Page 62 of Fire & Ice

Despite his dramatic thoughts, the rescue goes smoothly. The kid definitely did knock his head, but he’s the type of confused that just wants to go to sleep, not the kind that gets combative and punchy when you try to help them. No miracle too small, and all that.

Tripp and Jesse work well together, communicating via radio with their crews above and stabilizing the patient efficiently in what feels like animpossiblysmall space to work within. There’s no room for both firefighters to fit on the ledge with the injured kid lying there, so Tripp spends as much time hanging over the river with his toes on the rock as he does standing on solid ground.

Oh, yeah. Lee would hate this.

They get the boy spinal-immobilized using a cervical collar and the backboard that’s carefully lowered down, his lower leg splinted to a shortboard (with minimal screaming) and then to the backboard itself. It’s times like these Tripp wishes he was a paramedic—this kiddeservespain management, but there’s nothing that he, as an EMT-Basic, is authorized to give.All Tripp can do is handle him gently and get his ass topside as quickly as possible. There, the medic is waiting, ready to administer a nasal atomizer full of fentanyl just as soon as the patient is within reach.

By the time the crews above them are yelling to each other and hoisting the board up and over his and Jesse’s heads, Tripp is sweating profusely, despite the cold. He’s also experiencing the kind of exhaustion he suspects might be what marathon runners feel around mile twenty. He’s sore, burned-out, already comesofar but with miles to go before he sleeps. Miles that suddenly feel alotlonger than they actually are.

While they wait for the go-ahead to start climbing, Tripp slumps against the blood-stained rock by Jesse’s side as they congratulate each other on a job well done. For a few minutes, they sit in silence, just looking out over the river, and then Jesse pipes up with something completely out of left field.

“Hey,” he says, elbowing Tripp in the ribs good-naturedly. “Congrats on Lee, man. Heard through the grapevine you two finally got your heads out of your asses. Always knew you would be good together.”

Whether it’s the exhaustion he feels settling into his bones, the daunting thought of both the climb ahead and the entirenightstill looming in front of him, or something else completely, Tripp’s standard slew of protests die on his tongue. “Thanks,” he replies weakly. “I—yeah. Lee is great.” He’s saved from having to say anything further by their radios activating, letting them know that the team is poised and in position, ready to bring them home.

The climb is worse than Tripp imagined, but hand over foot—and a lot of help from whoever’s reeling him in up top—he makes it. Lungs wheezing and arms burning, Tripp pulls himself over the ledge with some crucial help from Gunnar and Max.Both of them rush forward to grab and drag him over the finish line, an arm under each of his, even as his toes scrabble and lose grip against the loose rock and dirt.

As soon as he’s vertical, there’s a bottle of water being pressed into his hand and a bunch of people clapping him on the back, offering praise and congratulations. Jesse’s close behind and receives the same treatment, applause all around.

All Tripp wants is tosit down.And not on a ledge carved into the side of a cliff.

Naturally, the ambulance is long gone, and Tripp can’t wait to be a fuckin’ memory here, too. He says a blurry and worn-out goodbye to Jesse, somehow finding himself agreeing to poker night with Lee sometime in the near future, because Tripp can’t be trusted with his own best interests when he needs a nap. Despite that fact, he’s belted to his seat in the engine’s cab before anything else dramatic can happen (and before he does somethingreallydumb, like imply to more casual acquaintances that Lee loves him back).

On the way to the station, Tripp falls fast asleep, drool on his shoulder and everything. Having shucked his bunker jacket, he curls up in Lee's hoodie, which unfortunately now smells a lot more like smoke mixed with his own sweat and a lot less likeLee. Hoodie aside, the nap is a knockout, dead-to-the-world sort of thing, and Tripp only wakes because the backup alarm blasts discourteously in his ear as the engine finds its place in the fire bay.

As he blinks sleepily and wipes wetness away from the corner of his mouth, Tripp hears Gunnar’s familiar “Ho!” yelled to Theo as he spots the engineer’s parking job from behind the truck. He feels the air brakes engage before the engine finally stops and goes silent, and they’re home.

What a relief.

Tripp’s still yawning as he stumbles out of the cab, kicking away his fire-rated boots and stepping sleepily out of his bunker pants. There’s maybe twenty minutes left in his shift. The oncoming crew should already be in the building, and no doubt, if a call comes in, he won’t be expected to take it.

Maybe,if he’s lucky, he can sack out on the couch for thirty minutes or so before Lee shows up and forces him to get presentable. Beau's rehearsal doesn’t start until seven-thirty, buffered specifically for Tripp’s work schedule, since being on duty today means having the rest of the weekend off. That’s plenty of time for a nap and a quick shower.

First, though—all of the gear worn inside the burn buildings today needs to be laundered, which is a chore. Tripp’s thankful that a few of the other city stations volunteered to take some of the newbies’ stuff, or Fifteen’s crews would be cycling shit straight through until Tripp returns again on Monday. Officer gear takes priority, anyway, so Tripp doesn’t bother checking in with Gunnar before emptying his pockets and dumping his pants, hood, and jacket straight into the open industrial washing machine at the side of the bay.

His gear tops off the load, so he closes the lid, checks the settings and detergent level, and sets it to work, patting the top when he’s done. Out of the corner of his eye, Tripp sees Gunnar chatting with someone, maybe one of the guys from the oncoming crew, which isn’t unusual. Whatisunusual are the covert glances they’re both shooting in his direction, and the subsequent way Gunnar saunters over—waytoo casually, at that—while Tripp is still trying to put the unwashable parts of his gear back on the rack.

“Dude,” Tripp says with a heavy sigh, scrubbing a hand through his sweaty hair as he turns to face Gunnar. He motionswith his hand for his Captain to just give it to him. “Out with it, come on. I’m too fuckin’ tired to play games right now.”

Gunnar lifts an eyebrow as he leans casually against the rescue truck, arms folded across his chest. Around them, their co-workers continue about their business, laying hose line across the floor to drain and dry, checking tools—generally putting the vehicles, the station, and themselves back in order.

“Lee is here,” he says simply, face giving nothing away.

“Okay?” Tripp replies, somewhat confused. So Lee is early, big deal. Or maybe he’s just visiting—they all do that, all of the time, medics and firefighters alike. When your friends are also your co-workers and downtime is baked into the job, it kinda follows that work sometimes becomes a place to play.

Hell, Tripp’s passed out here and at Station Eleven more times than he can count. It’s fun to end the night shooting the shit with friends, plus it’s safer than trying to drive home tipsy, or worse—staying the night with a bar hookup. Gunnar acting weird over Lee being in the building ismuchstranger than the fact that Lee is here.

“He’s upstairs in the bathroom of the men’s bunkroom, folding laundry.”

Alright, so that’s a little bit odd, but Tripp’s not one to judge. Maybe Lee got bored waiting for him and was just being considerate. There’s a regular washer and dryer in that bathroom, there for the crews to wash bed linens or uniforms. The laundry basket was probably overflowing and Lee is—first and foremost—a team player, a good guy.

There’s a nudge at the back of Tripp’s mind that tells him he’s working pretty hard to paint this scenario as perfectly normal, but is therereallya reason not to do that?

“So?”

“Sugar, he’s washed and sorted every piece of linen we have in this entire building. Maybe the whole city, I dunno. Towels, bedsheets, dishrags—you name it, Healing Hands up there has folded it. Twice. Something’s going on with your boy. Better go find and fix it before he figures out he can’t fold his way back to sanity and has a full-on breakdown in my bunkroom.”

“Right,” Tripp replies distractedly, pulling a hand over his mouth. Before Gunnar can finish talking, he’s already backing towards the stairs that lead up to the second floor, where the crew and bunkrooms are located.

---