really tried to make amends (or even made plans to make amends) over text, because if Tripp is going to play games, Leander’s not going to make it easy for him to do so. That doesn’t mean he isn’t worried as hell about Tripp’s well-being, though.

The box-frame ambulance turns a bit roughly onto the darkened side street that’s home to the building they’re headed towards, smashing a pothole with the right front tire. The jolt has Marley grimacing apologetically as the truck bounces from side to side, trying to right itself. Grumbling nonsense, Leander grabs onto the handle above his head so that he doesn’t get tossed into the window, and narrows his eyes at his partner before focusing them out on the scene ahead.

The night is dark but the sky is almost glowing with the way the fire has engulfed half of the top floor of the sprawling building. It’s big—three stories high and spanning a good third of the block just in width. Leander recognizes the place to be a now-defunct battery manufacturing company with questionable scruples—the locals say the groundwater within a mile each direction is permanently tainted from their activities, but no one seems to know if that’s actually true. Regardless, the inside remains full of everything from giant smelters, to various production machinery, to empty corporate offices. It’s going to be an absolute nightmare to control and clear.

On the plus side, it’s a new enough building that it should have sprinklers, though Leander guesses they’re likely partially defunct from lack of maintenance. Perhaps they’ve been able to keep the flames somewhat contained, though. Maybe that’s why it appears that only the back corner of the top floor is on its way to fully engulfed. Out on the street, there are tons of assorted fire apparatus lining both curbs: engines, ladders, at least one rescue, and as such, there’s charged and leaking five-inch hose line everywhere.

Leander instructs Marley to follow the direction of a police officer—Darla—wearing a reflective vest and waving them through a particular path to the heart of the whole scene. On the other side of the street, safe from being parked in by apparatus and gear, Leander clocks Medic One sitting with their flashers on and back doors open. Inside, Zosia and Echo are visibly working on a patient.

They must have plans to transport, which is why Darla is stranding Medic Two in the middle of the fray. Leander sighs and reluctantly gets on the radio to assume EMS command. They’re stuck here for the duration, now, might as well accept his fate.

It’s not long before his phone is buzzing in his pocket—Zosia, confirming his suspicions—Medic One is going to Central with the smoke inhalation guy, and then they’ll be back. As he exits the ambulance, Leander acknowledges both her and Echo as they wave from the back of their truck before pulling the doors shut.

While Leander would love to sweep an eye over the scene, to spend a few moments looking for Tripp and his crew just to obtain visual affirmation that he’s okay, there’s no time. Even as Leander is yanking the side compartment of the rig open and pulling out their fire rehab supplies, more trucks are arriving to help fight the blaze, which means even more people whose health and safety it’s his job to monitor and protect.

Sooner rather than later, he’s going to need to begin cycling them all through periodic vital sign checks and water breaks. He’s in over his head and he hasn’t even started.

Better get to work.

The next two hours pass in a blur of blood pressure cuffs and lung sounds, the roar of fire and engines idling, the heavy scent of smoke and diesel and sweat mingling in the night air. Despite the cold, no one complains or falters, everyone does exactly what they came here to do. Leander keeps only one of the ambulances that he requested from the county—a couple of firefighters end up being transported for minor issues, and it’s hard to run a rehab of this size with just two people.

An hour or so in, a handful of the city’s new EMT-certified probationary firefighters show up to help, and that’s a huge burden lifted.

Eventually, hours in, the Red Cross arrives, bringing their own emergency assistance unit. They’re handing out food, hot drinks, and providing a place for people who need it to get warm, which takes some additional strain off of Leander and his team’s shoulders.

The fire is aggressive, its location in the building making exterior attacks difficult and ultimately ineffective at eliminating the source. Despite multiple hose lines directed at the flames, they just keep coming, keep spreading, eating away at more and more of the building that still isn’t fully cleared. Everyone is weary—some of these firefighters haven’t worked a long-haul scene like this before, but Mickey certainly has, and he wields control of the fire scene with a careful, capable, iron fist.

As EMS command, Leander confers with him briefly early on, walking over to where Mickey is running things out of his Chief’s vehicle. Various ideas are exchanged, but Mickey makes one thing clear—he wants to know if his people are tired, if they’re wearing out. Once the building is confirmed empty and any of the homeless people holed up in there are evacuated, if they can’t get the blaze under control, then Mickey isn’t afraid to let the thing burn.

He clearly wants Leander to understand that he’ll do that in a heartbeat, rather than risk his people’s health and lives. It’ll be controlled, of course: a surround and drown operation with continued exterior attacks to prevent the flames from jumping or spreading. At the end of the day, though, that amounts to the same thing—they’ll burn this whole thing to the ground, if that’s what needs to happen.

Since Tripp is leading one of the main interior attack crews, Leander sees him come through the EMS rehab station several times. Each time, he’s more ornery than the last, snapping at Leander and barely tolerating having his vital signs taken. The first couple of encounters, Leander lets him go, doesn’t even address his attitude. Tripp is stressed, he’s worried that there are still victims inside the building, he’s pissed at having to interrupt his search and rescue for rehab, and he’s pissed at Leander himself, that much is clear.

It’s not hard for Leander’s cooler head to prevail, and for him to simply table the entire thing. They’ll work through it tomorrow, when no one’s life is at stake.

But the third time Tripp is ordered by Mickey to sit through rehab, he mouths off, is an asshole to Marley, and that is Leander’s breaking point. He wouldn’t put up with that behavior from anyone, never mind Tripp. Tripp, who is a leader, a mentor, and owes his entire crew a better example than that. Never mind what he owes his friends.

When it happens, Leander is standing across from him in the little campfire-style circle they’ve created just off the back of the open-doored ambulance. He’s distracted, crouched down and taking Ezra’s blood pressure. Ezra is a new recruit to Tripp’s station, a bright, sunny personality that Leander finds somewhat shocking and better in small doses. Despite that, he’s perpetually pleasant, always smiling, and so when Leander glances up from where he’s been focused on the gauge of the cuff to find Ezra frowning, he pays attention.

Following Ezra’s gaze, he registers Marley and Tripp engaged in a visibly heated discussion, glancing over just in time to see Tripp smack Marley’s arm away, snatching and tossing the pulse ox she’s been trying to slide onto his finger to the ground with a worrying crunch.

“I’m fine,” Tripp snaps, and Marley recoils.

In an instant, Leander’s between them, carefully curling an arm around Marley’s body to push her behind him while he glares down Tripp.

“Oh, don’t you start too,” Tripp scoffs, throwing his hands up before folding them across his chest, and Leander has had enough.

“Sidebar,” he growls, curling a hand around Tripp’s sweaty, t-shirt-clad bicep, only possible because his bunker jacket is currently shed, slung over the back of the camp chair he’s been occupying. “Now.” Tripp sighs heavily but doesn’t resist as Leander yanks him roughly around the side of the ambulance, where they have at least some semblance of privacy.

“What’s wrong with you?” Leander demands.

True to form, Tripp just rolls his eyes and tightens the way he’s hugging himself, but Leander detects a flash of— something behind the arrogant facade. They’re at an impasse—Tripp is silent, and Leander is seriously concerned. A distracted Tripp is a reckless Tripp, and he can’t send him back into an active fire like this. He has two choices right now: get through to Tripp, or bench him. While Tripp would deserve it, Leander doesn’t think that making him angrier will serve anyone in the long run (himself included), so he softens.

“Tripp, this isn’t you,” he tries. “Marley is one of your best friends. At the very least, you owe her an apology. And you owe your work focus. ”

“Fine, I’ll apologize,” Tripp replies shortly, staring intently at the gold lettering on the side of the truck and not at Leander at all.

Time to bring out the big guns.

“Tripp, please,” Leander says softly, stepping forward into Tripp’s space, close enough that their chests are nearly pressed together. “You’re scaring me, this fire is not something to trifle with.” He trails a hand tentatively up Tripp’s arm and Tripp grumbles a little but dips his head, as close to Leander as he’s allowed himself to get all night long. If Leander tipped his chin up, he could kiss him. “I understand that you’re off your game, that I made a mistake earlier, that you’re angry with me—”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Tripp rips himself away like Leander is the fire and he’s just remembered that flames burn. “Tripp,” Leander tries, but Tripp holds out a hand: stay back. His fingers curl slowly into a fist, except for one that stays pointed somewhat menacingly in Leander’s direction.

“Not everything is about sex and submission,” he says icily.

Leander furrows his brow. “I know that.”

“Yeah,” Tripp replies, nodding tightly. “‘Course you do. You know so much about me,” he says, and Leander can’t figure out whether he sounds more angry or hurt. Neither are good signs. “Just—” Tripp ducks his head and shakes himself off. “Lemme do my damn job, Lee.” His radio crackles, and Leander sees wetness shining in Tripp’s eyes. “I gotta go.”

Before Leander can say another word, Tripp is stalking off and taking the rest of his team with him. Leander could pull rank, could call him back and demand that he stay, but he saw Tripp’s vitals earlier and there really wasn’t anything concerning. It would be a power move, and one that he has no doubt would go over like a lead brick in a pool. After he wanders back into his makeshift camp and exchanges a look of disbelief with Marley, Leander lets Tripp go.

More firefighters cycle through for checks, and Leander goes through the motions of his job but his mind is elsewhere. He should have proceeded more carefully, should have predicted that Tripp would be hyper-sensitized over a perceived rejection. Of course, he perceived Leander’s reply earlier as a rejection.

You idiot, Leander admonishes himself.

The fact that Tripp won’t even give him the opportunity to make it right smarts, but Tripp’s mocking of him was fair. Leander does know Tripp that well, and he should have followed his instincts. Bereft over his shitty decisions, Leander struggles to focus on simple tasks like taking a pulse, never mind paying attention to the fire scene as a whole.

It therefore takes a moment to register with him when panic erupts over the radio. Marley rushes to his side, cranking the volume high on the portable at Leander’s hip so that they can listen in. The ominous sounds of multiple emergency buttons activating drowns out all other noise as several radios with hot mics war for air priority, waiting for the dispatch center to make sense of the cacophony. Marley’s nails dig into his bicep, pinpricks of pain keeping him grounded amidst the crashing sounds and screams echoing over everyone’s handheld devices.

When the words hitting his ears finally begin to make sense, Leander goes numb from head to toe, unable to feel his limbs any longer as he struggles to process what’s happening.

“Structural collapse second floor… backdraft… multiple firefighters down… trapped… no visual... RIT team activation... “

Around him, firefighters are jumping into motion, swarming the building with all sorts of rescue gear and intent. Mickey is yelling, Leander can hear him without aid of the radio, and Assistant Chief Walter is standing on top of an SUV, directing squads and acting like a human repeater.

All Leander can do is stare blankly as the whole world seems to grind into slow motion. Only one thing really sticks in his mind, and that’s Ezra’s voice filtering over the wire through the chaos.

“Firefighter down! Lieut—Tripp, Tripp Truett, he fell through the floor, Mickey! He fell through the fucking floor!”