Page 50 of Fire & Ice

“Sorry, Uncle Lee,” she murmurs as she sips her own water, apparently appropriately chastised.

It’s Tripp’s turn to laugh, relaxing back against the truck and shaking his bottle in her direction. “You got owned,” he says, amused.

“No more than you,” Chloe shoots back without missing a beat. “At least my girlfriend has the decency to get me off when she fucks me over like that. Ooh,burn.” She smirks and Tripp blinks, clearly taken aback.

“Chloe,” Leander admonishes again, but he’s weak and has to turn away, busying himself with pretending to rearrange supplies in one of the cabinets so that Tripp doesn’t see him fighting hard not to smile.

“He’snotmy boyfriend,” Tripp mutters petulantly.

“Fine, fine,” Chloe says with a sigh, holding her hands up in mock surrender. “Uncle Lee, if I stop teasing yournot-boyfriend over how whipped he is, can I go?”

Jumping down from the ambulance box, Leander dons his stethoscope and goes through the motions of checking Chloe’s vital signs once more. He records them in the neat list he’s keeping that’s secured to his clipboard, updating Chloe’s column just below her previous measurements and her name, and then nods.

“Be careful,” he instructs. “Your father will have my head if something happens to you. You know that he still asks me to bench you for entire fires, on principle.” Chloe just shrugs as she pulls her long blonde hair back into a ponytail, slips her bunker jacket over her shoulders, and dons her helmet.

“He’s a good dad.” She stands on her toes to kiss Leander’s cheek, and he pretends he’s not entirely warmed by it. “So are you. Later. Later, Fireman Sam. Enjoy riding the pine.” As Chloe steps over the leaking five-inch line and disappears around a drafting engine parked between them and the actual fire, Leander sighs.

“I’m not whipped,” Tripp protests from somewhere behind him, and Leander raises his eyes to the sky. Lord help him. Is it six a.m. yet?

***

06:30 A.M

Much as Leander enjoys having Tripp in his space and would never,everturn him away, he’s secretly relieved when Tripp doesn’t come home with him in the morning. The night was long and cold and exhausting for both of them, and uninterrupted sleep is a necessity, considering what they have planned for later. Still, as Leander hauls his overnight bag from the warmth of the EMS station out to his running car, the way his breath puffs clouds into the freezing morning air makes the quiet of the still-sleeping street feel that much more lonely.

All around him, in row homes and apartment buildings, families are just beginning to stir, waking up to a new day and to each other. Secretly, Leander wants that, but has no idea how to go about getting it. Solitary as he must seem to others, he always feels least alone when he’s with Tripp, secondarily when he’s working or out with his EMS family. Increasingly as of late, returning to his empty apartment feels less like sanctuary, less of a reprieve from the violent, hectic hustle and bustle of the world. These days, it feels more like a punishment for demiromantic failures who can’t force themselves to snatch the first warm body they can reasonably tolerate in order to fulfill the goal ofnotending up alone.

The door to the station bangs open behind him, sent flying into the outside wall by the sole of Marley’s boot, culminating in a noisy crash of metal on brick. She staggers out, full-handed with a stack of books, her laptop and charger, and the fluffy blanket and pillow she insists on carting along to every shift. Leander pauses to watch as she blinks tiredly against the low-set morning sun. After pausing to indulge an enormous yawn—complete with eye-closing and some extremely dramatic noises—Marley waves awkwardly without removing either arm from around her pile.

“See ya, Lee,” she mumbles sleepily.

“Are you alright to drive home?”

“Taking the bus,” Marley replies. “Always take the bus. Cars are for flush paramedics, I can barely pay rent in this city on my salary.”

Leander scrunches up his face and narrows his eyes at her. “You regularly skim off of the R.N.C.’s fundraising effortsandyou live in a rent-controlled walk-up with your ‘mother’,” he reminds her, putting the last word in air quotes. Marley’s mother passed away years ago, but her greedy landlord doesn’t need to know that.

“True,” Marley replies brightly. “Still, girl’s gotta save for Comic-Con.”

“Get in,” Leander tells her, gesturing toward his passenger seat as he slides behind the wheel.

“Well, if youinsist.Girl’s also gotta save her strength forda clubtonight!!”

During their ride, Marley seems to gain her second wind, chattering on about Beau's impending bachelor party and how awesome it is that he and Bri are hosting a combined outing that still includes a trip to the strip club. By the time he lets her off a good ten blocks from his own place, Leander’s even more exhausted. Oblivious to his state, Marley thanks him and waves goodbye enthusiastically, still yelling about plans for the night when Leander drives off.

Finally back inside his apartment, Leander only gets as far as his living room couch, stripping off his multiple shirts and dropping them carelessly on the floor before collapsing down onto the cushions. It’s just one of those mornings, and he’s not in the mood to walk even one step further. With his duty pants on and boots still firmly in place on his feet, Leander passes outcold, an arm slung across his face and a leg trailing over the side of the sofa.

Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

Groaning, Leander unsticks his forearm from his face, rubbing fingertips into eyes that are still heavy with sleep. If ever there were a day to turn over and let blissful unconsciousness sweep him away again, this would be it. Unfortunately for Leander, he has plans.

Stupid plans.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

The alarm on Leander’s phone is relentless and irritating, buzzing against the glass of his coffee table what feels like averydistant two feet away. Without so much as opening his eyes, Leander throws an arm out to grab for the device and blindly turn it off. Unfortunately, his hand never makes it to the table, colliding instead (and withoomph)into something that feels worryingly flesh-and-bone-like.

Oh, dear.

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