Page 63 of Fire & Ice

Gunnar clears his throat. “Tripp,” he says pointedly, following Tripp across the room with a worried look on his face.

“Yeah?” Tripp blinks and does his best to focus on his Captain. Heisstill on the clock, after all, but he’s unprepared for Gunnar to reach out and grasp the edge of his t-shirt sleeve, tugging it up to reveal most of Lee's scarred handprint on his bicep. The weather’s been cold since Lee put it there, so Tripp’s made a habit of wearing long-sleeve shirts, generally not needing to worry about accidentally showing off his scabs when they were healing. These days, though, the handprint is fairly inconspicuous and mostly white, but still obvious if you’re looking either for it or directly at his arm.

“Fuck off,” he snaps reflexively, jerking away from Gunnar’s touch. Tripp glares defensively, but Gunnar doesn’t react, just hesitates for a moment before shaking his head and waving him off. Thank God, because Tripp doesnothave time to cope with this bullshit right now.

“Be careful,” is all Gunnar says, and Tripp nods automatically before turning on his heel and heading up the steps. He’ll deal with Gunnar later.

Halfway there, Tripp remembers his phone, pulling it out to find an astronomical number of missed calls and messages. There’s exactly one text from Beau—he was the trauma surgeon on duty at Central’s E.R. today, and he got to hear about Tripp’s heroics first-hand from the rescued kid with the broken leg. His message is lighthearted, something about Tripp not needing to throw himself off a cliff to get out of having dinner with Christian and Brett, and any other time, Tripp would have found it hilarious.

Unfortunately, his mind is focused on the twenty-or-so-odd other messages, all from one person.

Lee:I know you’re busy, just checking in.

Lee:Please let me know that you’re doing well when you have a free moment.

Lee:Apologies for the messages, you know how I worry.

Lee:Hope your day is going well. Text me when you have the chance, it would be nice to know that you’re feeling okay.

Lee:My day could be better. If you have a moment, could you call? Two minutes, no more, I promise.

Lee:I know you’re busy. I’m so sorry.

Lee:Tripp, I hate to be a bother, but I really need to speak to you. It’s urgent.

There are a few more, all similar, and Tripp’s stomach drops. It’s not difficult to figure out what’s happening here, unusual as it may be for Lee. The last unread message causes a wave of fear and nausea to roll through his body, and goosebumps to rise on his arms. If he wasn’t already aware that Lee happens to be safe and sound less than fifty feet away, he might actually panic.

Lee:If you

That’s it.

“If you”,andnothing else.Tripp can’t remember the last time he received a text from Lee with so much as a typo, never mind a thought that wasn’t even finished. It’s one of those weird, nerdy little quirks he loves about the guy—who the hell bothers to punctuate their texts before sending, or refuses to shorten words on principle?

It all amounts to one thing, and that’s the unavoidable fact that Lee is dropping. Lee is dropping and likely has been since they were together early this morning. Which means that Tripp ignored him for almosttwelve hours.Jesus Christ, he’s an asshole.

Despite the way that his eyes ache and his muscles still burn from the day’s activities, begging him to sit the fuck down already, Tripp puts it all aside for Lee. It’s damn near torture to sprint up the remaining stairs two at a time, but he does it, bursting through the door at the top and patently ignoringthe chorus of greetings that erupts from his various coworkers scattered around the crew room.

With a grunt and a half-hearted wave in their direction, Tripp doesn’t so much as pause, never mind stop. He bolts directly into the hallway that leads past the charting room and the offices, practically sprinting down to the bunkrooms.

There’s a light on in the windowless bathroom ensuite to the men’s bunk, and Tripp beelines straight for it. As he rounds the corner from the hall, he stumbles, having to grab onto the frame of the door for balance because he’s moving too fast, nearly sending himself tumbling headfirst over the twin bed closest to the door. Once he’s steady, Tripp takes exactly two seconds to ease off and drag exactlyonedeep breath fully into his lungs.

Calm,he reminds himself. He has to be calm for Lee because Lee needs him.

All day, every damn day, Lee worries about Tripp and puts his needs first. He’stherefor him, in ways that no one in his life has ever bothered to be. It’s devastating to Tripp that this is how he’s repaid the best person he knows—by completely missing the boat theonetime Lee needed him to do the same.

If he wasn’t so busy cursing himself out for his mistakes, Tripp might be more concerned about what, exactly, he’s going to do when he finally gets to Lee’s side, but as it is, he doesn’t give himself the chance to dwell. He’ll figure it the fuck out.

The muted yellow glow of cheap incandescent lighting spills out around the partially-closed door to the bathroom, and Tripp reaches to push it open without hesitation. Despite Gunnar’s warning and his own internal self-flagellation, he’s fairly unprepared for the sight that meets his eyes.

Lee's back is to him, dressed simply in dark jeans and a blue-gray button down. He looks…okay, at least from behind. Like he’s showered and reasonably well-put together, which Tripp can’t say that he expected. When he was dropping, he barely had it in him to swipe some deodorant on.

Still, there’s a tenseness in the buff line of Lee's shoulders, a stilted awkwardness to how he’s folding the flat sheet in front of him. As Tripp stands there and watches, still unnoticed, Lee finishes with the sheet and places it gently atop the pile closest to him. Gunnar wasn’t exaggerating about the linen, that’s for sure—there are multiple stacks of towels and bed clothes lined up across the washer that all go the better part of the way towards the ceiling.

Heck, Tripp can even recognize a bunch of the oil-rag junk towels they keep down in the bay for spills and maintenance—Lee would have had to sniff those out and drag the bin of scraps all the way up herejustto wash and fold them.What the fuck?As he stares, Leander pauses in his motions, and Tripp thinks that maybe he’s finished. His eyes are drawn to Lee's hand as it brushes over the exterior of the pants pocket at his hip, fingers tracing the outline of his phone before clenching into a fist at his side.

Oh, Lee.

Before Tripp can react, Lee reaches out and uses one finger to mechanically tip a stack of towels onto its side, undoing all of his (pointless) hard work. Swallowing the intense urge to call Leander ‘sweetheart,’ Tripp steps forward and places a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder.

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