7. Chapter 7
The tones drop at eleven at night and the dispatch voice says the worst three words in the job. Structure fire, occupied.
We are rolling in under a minute. I am pulling my coat on in the jump seat, heart already going, and Chase is across from me, calm the way he always is when it counts, checking my straps with two hard tugs before he checks his own.
He does not look calm in the eyes, though.
He looks at me as if he is doing math, as if he is already deciding where he will put himself if this goes bad.
It goes bad fast.
We come around the corner and the house is already showing fire out of two front windows, orange rolling up the siding, smoke pushing black and angry from the eaves.
That kind of black means heat. That kind of black means a building that is thinking about flashing over, the whole inside hitting the temperature where everything ignites at once.
"Stay on me," Chase says, and it is not the training officer voice. It is lower than that. "You do not leave my hip. You hear me, Jason?"
Jason. Not Healy. My stomach drops.
"On your hip," I say.
We mask up and go in.
Inside is a different planet. The world goes black and roaring, no light, no up or down, just the heat pressing on me through the gear and the scream of the fire somewhere ahead.
We stay low, knees on the floor, one hand on the hose, one hand reading the wall.
Chase is a shape beside me, solid, his glove finding my shoulder every few feet to know I am there.
The reports said two occupants, both maybe out, nobody sure. We sweep.
The heat builds. I feel it through my hood, that bad prickle on my ears that means we are running out of room.
Above us, in the dark, the smoke is doing something I do not like - rolling, lit from within by little ghost-flames licking through it.
Chase sees it too. I feel his glove clamp down on my shoulder.
"It's gonna light," he says into the dark. Flat. Certain.
We open the line. Chase hits the ceiling with a wide cone of water and the room screams, steam slamming back down on us, the whole space fighting us, and we are buying seconds, just seconds, cooling the gas up there before it can drop and turn the room into the inside of an engine.
My low-air vibrates a warning against my chest. His will be doing the same. We do not have long.
"Last sweep," he says. "Then we go."
We push down the last of the hall, fast, hands flying over a doorway, a closet, an empty bed with the covers thrown back - they got out, they got out, the room is clear - and the building groans over our heads like something alive and the heat takes another vicious step up.
"Out," Chase says. "Now. Go, go…"
We back out on the line, fast and low, and behind us, in the room we just left, the air finally hits its number.
I feel it more than see it, a deep orange whump rolling across the ceiling where we were kneeling ten seconds ago, the fire taking the whole space at once, exactly where our heads had been.
The heat shoves us the last few feet down the hall.
Then we are out, stumbling into the night, into cold black air and red light and noise, and the crew is dragging fresh line past us, and somebody is shouting that the occupants are accounted for, both of them, out and safe on the lawn.
I rip my mask off and drop to my knees in the wet grass and just breathe.
Chase goes down next to me, mask off, chest heaving, soot ground into every line of his face.
He looks at me. I look at him. Neither of us says it.
We both felt the room go behind us. We both know how close that was.
A few seconds slower, and the pair of us would have been engulfed in the exploding flame.
His hand finds the back of my neck, just for a second, gripping hard, as if he is making sure my head is still attached. Then the captain is yelling, and we are back up, working the overhaul, and there is no more time to think about it.
It is past two in the morning by the time we drag back to the station.
The place is dead quiet and dark. The rest of the crew are so exhausted they go straight to bed, but Chase and I are still too wired.
It is just the two of us, filthy, exhausted, reeking of smoke, the adrenaline finally draining out and leaving me shaky, hard and hollow and so aware of him I can barely stand it.
We end up in the showers without a word about it. That is just where you go. I cannot sleep covered in a fire.
The showers are at the far end of the locker room.
It's old tile, bad light and six heads in a row, each separated by a thin privacy curtain.
I get the water going at the far end and stand under it and the soot comes off me in gray rivers, swirling down the drain.
I am so tired I just brace my hands on the wall and let it pound on the back of my neck.
I hear him come in. I hear the water start beside me.
I do not look. I have got very good, these last weeks, at not looking.
But the air is doing the thing it does around him, going thick and charged, and the near-miss is still ringing in my bones - the orange flame rolling across the ceiling, where our heads were - and I think we are both done.
Done pretending. Done with the wall. We almost died in that house an hour ago, and I am so tired of the eighteen inches.
"You've still got it on your back," he says.
His voice is rough. Close.
Before I can answer there is a hand on my shoulder, turning me, gentle, and then he is right there in the spray with me, soot streaking down his chest, his eyes dark and fixed on me.
He has soap in one hand. He does not ask.
He just starts washing the smoke off my back, slow, methodical, the same careful hands from that first encounter, mapping me, except this time there is no pretending it is medical, no flat voice, nothing between us at all.
I shut my eyes. His hands move over my shoulders, my spine, the faded bruise, and I lean back into them helplessly, and I hear his breath change behind me.
"Chase," I say. Quiet. Under the noise of the water.
"I know," he says.
He turns me to face him. Steam everywhere, water sheeting between us, and we just look at each other for a long second.
There is the raw, hungry thing in his face again, fully out now, no mask left to hide it.
His thumb drags soap down my jaw. I am breathing hard, and it has nothing to do with the fire.
This time I do not wait to be wrecked into it. This time I choose it.
"I want this," I tell him, looking him dead in the eye so there is no mistaking it. "Not because of the call. Not adrenaline. I want it."
Something in his chest goes loose. "You sure," he says. Not even a question, really, but he needs to hear it.
"Yes," I say. "Tell me you do too."
"Christ, Jason." His forehead drops to mine, water running between us. "Yeah. I do."
And then he kisses me, slow and deep and tasting of smoke, his hand sliding into my wet, sooty hair.
It is different than the first time. The first time was a dam breaking, frantic, both of us stunned.
This is slower. Deliberate. We have time, a little, and we use it.
His hands map me with the lights on, so to speak, learning what makes my breath catch, and I am bold tonight, bolder than I have ever been, my own hands sliding over the broad soaped planes of him, tracing the scars, the muscle, everything I have spent weeks pretending not to want.
The soap is a slick, white lather between us now, making every slide of his hands feel even more intense.
He works it over my chest, his palms dragging over my skin with a heavy, rhythmic friction that makes my toes curl against the wet tile.
The water is hot, almost scalding, but it can't touch the heat radiating from where our bodies press together.
He pulls back just an inch, his eyes hooded as he watches the soap suds drip down my abs.
He reaches down, grabbing a handful of lather and spreading it over my thighs, then higher, lacing his fingers around the base of my cock.
It’s thick with soap, making the sensation incredibly smooth, almost hyper-sensual as he begins to stroke me.
"You're so fucking reactive tonight," Chase murmurs, his voice a low vibration that seems to echo in the small, steamy stall.
He doesn't wait for an answer. He sinks down.
The transition is seamless. One moment he’s standing, the next he’s kneeling on the wet floor of the shower, his broad shoulders framed by the spray. He looks up at me, and then he leans forward.
His mouth is warm and incredibly wet as it closes over the head of my cock.
I gasp, my hands flying to the tiled wall to keep from collapsing.
The feeling is unlike anything else - the slickness of the soap combined with the heat of his mouth, the suction pulling at me with a strength that makes my knees weak.
He takes me deep, his throat working as he pulls the length of me into the dark warmth of his mouth.
"Mmmph..." The sound dies in my throat. I bite my lip, trying to stifle the groan that wants to erupt.
He’s being deliberate. He’s teasing me, swirling his tongue around the sensitive rim of my head before plunging back down. He pulls back just enough to look up at me through his wet lashes, a devilish glint in his eyes, and then he reaches behind me.
My breath hitches. His hand, slick with soap and water, finds the tight, puckered heat of my ass.
"Chase," I hiss, a warning and a plea all at him. "Wait…"
He doesn't wait. He uses his thumb to circle the entrance, teasing the muscle, before he pushes a single, soapy finger inside. The sensation is overwhelming - the fullness of him in my mouth, the stretching pressure behind me. It’s a brand new landscape of pleasure, one that feels both terrifying and utterly right.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he laughs, before taking my cock deep once again