It was a half-assed renovation to start with, just drywall and plaster against the single-skin brick wall outside. It was why it was always cold in here in winter. Boyd tightened his grip on the shaft of the hooligan, his palms raw as blisters split and rubbed, and swung it at the wall. Paint chips and plaster dust flew as he cracked it open and peeled it off the wall. Shay scrambled to his feet and ignored Boyd’s order to stay down as he pulled chunks of plaster off and away.
The wooden frame underneath had already started to burn, and smoke eddied up from below and glowed sullenly in the struts. Boyd licked sweat off his upper lip and flicked the hooligan around in his hand so he could use the pick on the wall. The brick dented and chipped with each blow, and chunks of it bounced off his jacket and mask. A shard caught Shay on the jaw, flicked out a divot of skin, and stuck. Shay flinched and stepped back as blood trickled down his jaw. He pulled up his T-shirt and coughed into the folds of fabric.
A brick cracked and fell out of the wall.
Boyd’s shoulders ached, and his head throbbed in time to the blows. His hands were wet inside his gloves and he could feel them slip with each swing. He paused for a second to fix his grip and adjust his feet.
“Boyd,” Shay said hoarsely. “You like Morgan, huh?”
“I… do. Like him,” Boyd agreed raggedly. He used the hook of the hooligan to catch the edge of the bricks and wrench them out of the wall. Broken halves and chunks piled up around his feet. “Not really the time, though.”
Water sprayed in from the hoses directed their way from outside, droplets wet on the scarred metal. Boyd’s breath steamed the front of his mask.
“Yeah, well,” Shay said. “You might wanna tell him that. He’s not planning to stay.”
Boyd used the hooligan like a hammer to loosen the sagging bricks, and then someone from the other side barked for him to back up. He dropped the hooligan and stepped back so he could lean over and brace his hands on his thighs to catch his breath.
A grappling hook caught on the edge of the hole he’d battered in the wall. Someone yanked it twice to settle it in place.
“Clear below,” Jessie yelled, his voice strained, and then the motor of the winch coughed to life. The wall held for a second but then groaned and fell apart. Bricks shattered and rained down on the street below. The flood of fresh air fanned the fire, and flames spat up through the holes in the floor.
Boyd grabbed Shay and hauled him over to the hole. Cold water from the hoses splattered them both, and the ladder was nearly swung back into place. Jessie hung on to his as it moved, one hand stretched to grab Shay for support as he swung his legs out over the edge. His foot caught on the rung of the ladder and slipped.
“Shit,” Shay yelped as he dropped.
Boyd grabbed him under the arms and hauled him up so he could try again. This time he got both feet on the ladder and slid awkwardly down, his body sandwiched between Jessie and the ladder. He walked his hands along the rungs as he went down. Boyd waited until they were halfway down, fire hot against his back, and climbed out after them.
He slid down the ladder as fire crawled up the walls behind him. If it was the same arsonist who had run them from one end of the town to the other, they’d put more work into this fire. Boyd climbed down to the ground and slouched back against the truck as he pulled his SCBA off.
His eyes had been fine in the heart of a blazing fire, but now that he was outside, the smoke irritated his contacts. He rubbed the back of his wrists over his eyelids.
Harry, gray hair plastered to his skull with sweat, grabbed him by the forearm and pulled his arm down to check out the singed leather gloves.
“These aren’t your assigned gear,” he rasped out.
Boyd winced and pulled away so he could peel off the gloves. “I left them at the last fire,” he admitted. “My fault.”
“I’d write you up, but we don’t need to feed that fire,” Harry said. “One free pass. Don’t make a habit of it. And get someone to clean your hands up. Good job.”
He slapped Boyd on the shoulder and strode off. Boyd leaned his head back against the truck and grinned to himself.
Yeah. He was good at this, wasn’t he?
Someone grabbed him and yanked him roughly off the truck and forward. Boyd got his hands up and braced against the broad chest in a familiar hoodie. And then Morgan kissed him. He scraped his mouth impatiently over Boyd’s as he pulled him into his body.
“You’re an idiot,” Morgan grumbled into Boyd’s mouth as he let go of his jacket. He reached up and cupped Boyd’s face in his hands. “You could have been hurt.”
It was not at all professional, but Boyd didn’t care. He leaned into the kiss, his mouth curled into a smile under Morgan’s.
“It’s my job,” he said. “I’m fine.”
Morgan pushed him back into the truck and touched his forehead to Boyd’s, their breath warm where it mingled. “What if you weren’t?” he asked. “It’s a stupid fucking job. Quit.”
“No.” Boyd cupped his hand around the nape of Morgan’s neck and kissed him back. All he could taste was smoke and rubber, but he could imagine the taste of Morgan instead. He savored that for a second until someone wolf whistled at them. That was probably enough. He turned his head into Morgan’s hand, pressed a kiss to his palm, and pulled away. “Why are you here, anyhow?”
A shadow flickered over Morgan’s face, and he stepped back. The corner of his mouth turned up in a bitter grin. “I’ll let Mac fill you in on that,” he said. “He’s old. He hasn’t got much joy in his life. But… I’m glad you’re okay. It scared the crap out of me when I realized you were in there.”
Boyd laughed and bumped his shoulder against him as he stepped by. “You knew I was a firefighter. What did you think I did?”
