Chapter Text
Chapter One
***
Shane isn't supposed to be on call this evening. But when Hayden called him, begging, for Shane to take his shift because the twins were throwing up and Jackie was losing it and Arthur somehow got a crayon stuck in his nose, what other choice did he have?
"Shit," he curses, his foot catching in his pants leg as he—and truly, he only has himself to blame for needing such proper fitting clothing so he's not thrust into sensory overload—scrambles to get dressed before needing to head out the door. "Okay next, grab socks. Then bag, then shoes, then go."
He tends to talk aloud to himself while planning his upcoming tasks. Rose pokes fun at him for it, but he's only ever been late to work once.
That might expose deeper rooted issues about his inane psychological need to provide satisfactory results to prove his self worth than he cares to admit — but alas.
Shane's routine is systematic. He dresses in his comfiest sweatshirt and sweats to wear underneath his gear if needed and to lounge around at the station if not, then proceeds to gather all he needs for his overnight bag: a change of clothes, various healthy snacks to subside any post-dinner cravings, his water bottle, the book he picked up from the library last week but hasn't started, his wallet and keys. He triple checks his list before he leaves his downtown apartment.
Last time he only checked twice, he ended up forgetting his wallet. He'd been so terrified of being pulled over, he drove twenty under the limit the entire way to the fire station. Hayden and J.J. found it hilarious—Shane is already such a careful driver, there was no possible way he'd get pulled over for anything more than a broken tail light—to which Shane reminded them that they both had numerous tickets due to their own reckless driving.
That had shut them up for approximately thirty minutes before they found some new topic, possibly hockey related, to bicker over.
He's not sure who will be on call with him tonight. Hayden only told him the shift was til two am and that Chief wouldn't be in. Shane rolled his eyes at that information as the Fire Chief was never there when he ended up on call.
You lecture someone one time on proper protocol surrounding engine management and suddenly they have no desire to interact with you, he thinks bitterly as he starts his gray 2016 Jeep Cherokee, adjusts his mirrors and turns the temperature down to his preferred setting.
"Might be cold in the station since Chief keeps it's freezing when he's not there… Maybe I should grab my jacket." The soft muttering to himself would concern a passerby if there were any on his street at that very moment, but to his luck, the quiet, cracked sidewalk was deserted.
His commute will take approximately thirty-seven minutes before he's parking in his assigned spot in the lot behind the station. The shift starts in fifty-five minutes, so he reverses out of his apartment spot and drives off.
There is contentment within these aspects of his life: the repetitive tasks he ensures to finish weekly in order to feel responsible and accomplished. The present comfortability he holds close to his chest through limiting the amount of personal connections he maintains.
He considers himself fulfilled; his best friends would raise the argument that he's afraid to venture out of his comfort zone.
Shane was a child who adults never had to worry about; he could self-regulate and never found himself in any trouble.
His mother was worried for his initial development because it was difficult for him to make friends, but the blonde-haired, blue-eyed mothers of the rest of his classmates reassured her that he was perfectly fine and right on target for his age. David had agreed with her that Shane was a quieter child than either of them had expected, but if the pediatrician had no concerns, then neither should they.
"Shit!"
He nearly runs over an angry looking woman with strawberry blonde hair, wearing only a plain white undershirt, her gear pants and boots, as he slides into his parking spot. He parks before something actually bad can happen and hops out. "I'm so sorry Rose, I was distracted and—"
"Oh God, it's fine. Stop apologizing." She directs an annoyed glare at him, but her face softens when she realizes he's still panicking. "Shane, breathe. It's okay. Just focus on not zoning out while driving." She continues walking back into the station before pausing and turning around. "Wait, wasn't it supposed to be Pike tonight? Wasn't today your only night off?"
Shane suddenly turns sheepish at the implication that he, once again, didn't say no when someone asked him to do something.
"Hayden's twins are sick and Arthur had to have an emergency doctor visit, all at the same time. I could hear Jackie in the background on the phone." A shudder passes through him. "It did not sound pretty."
"Hmm. Once again, you giving up a chance to relax… really I'm not surprised anymore." She turns back without waiting for Shane's response.
Rude, he thinks, but keeps his gripe internal for fear of his own safety. She fully reenters the station without even an acknowledging glance in his direction. Grumbling softly, Shane grabs his overnight bag and follows her inside.
The scent of hamburger meat, chili, and melted cheese permeates the air of the interior. J.J. must be cooking tonight, Shane thinks while putting his belongings in his locker.
He has two photo-booth strips tacked onto the outer surface: the first being him and Rose back during the brief stint of dating they tried before Rose point blank asked Shane if he was gay, to which he had to finally admit to himself he was, and the second being him, Hayden, and J.J., messily drunk, all crammed into a photo-booth and falling over one another. Shane wouldn't trade his squad for the world.
"Hollander!" A loud, Québécois accent calls his name. J.J. rushes through the doorway of the kitchen to collide into Shane. He's wearing a ridiculous "Kiss the Chef" apron covered in playful lipstick stains and two pink, padded oven mitts that he received last year during Secret Santa. "What are you doing here? Was Hayden's shift tonight, no?"
"So you all knew Hayden was supposed to be here, but couldn't remember when I asked everyone to please stop leaving their clothes in the washing machine?" Shane says dryly.
A muscular, warm arm is slung over his shoulders. Thick, black curls rest on his left shoulder, rubbing softly against the material of Shane's sweatshirt. He finds J.J. attractive, probably would consider him his type if he had one, but his crewmate is painfully straight at the best of times.
J.J. pouts at the reprimand. "That was one time! I haven't done that since you chewed me out and threatened to throw all of my wet clothes out into the street."
A pinch ripples underneath the area of skin between his brows. He grits his teeth to hold back his initial (bitchy) reply, and then he finds enough grace to respond accordingly.
"You left them for two whole days J.J.. And I know that because I wrote it down in my notebook, which you made fun of me for." J.J. pretends to whimper, his eyes large like a dog's when they're being scolded. "You know that won't work on me. You can't get what you want from me through coercion."
Shane shoves his face gently off his shoulder, to which J.J. dramatically turns his face away and covers his eyes with the back of his hand.
Their company should enter the upcoming Boston Fire Department talent show with some rendition of Macbeth, or possibly Hamlet. Shane is positive they'd come at least third overall.
"Leave him alone J.J., he's just pent up and taking it out on all of us." Shane's ears burn at Rose's implication that he's so sex-deprived, his instinctual reaction is to take his frustrations out on his coworkers. "Shane, can you grab that extra hose from the top shelf for me? Chief asked us to change it while he's gone."
"Oh sure, let's just finish his tasks for him since he can't be bothered to come in when I'm here." He grumbles under his breath.
Shane really doesn't have dislike for anyone but their Chief is probably the closest he's ever come in his adult life. Chief Crowell is a "traditional" man in every sense of the word.
When Rose initially applied to their station, he had thrown her application out. She proceeded to storm into the building and demand to know how her being over-qualified for the job meant she "wouldn't be a good fit for the team". That was the only time Shane ever witnessed Crowell actually taken aback, if not a little frightened, which led to him begrudgingly accepting Rose's application a second time. She started the following week and beyond a few snide remarks regarding her gender, there haven't been any issues since.
Shane knows he's lucky to work with the crew he has. They're fairly liberal, with the exception of their Chief, and some of his company are even queer. One of the full time firefighters, Scott, is marrying his boyfriend in two weeks, which is another reason why Shane hasn't actually had real time off.
Between working constantly and participating in the local beer league, he's not given himself enough time to actually rest. The constant, distant pain in his lower back is ignorable on the best of days; it's borderline hospital visit worthy on the worst. A massage would provide much-needed relief, but Shane finds it difficult to relax in spas, where he is surrounded by dozens of strangers who will see him essentially nude while lathering their hands in various oils to target "specific internalized points for healing".
The music also tends to give him a migraine which ultimately leads to him acting even more like "a wet sock."
(Hayden's words, not his.)
He moves back towards his locker to grab his copy of The Stranger, Camus being a recent favorite of his since Rose introduced him to absurdism, and settles down on the worn green couch in the common area.
In an hour or two, he'll get up and do the chores Hayden was assigned before attempting a brief nap. He won't have to worry about doing much this evening, unless of course the alarm goes off—
There's a crackle in the air before the ringing shrill of the station alarm begins blaring. Shane groans as he replaces his bookmark and stands. Tonight was supposed to be easy. Luckily, all he has to do is pull on his gear over his lounge clothes and he's ready to go.
Rose and J.J. are still changing into their uniforms, so Shane checks the tool compartment to make sure there was nothing missing. His crew poke fun at him for his "obsessive" behavior towards procedure and order but human lives could be at stake if he wasn't. Flat head and pick head axes? Check. Bolt cutters? Check. Sledgehammer? Check. Everything is accounted for, so Shane makes his way around to the radio to listen in on the call. Elena, a volunteer firefighter, smiles warmly at him as he approaches the cab of the engine.
"Sounds easy so far. A simple 1 & 1 at an apartment building two blocks over. Sounds like someone burnt popcorn in their microwave and set off the smoke detectors. You three should be able to handle it."
Shane nods and steps up to enter the engine cab. "Which apartment?"
"Easy Lakes, apartment 1410."
J.J. takes the driver's seat while Rose slides in beside Shane and they're off. It's a quiet night for Boston, hence why Shane was hoping to not have a call so early into his shift. Especially not one over something as trivial as leaving a bag of popcorn in a microwave and stressing the smoke detectors. At least he'll get to chew out some college kids for being irresponsible—one of the many perks he enjoyed about being a firefighter: implementing fire safety.
"Which shift of yours did Hayden take, Shaney?" Rose knows he's not a fan of the nickname, but she also knows that she's the only one with permission to call him that. A double edged sword.
"He didn't." Rose scrunches her nose up, clearly disliking that answer. "He has four kids to take care of Rose, I can help out when I'm able."
She scoffs. "Yeah, but he also actively chose to have those four kids. You don't have to play the hero every time one of them catches the sniffles."
"I agree," J.J. pipes up. "You spend so much time at work Hollander. Where's your social life? Is like searching for Waldo."
"Ha. Ha. Hilarious." J.J.'s smile takes up most of his face—his shiny, white teeth beaming at Shane—and Shane has no choice but to smile back at him, even as he huffs, "I go out and do things. We went to the club that one time Rose."
"Yeah… over seven months ago. And you were stiff and uncomfortable the entire time."
"We sat right next to a speaker and the lights were flashing way too fast. That place should have an epilepsy warning outside by the entrance. Someone could get severely hurt if they have an episode."
Rose throws her arms up in arm, exasperated. "Here you go again. Always a critique or nitpicking anytime we try to drag you out and force you to have fun. There's always something wrong with what we do." Shane's shoulders tense.
He knows he's not the most fun to be around when his friends wish to go out partying. It's a large factor as to why he chooses to stay home when invited most times. Most social events involve overstimulation and crowds: two of Shane's least favorite things.
He's not a huge drinker on top of that, so he tends to spend most of his time out babysitting the group's table while they get plastered and dance. Boring being the consistent adjective he's heard whispered in hushed tones. It's never intentional, but the word finds means to burrow underneath his ribcage and flutters around regardless.
"I'm sorry Rose," though he's not quite sure what he's apologizing for, "we can go out next weekend if you'd like? The three of us have off that Saturday."
She sighs and turns her head to face out the window.
"There's no point if you're going to be miserable the entire time. Let's just get dinner and go watch a movie." Her defeated tone doesn't bring Shane a lick of comfort; guilt crawls up his throat, sinking sharp claws along the edges of his tongue. Not sure how to fix the now awkward tension in the cab, he decides silence is probably the best course of action until their arrival. A loose thread on his pants distracts him as the streets zip by.
***
"Alright. Shane you go up first and make sure everyone is out of the building." Rose scans the lot full of disgruntled residents. "The faster we confirm this is a false alarm, the better."
Shane nods and grabs his equipment bag to enter the building.
The stairs are located to the right of the front desk so Shane clambers over, taking two stairs at a time. Level Two. Level Three. Level Six. Level Nine. Level Twelve. Level Fourteen. Of course the call would be on the top floor of the building.
Only slightly winded, he barrels through the door and finds the hallway empty. No smoke residue, but the alarm is still flashing. Each door is marked with the corresponding apartment number so finding Apartment 1410 takes no time.
Shane knocks twice—loudly, deliberately—waiting for a response. When no one comes to the door, he moves on to the next door and repeats this process throughout the rest of the floor. Vacant. Having completed his task, he's heading back to the stairs, when the door for 1410 swings open and slams into the outer wall.
Shane doesn't jump, he doesn't. He was just… slightly startled by the loud, unexpected noise. That's all.
"Why are you banging on my door at," a pause, "eleven pm? Are you police?" Shane's eyes rise to meet a pair of blue — no, green, no really maybe blue — eyes looking at him in frustration. A quick once over produces a 6'0" something, broad-shouldered, muscular man with dirty blonde curly hair wearing gray sweatpants and a white tanktop. A gold cross on a thin chain sits in the middle of his chest, hanging delicately between his well-defined pecs.
If Shane were to have a type in men, this broad-shoulder Davidesque individual would be the clear winner.
The stranger clears his throat, drawing Shane's attention back to his face, to which he blushes at being caught staring. This man is unfairly attractive. Decidedly distracting. Shane has a job to do.
"Uh-do you live in Apartment 1410?"
The stranger cocks an eyebrow. "No, am here robbing the place. Yes I live here." His accent is thick, clearly European and sends a shiver down Shane's spine. A calculated look is trained on him—as if this stranger is piecing together a puzzle and the finished prize is Shane.
"Sir," he says, to which is met with another eyebrow raise, "you need to exit the building to ensure you're accounted for. There could be lasting effects to the fire—"
"Was no fire," he snorts. "Popcorn bag nearly blew up shitty microwave. Is all." Shane's patience is wearing thinner and thinner but he maintains a neutral expression.
"Regardless, it's important for you to join your building outside so we can have an official headcount. To refuse to comply could result in a fine—"
A curse in a muttered foreign language, now clearly Eastern European—most definitively Russian, and stormy eyes are back glaring daggers into Shane's own.
"There is no fire." Shane's truly aghast at how rude this stranger is. "My shift starts in six hours so I will close door now and go back to bed. Thank you Firefighter," he squints his eyes reading Shane's ID tag on his jacket, "Hollander. Maybe next time you actually help save someone from burning building yes?"
The door is closed before Shane can retort. A slow simmer builds underneath his skin. The audacity of this man to close the door on a first responder who is attempting to ensure he's safe.
The next step of his procedure is to go from floor to floor and make sure they're empty. Then he would return to Rose and J.J., relay the information that the building is clear except for a stubborn civilian in the offending apartment and the following course of action would be determined from there.
Shane does not follow the next step in his procedure.
"Hey! Open up!" It's a bit childish to be banging on the door of someone who clearly doesn't care if there is an actual emergency or not, but Shane can't find it in himself to care in this particular moment."You must join the rest of residents in the parking lot to end this process faster."
The door reopens and Shane takes a step back.
Any amusement the stranger once held has disappeared; his mouth drawn tight, eyes glowering at Shane. "Is it against the law to remain in my own residence when the emergency is a false alarm?" This question wasn't what Shane expected.
"Not technically…"
"Ah, so you are harassing me in my home for… what reason, exactly?"
He bristles. "Harassing? Your bag of popcorn is the entire reason I'm here!"
"Who said it was my bag of popcorn? Do you know the name of every resident in this building? What if it was my roommate's? Or do you just enjoy bothering me because you find me attractive?" Another quick once over has Shane feeling as if he's laid bare. "You are pretty with your freckles and cute nose, but I am too tired to fuck you tonight."
"What—who said—no one asked you too—"
"Relax, am messing with you. Do have pretty freckles though, look like dots on a ladybug." Shane's certain his face is as red as a ladybug at this point.
"Now please let me sleep. My coworkers will hang me from roof if I come in late for a third shift this week. Goodnight, Mr. Handsome"—notable emphasis on his choice of adjective—"Firefighter." The door closes a second time, softer, and it appears as if that's the decided end of their interaction.
A part of his brain is urging him to ignore the asshole in Apartment 1410 and simply return to his crew outside. He'll inform them the building is clear, they will pack their belongings back into their designated compartments and leave this god-for-saken site.
But Shane isn't one to let things go if potential danger is involved. His boring may be unattractive to his peers, but he'll be damned if it puts someone's life at risk.
"What the fuck do you want?" The man, clearly done with Shane's third attempt at getting him to open the door, is even more surprised when he barrels past, shoving him a few inches over in his entryway by Shane forcefully entering his apartment. "What-what the fuck are you doing?"
"Checking the perimeter to ensure there are no remnants of a fire or smoke." The inside of the apartment is simplistic: living room containing a couch, a chair and a TV hanging on the wall, few scattered posters at varying heights, basic kitchen appliances adorning the counters. The look of one of the model apartments that office staff let future residents tour before applying for a lease.
Shane focuses in on the device in question, the slightly cloudy window of a microwave, and moves towards the kitchen. He is promptly stopped by a firm wall of muscle as he lets out a quiet oof.
"It was cute at first Mr. Firefighter, but now you enter dangerous territory of pissing me off. Best to leave before I invoke Castle Doctrine." Sneer so sharp on his face, Shane should feel shame for still finding this lunatic attractive.
If there's a slight uncomfortable tightening in his pants at how close this man's teeth are to his own, then that's between Shane and God.
And his right hand once his shift ends.
Shane sputters, the vice grip on his arm being to hurt ever so slightly, and attempts to twist, trying to free himself before giving up momentarily to spit. "Massachusetts doesn't have a stand your ground law dumbass. Your duty is to retreat before engaging in any force. So fuck off." Regret creeps up his throat immediately after his impulsive outburst.
A flash of something primal crosses his—hazel—pupils. Shane allows himself a quick pass down the man's throat, where a bead of sweat descends so slowly — practically manufactured to tempt him, before returning his gaze to the other's eyes. His ogling was not missed on the man towering over him, but through one singular act of grace, he doesn't taunt Shane about his obvious interest.
Suddenly, and despairingly, Shane is reminded that he has now trapped himself in this man's home, the door having been shut when he stopped Shane from entering further. His throat bobs as he swallows, a motion the man's eyes follow carefully, and he has to attempt to smooth things over.
"Look, we got off on the wrong foot. I apologize for calling you a… dumbass. And for telling you to fuck off… That was unprofessional and a rare occurrence for me. All I want to do is ensure that your apartment isn't a hazard to the rest of the building and then you can go to bed. Is that alright with you?"
His eyes roll so far upwards, Shane's worried he's actually having a medical emergency for a moment.
"Will this get you out of my apartment and leaving me alone faster?" Lips pursed, he nods. "Fine." The man releases his hold on Shane's arm and steps back. "Go search for non-existent problem, then. Leave."
Shane stumbles forward slightly as the wall of heat and muscle is removed from his path. A subtle adjustment to the front of his pants, though they mask his desire quite well through multiple layers of protective fabric, and he's turning back towards the clearly peeved man.
"I'll be quick, I promise." He takes the lack of response as permission, opening the microwave to peer inside for lingering smoke, before doing a quick scan of the rest of the kitchen. "All good in here. Okay if I move into the hallway?" A held out palm in a go ahead gesture is the only sign he receives.
He's determined to make the rest of this encounter as painless as possible—efficiency is one of his strongest qualities. Nothing appears out of order from his preliminary glances. He hesitates before venturing further down the hall, but well, he's already gone far beyond standard protocol, might as well commit and check every room. There is only silent contemplation from the stranger as Shane opens the bathroom door, everything appearing normal, then the bedroom at the end of the hall.
The prickle at the back of his neck feels hallucinatory, for as he peeks out his periphery, the man isn't watching him. He's leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, appearing bored and mildly annoyed. Shane returns his focuses to his task at hand.
He isn't sure what to expect, possibly some torture dungeon based on the way this man acts, but instead he is met with an overall…unimpressive bedroom. Dark gray cotton sheets, a chipped nightstand, a wooden hip-height bookcase. Minuscule glimpses of personality are found here and there—letters in a foreign language (Russian, he recognizes some of the Cyrillic lettering), a poster of the Boston Bears logo hanging crookedly on the wall, various printed photographs of blurry faces all squished around the man. No signs of smoke or fire, which prompts him to close the door and turn around.
Again he's met with a hard surface. Blinking twice, he looks up to find the man wearing a neutral expression but with an unwavering gaze.
"All clear. Told you it wouldn't take me long," he laughs softly. His captor provides no indication he plans on removing himself from Shane's path. "Now I can finally leave you alone, uh, as you requested. So if you'll just…"
"симпатичный." Heat from the rough palm of the stranger creeps over Shane's face as he's cornered further into the wall. "Big, shiny eyes like bunny."
Breathing properly wouldn't come to him in this moment even if someone was forcing air into his lungs. His heart-rate notably ticks upwards—a silent prayer to whoever will listen that this brute of a man doesn't realize how nervous he is—and he swallows around the lump in his throat.
"Have you been called that before?" His attentions snaps back to the man. "By a lover?" His head tilts. "Presumably a woman?"
"I'm gay."
Two words Shane hasn't even said to the rest of his crew and yet here he is, letting them tumble clumsily out of his mouth to a total stranger.
"Ah." Shane feels overwhelmingly too visible all of a sudden; like a bug pinned to a lab table, warmth of a heat lamp covering every inch, limbs immobilized by pins so some higher being could dissect him for their own perverse pleasure.
Absurdism might be infecting the way his internal voice processes. Only a tad.
The hand on his cheek slides down to the side of his neck. Thumb lightly feeling along his artery; noting how his pulse picks up.
"You like men? Have you been with one before?"
He swallows. His throat has been abnormally dry throughout today, but Shane doesn't drop the eye contact. "If you're asking if I'm a virgin, which is highly inappropriate might I add, no. I'm not a virgin."
"Inappropriate and yet, you provide answer. Not as boring as first believed. Pretty and fiesty. What to do with you," leaning in close to Shane's ear, a shiver running down his spine, "кролик?"
His nerves feel electric but his chest constricts. Clearly this man is toying with him because he noticed that Shane's been unable to take his eyes off him.
Shame burns low in the bottom of his stomach. He needs to find an exit quickly, before he does something more embarrassing than panting after a man who clearly knows he's desirable.
He'll take Rose's advice and go out to get laid if he manages to make it through this encounter unscathed.
"There is nothing for you to do with me besides let me go—"
A muffled blip of static sounds from his jacket pocket.
"Shane, you've been in there for over thirty minutes. Do you copy? Over." Reaching for the walkie, he attempts to take a step backwards, but the man follows him, keeping his body in front of Shane's, blocking his path for escape.
Neither man moves for a few tortuous moments. The silence surrounding them as thick as the early morning fog off the Boston harbor that Shane runs laps around on his days off. A flash of something—recognition, possibly—crosses the stranger's face.
This game of cat and mouse Shane's been thrust into, only waned for the moment it took for the robotic message to come through. Now the man's hand is carefully placed on his hip, steadying him, as he moves to follow up with Rose.
"Uh-just let me respond." He presses the button on the side, doesn't break eye contact even though he's increasingly becoming anxious, and says. "Yes, here Rose. There was one more person left in the building, who refused," heavy emphasis explicitly towards the perpetrator as he continues staring at Shane with dark eyes, "to leave, so I had to scout the called-in apartment and ensure there were no more potential threats. Over."
"Well this easy call has now entered unnecessarily long territory, so come back down and let's wrap up. Over." A nod in confirmation—a tad foolish as she cannot see this action—and he's sidestepping his way past his captor to flee the scene. Two strides down the hall before his arm is grabbed and his pulse picks up rapidly.
"Harming a first responder is also a felony. Before you make any rash decisions, please know I have two colleagues waiting for me downstairs and—" His glove is shoved at his chest, a large hand pressing the rough material right above his heart.
"Startle so easily, like prey, waiting for a predator to swoop in and capture you." Sharp notes of cedar and vanilla waft in Shane's direction. Too close. Dangerous if he doesn't get out now.
The man, fucking thankfully, steps backwards, allowing Shane room to breathe. "Now you are finished?" Another quick nod, this one visible to the one asking the question, and he's pulling his glove back on.
"Again, apologies for my rudeness earlier. Professionalism is of utmost importance in this career."
A soft huff of laughter. "Is okay. Probably deserved that after taunting you for so long. Now really, I must go to sleep." Shane leaves without another word. Another phantom feeling across his neck as he exits the floor via the staircase; he swears he feels eyes watching him go but the apartment door is closed shut when he sneaks one last look before descending the stairs.
***
An ambush isn't what he's expecting when he exits the building, yet, he finds himself surrounded by a flurry of arms.
"What the hell happened Hollander?" J.J. appears distraught but with the smile threatening to split his face in half, Shane is unable to read whether or not he was actually concerned. "You were gone for forever. Rose and I were making emergency plans to come rescue you."
The aforementioned accomplice presently stowing away the loose equipment fondly shakes her head.
"Stop being over-dramatic J.J., we called Shane on the walkie to ensure he wasn't in any danger. Now both of you help me finish getting everything on the truck so we can head out. A power nap is calling my name before our inevitable next call." It takes the three of them to tug the heavy metal tools back into their designated slots—Shane still a bit too shaken up from his encounter upstairs to focus entirely on the task—and then they're reloading into the cab of the fire engine.
Rose lightly shoves his shoulder with her own, a soft lopsided grin displaying one of her cheek dimples. "So what did hold you up in there Shane? It was closer to an hour before we managed to get ahold of you."
"It was?" He checks his watch, and fuck, he really had spent almost an hour and a half inside while that strange man played psychological games with his head.
That's what he gets for being distracted by a handsome face and hot body. Fuck Rose for being right, getting laid is now required for me to function at work. "Wow. I'm sorry. Didn't realize it ended up taking me that long to investigate."
Rose cocks her head to look at Shane, clearly looking for something to give him away, before coming to a conclusion. He's not sure if he wants to know what she believes to have realized so he focuses on looking straight ahead during their ride back. Curious eyes are watching the side of his face. He remains looking ahead.
The comfortable silence on their journey back to the station provides quality time for self-reflection. Shane walks himself through where his actions earlier went wrong (engaging excessively with the stubborn asshole of 1410 rather than accepting the idiot's possible death wish) and potential solutions if a similar scenario were ever to arise (simply leave the dumbass to deal with the consequences of their own actions).
J.J. prattles on amicably about his upcoming date with a social media influencer, the soccer match he's coaching next week, and his impending promotion within their company—that's been pending for well over a year. Rose chimes in occasionally to spark a new avenue of conversation centered around his personal life. He sends a silent thank you to her, already plotting to buy her the Coach bag she's been hinting at for her birthday. He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the headrest.
Today has been one of the most confusing shifts he's encountered in a long time. There isn't a reasonable explanation as to why the-hazel-eyed stranger won't leave the back of his mind. Like a virus, working slowly through his synapses, luring him in with a false sense of security, warmth, ease, comfort, before finally rocketing his internal temperature too high and sending him into shock.
Shane will finish this shift, go home to sleep for twelve straight hours, then wake up to scour the pathetic dating apps for a hookup to appease his anxious mind until his skin itches and he has to repeat the process all over again.
And when he closes his eyes, he won't imagine a crooked nose or hazel eyes or full, pink lips approaching him in the inky black.