August Blaze (John/Rodney, PG)
Title: August Blaze
Rating: PG
Word count: ~2,200
Pairings: John/Rodney
Warnings: off-screen death of minor original characters
Summary: John could barely breathe as he stared at the burning building. They had Ladders on both sides now, dousing the upper floors, steam mingling with the smoke. Somewhere inside, something collapsed with a crash. Moments later, a rose of fire bloomed out of a fourth-floor apartment. Their apartment, John realised numbly.
Notes: AU, sequel to By the End of April, and written for deltacephei and her mad author-guessing skillz. Beta-read by the ever-amazing kisa_hawklin. ♥ And I'm posting a day early as I've no idea whether I'll be able to snatch a few minutes online tomorrow and Saturday, and I had promised fic.
If you haven't read By the End of April and don't want to invest the time: John's a fireman; Rodney's a professor who fell in lust with him after seeing him as Mr. May in the city's Firefighters Calendar; John saved Rodney's life in a subway gas explosion and agreed to go on a date despite previously considering himself straight; they're both selfish idiots, in their own ways. People die.
~~~
August Blaze
"Jesus, Sheppard," Parker said, kicking the bed as he scoffed, "broke up with your boyfriend again?"
John blinked up at him blearily. The light in the small room was far too bright, and it felt like he'd slept maybe an hour. Parker stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed in front of his chest, his dark-skinned face set in an accusing scowl as he glared.
John scrubbed a hand across his face and asked, "What time is it?" Sadly, what came out sounded more like, "Timezzit?"
He was so tired.
He'd had been having a rough couple of days. Rodney had been... well, not all that different from how he was on most days, really; the problem was that on most days, Rodney was a giant asshole. John didn't even remember how many times they had fought about that damn calendar. Rodney didn't seem to get that John could hardly bear to look at the thing without feeling nauseous: of the twelve men who had posed for the pictures, three had died in that subway gas explosion. Another had been killed during a search and rescue when a wall had collapsed on top of him. But Rodney... Rodney just found them hot and kept putting the calendar back up on the wall, shallow and thoughtless, and for all John couldn't talk about his issues, he had no trouble at all calling Rodney a self-absorbed jerk.
"Three a.m.," Parker said, and John glared at him.
"So what the fuck are you waking me up for?"
He'd spent the last two nights at the station. When there weren't fires to be fought and animals to be rescued, the station was more like a dorm than anything else, and John hadn't had any trouble finding an empty room to spend the night. This time, he had promised himself grimly, he'd only go back to Rodney's place to move out for good. Too many of their fights had ended with him giving in to Rodney's honest bewilderment, spending his anger in the bedroom instead of leaving as he had planned to do. John really needed to remember that great sex didn't make a satisfying relationship.
"This is my room, man." Parker scowled. "If you and loverboy are having another tiff, fine, but leave me out of it."
John groaned and rolled out of bed, throwing the pillow at Parker's head. Parker caught it.
"There are eight rooms on this floor. You couldn't choose another one?"
"I like this one."
"Whatever." John would just move on to the bed next door. Parker had been acting weird ever since the first time Rodney had collected John at the station and they had greeted each other with a kiss. John honestly didn't know if Parker's problem was that Rodney was a guy, or that he was Rodney. He didn't care much, either.
He'd grabbed his pants, shoes and radio and was just about to step past Parker when the alarm went off. Seconds later, their radios crackled to life.
"10-75 on the corner of 13th and Main," dispatch's tinny voice announced. "All Hands-"
John didn't even hear the rest. His heart lurched in his chest and he stumbled - would have fallen if Parker hadn't caught his arm.
"Shit, Sheppard," Parker breathed, his eyes wide as he stared at John, "that's your place, isn't it?"
John let out a shaky breath and rasped, "Yeah," his lungs so tight they didn't seem to hold enough air for his voice. Parker squeezed his arm and took off, running down the hall as John shoved his legs into his pants, heart pounding in his throat.
Rodney.
~~~
John wasn't technically on duty, so he rode on Engine 9 instead of Ladder 11. He sat in tense silence, the rushing in his ears so loud he barely heard the airhorn as they barrelled across intersections and down the mostly-empty streets. 3 a.m. in Riverdale meant that almost everyone was asleep, and John clenched his fists in his lap as he thought about beds, and fire, and people dying from smoke inhalation without ever waking up.
Seeing the apartment building was a physical shock. A blaze so bright it lit the sky from several blocks away, the heat crackled on John's skin and parched the back of his throat as he jumped out of the truck. Two companies had already connected their hoses to the hydrants and were directing water at the protesting flames, creating clouds of steam and spray and acrid smoke. A crowd of rubbernecks had already assembled, shouting and pointing and generally standing in the way.
"Sheppard!" Beckman grabbed John's elbow as he started to jog towards the building, already fumbling for the axe in his belt. The captain's dark-blond bangs were already plastered against his forehead as he shouted over the noise. "Keep those people away from my trucks!"
John's heart stuttered in his chest. "Sir!" he protested. Rodney was in their apartment; he needed to -
"I'm not sending anyone in there right now," Beckman said firmly, "not under these conditions."
On one of the upper floors, a window exploded in a rain of shards, flames billowing through the opening like deadly curtains.
"But Captain-" John started, only to be cut off.
"There's nothing alive in there, son," Beckman said, his voice uncomfortably gentle as he squeezed John's shoulder. "Now go, keep the gawkers safe."
John could barely breathe as he stared at the burning building. They had Ladders on both sides now, dousing the upper floors, steam mingling with the smoke. Somewhere inside, something collapsed with a crash. Moments later, a rose of fire bloomed out of a fourth-floor apartment. Their apartment, John realised numbly.
There's nothing alive in there.
He swallowed, eyes and lungs burning, and went to follow his orders.
~~~
The next hours passed in a blur of shouting orders, watching the water pressure, keeping people from being brained by falling debris, and waiting for the fire to die down enough to allow reasonably safe passage for the search and rescue teams.
Well. The search teams, at least.
There's nothing alive in there.
"Sheppard," the Captain said finally, "get your ass over to the EMTs before you fall down." In a kinder voice, he added, "Take a break. We'll take care of things."
John nodded, and went to get checked over. Every part of him was numb, cold despite the sweat running down his face. The EMT hmmmed and fussed and finally diagnosed him with shock, combined with plain exhaustion. John ended up sitting on Engine 9's bumper, blanket wrapped around him as he stared at the smoking, blackened ruin of a building that, two days ago, had held his life.
No one's life would be found in there now. Everything was gone, extinguished by fire. He wondered absently how many had died in their sleep; how many had burned when flames had trapped them in a room, a corridor, the stairway.
Parker approached, took one look at John's face, grimaced, and turned away again. John didn't care. His eyes were stinging with soot and sweat, and he fought not to let the tears brim over. His hands shook as he clutched the blanket tighter, the heat radiating from steel and concrete like ice on his face.
He didn't know how long he sat there. Long enough for Vince and Perez to drag something blackened and small from the wreckage and cover it with a tarp. Not long enough for anyone to brave the upper floors. Long enough to know that the hollowness inside his chest would never, ever go away. Not long enough for him to dare think the name that went with it.
"Sheppard," Parker said from somewhere to his right. John ignored him. "Sheppard. John."
John turned his head. He wasn't interested in whatever Parker had to say to him, but maybe after he'd said his piece, Parker would leave him alone.
His breath caught in his throat as his gaze slipped past Parker, dragged a compass needle pulled to North to the man standing behind Parker's shoulder.
In the fire trucks' flashing lights and high beams, Rodney's face looked white as chalk. His eyes were wide and a little wild as he stared at John, mouth opening and closing with no sound coming out.
John didn't remember getting to his feet. The blanket fell from his shoulders as he staggered forward and Rodney stumbled into his arms. They clung to each other like drowning men clinging to a lifeline, Rodney's face pressed into John's neck, John rubbing his cheek against Rodney's fine hair. Rodney felt fantastic against him, solid and shaking and so full of life that John's anguish bubbled out of him in a shaky laugh. His laughter turned into hiccups, wetness trailing down his cheeks and into Rodney's hair, and John clutched him tighter, uncaring who might see him cry as long as Rodney was there with him. And Rodney was, rocking them both as he pressed shaky kisses against the side of John's neck, hands running over John's back as if to check for injuries.
John closed his eyes, and just felt.
When he could breathe easily again and his face was dry, he kissed the side of Rodney's head and gently disentangled himself from their embrace. One hand still on Rodney's elbow, John looked him up and down.
Rodney's thin blue shirt was stained with sweat and what ashes had rubbed off from John's gear, one cheek streaked with soot. His brown corduroy pants hadn't fared any better, and one of his sneakers was wet from where he must have stepped in a puddle.
He was the best damn thing John had ever seen.
"Lab?" John asked hoarsely, in lieu of all the things he couldn't say, and Rodney nodded.
"I, uh... I couldn't sleep alone," he said in a voice that suggested he was confessing to a shameful secret. He bit his lip, then he took a deep breath and looked John square in the eyes. "Look, John... I'm sorry. Whatever I did, I'm sorry, and I promise I won't... I'll try not to do it again, and would you please just come home? Please." His gaze flicked to the smoking ruin and he barked out a humourless laugh. "Not that there's anything left to come home to."
"Rodney..." John began, suddenly tired, letting his hand drop from Rodney's elbow. He was glad Rodney was alive, but they'd been through this, more often than John cared to count. He didn't have the energy for yet another fight... not now. "We both know that this isn't wor-"
"I love you," Rodney said hurriedly. John blinked at him, mouth still open. "And you love me. I know it, and you know it, and your fireman buddy knows it or he wouldn't have called me at the U. I know you'd rather cut off your arm than say it out loud. I know you hate country music but admire Johnny Cash, and I know the only reason you became a firefighter rather than join the Air Force is because you wanted to save people, not kill them. I know you think Eartha Kitt was the better Catwoman, and that you drink grape juice only because orange might kill me, and that you are pathologically incabable of squeezing the toothpaste anywhere but in the middle." He looked at John, eyes huge and blue and imploring. "Don't tell me this isn't working. We can make it work. I'm good at making things work. I make things work all the time."
John didn't answer. He couldn't answer, I love you still slamming around his head like a wrecking ball. He stared at Rodney, noticing for the first time that Rodney's eyes were bloodshot, his chin and the lines of his jaw covered in stubble. He looked as tired and miserable as John had felt for the past two days.
He looked... exhausted.
John took a deep breath, the stink of wet soot thick in the air, and blurted, "No more fireman calendars." He cleared his throat against the lump that was making his voice waver.
"Okay," Rodney said immediately, but then he blinked, looking puzzled. He opened his mouth, snapped it shut again and gave John a hesitant smile instead. Then he frowned, fidgeted, and finally blurted, "Maybe something with kittens?"
I love you.
"Okay," John echoed, his voice still faint. For some reason, his heart was picking up speed, as if they were aiming straight for the next emergency, and John had the sudden, insistent feeling that he was in way over his head.
But maybe that was where he needed to be.
"Okay," he said again, and when Rodney's smile returned with more of its usual confidence, John kissed him.
Okay.
~~~
The End.
Rating: PG
Word count: ~2,200
Pairings: John/Rodney
Warnings: off-screen death of minor original characters
Summary: John could barely breathe as he stared at the burning building. They had Ladders on both sides now, dousing the upper floors, steam mingling with the smoke. Somewhere inside, something collapsed with a crash. Moments later, a rose of fire bloomed out of a fourth-floor apartment. Their apartment, John realised numbly.
Notes: AU, sequel to By the End of April, and written for deltacephei and her mad author-guessing skillz. Beta-read by the ever-amazing kisa_hawklin. ♥ And I'm posting a day early as I've no idea whether I'll be able to snatch a few minutes online tomorrow and Saturday, and I had promised fic.
If you haven't read By the End of April and don't want to invest the time: John's a fireman; Rodney's a professor who fell in lust with him after seeing him as Mr. May in the city's Firefighters Calendar; John saved Rodney's life in a subway gas explosion and agreed to go on a date despite previously considering himself straight; they're both selfish idiots, in their own ways. People die.
~~~
August Blaze
"Jesus, Sheppard," Parker said, kicking the bed as he scoffed, "broke up with your boyfriend again?"
John blinked up at him blearily. The light in the small room was far too bright, and it felt like he'd slept maybe an hour. Parker stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed in front of his chest, his dark-skinned face set in an accusing scowl as he glared.
John scrubbed a hand across his face and asked, "What time is it?" Sadly, what came out sounded more like, "Timezzit?"
He was so tired.
He'd had been having a rough couple of days. Rodney had been... well, not all that different from how he was on most days, really; the problem was that on most days, Rodney was a giant asshole. John didn't even remember how many times they had fought about that damn calendar. Rodney didn't seem to get that John could hardly bear to look at the thing without feeling nauseous: of the twelve men who had posed for the pictures, three had died in that subway gas explosion. Another had been killed during a search and rescue when a wall had collapsed on top of him. But Rodney... Rodney just found them hot and kept putting the calendar back up on the wall, shallow and thoughtless, and for all John couldn't talk about his issues, he had no trouble at all calling Rodney a self-absorbed jerk.
"Three a.m.," Parker said, and John glared at him.
"So what the fuck are you waking me up for?"
He'd spent the last two nights at the station. When there weren't fires to be fought and animals to be rescued, the station was more like a dorm than anything else, and John hadn't had any trouble finding an empty room to spend the night. This time, he had promised himself grimly, he'd only go back to Rodney's place to move out for good. Too many of their fights had ended with him giving in to Rodney's honest bewilderment, spending his anger in the bedroom instead of leaving as he had planned to do. John really needed to remember that great sex didn't make a satisfying relationship.
"This is my room, man." Parker scowled. "If you and loverboy are having another tiff, fine, but leave me out of it."
John groaned and rolled out of bed, throwing the pillow at Parker's head. Parker caught it.
"There are eight rooms on this floor. You couldn't choose another one?"
"I like this one."
"Whatever." John would just move on to the bed next door. Parker had been acting weird ever since the first time Rodney had collected John at the station and they had greeted each other with a kiss. John honestly didn't know if Parker's problem was that Rodney was a guy, or that he was Rodney. He didn't care much, either.
He'd grabbed his pants, shoes and radio and was just about to step past Parker when the alarm went off. Seconds later, their radios crackled to life.
"10-75 on the corner of 13th and Main," dispatch's tinny voice announced. "All Hands-"
John didn't even hear the rest. His heart lurched in his chest and he stumbled - would have fallen if Parker hadn't caught his arm.
"Shit, Sheppard," Parker breathed, his eyes wide as he stared at John, "that's your place, isn't it?"
John let out a shaky breath and rasped, "Yeah," his lungs so tight they didn't seem to hold enough air for his voice. Parker squeezed his arm and took off, running down the hall as John shoved his legs into his pants, heart pounding in his throat.
Rodney.
~~~
John wasn't technically on duty, so he rode on Engine 9 instead of Ladder 11. He sat in tense silence, the rushing in his ears so loud he barely heard the airhorn as they barrelled across intersections and down the mostly-empty streets. 3 a.m. in Riverdale meant that almost everyone was asleep, and John clenched his fists in his lap as he thought about beds, and fire, and people dying from smoke inhalation without ever waking up.
Seeing the apartment building was a physical shock. A blaze so bright it lit the sky from several blocks away, the heat crackled on John's skin and parched the back of his throat as he jumped out of the truck. Two companies had already connected their hoses to the hydrants and were directing water at the protesting flames, creating clouds of steam and spray and acrid smoke. A crowd of rubbernecks had already assembled, shouting and pointing and generally standing in the way.
"Sheppard!" Beckman grabbed John's elbow as he started to jog towards the building, already fumbling for the axe in his belt. The captain's dark-blond bangs were already plastered against his forehead as he shouted over the noise. "Keep those people away from my trucks!"
John's heart stuttered in his chest. "Sir!" he protested. Rodney was in their apartment; he needed to -
"I'm not sending anyone in there right now," Beckman said firmly, "not under these conditions."
On one of the upper floors, a window exploded in a rain of shards, flames billowing through the opening like deadly curtains.
"But Captain-" John started, only to be cut off.
"There's nothing alive in there, son," Beckman said, his voice uncomfortably gentle as he squeezed John's shoulder. "Now go, keep the gawkers safe."
John could barely breathe as he stared at the burning building. They had Ladders on both sides now, dousing the upper floors, steam mingling with the smoke. Somewhere inside, something collapsed with a crash. Moments later, a rose of fire bloomed out of a fourth-floor apartment. Their apartment, John realised numbly.
There's nothing alive in there.
He swallowed, eyes and lungs burning, and went to follow his orders.
~~~
The next hours passed in a blur of shouting orders, watching the water pressure, keeping people from being brained by falling debris, and waiting for the fire to die down enough to allow reasonably safe passage for the search and rescue teams.
Well. The search teams, at least.
There's nothing alive in there.
"Sheppard," the Captain said finally, "get your ass over to the EMTs before you fall down." In a kinder voice, he added, "Take a break. We'll take care of things."
John nodded, and went to get checked over. Every part of him was numb, cold despite the sweat running down his face. The EMT hmmmed and fussed and finally diagnosed him with shock, combined with plain exhaustion. John ended up sitting on Engine 9's bumper, blanket wrapped around him as he stared at the smoking, blackened ruin of a building that, two days ago, had held his life.
No one's life would be found in there now. Everything was gone, extinguished by fire. He wondered absently how many had died in their sleep; how many had burned when flames had trapped them in a room, a corridor, the stairway.
Parker approached, took one look at John's face, grimaced, and turned away again. John didn't care. His eyes were stinging with soot and sweat, and he fought not to let the tears brim over. His hands shook as he clutched the blanket tighter, the heat radiating from steel and concrete like ice on his face.
He didn't know how long he sat there. Long enough for Vince and Perez to drag something blackened and small from the wreckage and cover it with a tarp. Not long enough for anyone to brave the upper floors. Long enough to know that the hollowness inside his chest would never, ever go away. Not long enough for him to dare think the name that went with it.
"Sheppard," Parker said from somewhere to his right. John ignored him. "Sheppard. John."
John turned his head. He wasn't interested in whatever Parker had to say to him, but maybe after he'd said his piece, Parker would leave him alone.
His breath caught in his throat as his gaze slipped past Parker, dragged a compass needle pulled to North to the man standing behind Parker's shoulder.
In the fire trucks' flashing lights and high beams, Rodney's face looked white as chalk. His eyes were wide and a little wild as he stared at John, mouth opening and closing with no sound coming out.
John didn't remember getting to his feet. The blanket fell from his shoulders as he staggered forward and Rodney stumbled into his arms. They clung to each other like drowning men clinging to a lifeline, Rodney's face pressed into John's neck, John rubbing his cheek against Rodney's fine hair. Rodney felt fantastic against him, solid and shaking and so full of life that John's anguish bubbled out of him in a shaky laugh. His laughter turned into hiccups, wetness trailing down his cheeks and into Rodney's hair, and John clutched him tighter, uncaring who might see him cry as long as Rodney was there with him. And Rodney was, rocking them both as he pressed shaky kisses against the side of John's neck, hands running over John's back as if to check for injuries.
John closed his eyes, and just felt.
When he could breathe easily again and his face was dry, he kissed the side of Rodney's head and gently disentangled himself from their embrace. One hand still on Rodney's elbow, John looked him up and down.
Rodney's thin blue shirt was stained with sweat and what ashes had rubbed off from John's gear, one cheek streaked with soot. His brown corduroy pants hadn't fared any better, and one of his sneakers was wet from where he must have stepped in a puddle.
He was the best damn thing John had ever seen.
"Lab?" John asked hoarsely, in lieu of all the things he couldn't say, and Rodney nodded.
"I, uh... I couldn't sleep alone," he said in a voice that suggested he was confessing to a shameful secret. He bit his lip, then he took a deep breath and looked John square in the eyes. "Look, John... I'm sorry. Whatever I did, I'm sorry, and I promise I won't... I'll try not to do it again, and would you please just come home? Please." His gaze flicked to the smoking ruin and he barked out a humourless laugh. "Not that there's anything left to come home to."
"Rodney..." John began, suddenly tired, letting his hand drop from Rodney's elbow. He was glad Rodney was alive, but they'd been through this, more often than John cared to count. He didn't have the energy for yet another fight... not now. "We both know that this isn't wor-"
"I love you," Rodney said hurriedly. John blinked at him, mouth still open. "And you love me. I know it, and you know it, and your fireman buddy knows it or he wouldn't have called me at the U. I know you'd rather cut off your arm than say it out loud. I know you hate country music but admire Johnny Cash, and I know the only reason you became a firefighter rather than join the Air Force is because you wanted to save people, not kill them. I know you think Eartha Kitt was the better Catwoman, and that you drink grape juice only because orange might kill me, and that you are pathologically incabable of squeezing the toothpaste anywhere but in the middle." He looked at John, eyes huge and blue and imploring. "Don't tell me this isn't working. We can make it work. I'm good at making things work. I make things work all the time."
John didn't answer. He couldn't answer, I love you still slamming around his head like a wrecking ball. He stared at Rodney, noticing for the first time that Rodney's eyes were bloodshot, his chin and the lines of his jaw covered in stubble. He looked as tired and miserable as John had felt for the past two days.
He looked... exhausted.
John took a deep breath, the stink of wet soot thick in the air, and blurted, "No more fireman calendars." He cleared his throat against the lump that was making his voice waver.
"Okay," Rodney said immediately, but then he blinked, looking puzzled. He opened his mouth, snapped it shut again and gave John a hesitant smile instead. Then he frowned, fidgeted, and finally blurted, "Maybe something with kittens?"
I love you.
"Okay," John echoed, his voice still faint. For some reason, his heart was picking up speed, as if they were aiming straight for the next emergency, and John had the sudden, insistent feeling that he was in way over his head.
But maybe that was where he needed to be.
"Okay," he said again, and when Rodney's smile returned with more of its usual confidence, John kissed him.
Okay.
~~~
The End.