Broken Glass
"I think I might just hate you."
Four pairs of wide eyes settled on his water soaked chest. Only Gage seemed unconcerned by his quiet declaration, for reasons Hank could easily suss out for himself.
"Uh... sorry, Cap," Chet stammered. He grabbed a dishtowel and dabbed uselessly at the sopping wet uniform. "That wasn't... I mean-"
"He means I was supposed to open the cabinet, not you, Cap," Gage said. He seemed to be enjoying this turn of events a little too much.
No one else seemed to think it was funny, though. Even Daniels, who'd spent maybe every other shift with them, looked edgy about how a fairly green captain as going to react to getting hit in a prank war.
Hank didn't know how he was going to react either. He hadn't meant to voice his reaction aloud, but he had, and he couldn't exactly take it back. So now he looked like an overreacting ogre. But he had just changed into a fresh shirt after getting splattered with motor oil at that morning's MVA. (The team had very gleefully declared his shirt the only casualty, but he'd snapped a bit when Chet [of course] got a little too familiar, so everyone was now a bit wary of the new boss.)
Hank bypassed the mug he'd been reaching for, and grabbed a nice, tall glass instead. He'd gently pushed through the men crowded around him to the fridge, poured himself a nice, tall, chilly glass of milk, returned to the group, and immediately dumped it over Chet Kelly's head. The dismayed squawk he got was worth getting a chest full of cold water thrown at him.
Nobody moved.
Okay, maybe that was a little childish.
The tones dropped, and Chet looked up at the metal speaker in horror - if he had to go to a fire soaked in milk...
But the call was for the squad, to both his and Hank's relief. The prankster went to the washroom, head hung low, while Hank acknowledged the call.
When he passed the address in to the squad, he was surprised to see a terribly wicked grin on Gage's face. "I gotta tell ya, that was great, Cap." He waggled his eyebrows, and jammed the squad into gear.
Hank chuckled a little. The other men might have been horrified, but Chet's favorite victim was happy to have an immature brat for a captain. Fine with him.
He went to the washroom to try drying his shirt with the hairdryer, and sighed when he saw Chet using it while he raked through his curls with a giant stiff brush. Hank decided to go for casual: "You all cleaned up there, Kelly?"
Chet flinched but he tried putting on a pleasant face. "Yeah, Cap, just trying to rule this rat's nest."
It wasn't a rats nest. It was a really nice head of hair, the kind of hair Hank always wanted, instead of the flyaway floppy mess he got. But he didn't dare say so - he didn't want to get too chummy with the men and start rattling on about wishing he was pretty and whatnot before he'd passed probation. So he just sat on the bench and waited quietly for the dryer.
Chet paused and stared into the mirror for a second before he turned around and stuck his lip out underneath the half developed fuzz growing over his mouth. "Uh did you want to talk to me? Sir?" He seemed to squirm without moving a muscle.
Hank sighed. He didn't like being the source of nervousness for his men. He didn't want to be that guy. "No, no. I just want the dryer when you're done. I don't wanna change - this is is a perfectly good shirt," he said, and then caught himself before he said more. God, he was harping.
But Chet held the dryer out. "I can probably air dry at this point," he said. "Uh, sorry about the shirt, Cap. Really."
"It's okay," Hank said. And it was. "I'm really not mad. I just had my mind set on getting some coffee real fast before returning to the torture."
"Torture?"
"Paperwork."
"Oh." Chet's mouth quirked up. That had to be a good sign. "How do you like it?"
"Paperwork? It's torture - I just said that!"
Chet's laughter was a little nervous. "No, not- I meant being the big boss."
"Oh. I don't know. I guess I like it. I certainly like the bump in pay." Oh, brother, did Hank like the bump in pay - when he'd cashed his first check after the promotion, he'd spent the whole day cackling about all the wonderful shit he could do without scraping and skimping for ten pay periods. Not that it was enough to offset all the extra damned paperwork that came with the job (or the stress of knowing everything rested squarely on his shoulders every time he showed up for work), but it sure had been a nice shock that first time he saw that check.
"Yeah but... don't you miss horsing around?"
"I never really horsed around too much."
"Oh." Chet seemed to shrink in on himself. He cleared his throat and said, "Stoker's pretty serious too, I guess. Roy too. I guess I'm just some kind of a jerk."
"You're not a jerk." He questioned the wisdom of trying to spare Chet's feelings the moment the words were out of his mouth, but the sort of sad but hopeful look Chet gave him told Hank he was right to try to soothe the young man. "You might be a childish buffoon, but you're not a jerk." When Chet smiled, he added, "I think."
"Yeah, well." Chet went to his locker and pulled out a fresh shirt. "I guess I should try to get serious if I want to move up the ranks, though."
Hank shrugged. "For what it's worth, the last three captains I had were comedians. They used to prank the hell out of everyone. And they loved targeting me. I think they kinda liked to watch me go into a tailspin."
"Huh." Chet checked his reflection one last time. "So you thought you'd get away from all that, and got stuck with me."
"There are worse things to be stuck with, Kelly. Just don't get dangerous, and don't think I'm gonna step in and rescue you if Gage gets sick of your pranks." He smiled. "If Gage can handle it, I'm okay with it."
Chet nodded somberly, then exhaled hard and long, like the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. "Okay. Okay." He looked sheepish again. "Really, though. Sorry."
"Would you forget it? It's fine!"
"I just don't want my review to reflect poorly on-"
"Oh, get out of here, you twit." Hank turned the dryer up to full blast, to drown out any other protests Chet might make. He pretended not to notice when Chet let himself out of the locker room.
The moment the door swung shut, the worries sprang up. Maybe he should have put his foot down after all. Maybe it hadn't been a good idea to let Kelly off the hook. Maybe he should be tougher about firehouse pranking. Maybe he shouldn't have admitted to being the brunt of every company prank - since that's practically what he'd done. Maybe he should have made it clear he was off limits in whatever prank war was coming. Maybe he shouldn't have admitted to never being part of the gang. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
He put the dryer away, smoothed his shirt down, and fingered his too long bangs out of his eyes. Ugh. He didn't look like a captain, collar pips be damned. He looked like the same worrywart fool he'd always been, down to the oh-god-there's-gonna-be-something-waiting-for-me-outside-the-door-I-just-know-it jitters. But the memory of those faces when Chet's waterbomb hit reminded him that those men didn't see what he saw in the mirror. For all his fumbling uncertainty, they saw a Captain. He squared his shoulders, and returned to the kitchen to play the part.
It probably wasn't right to be constantly disappointed by the wispy trash fires that seemed to be Hank's lot of late, but he was. His skin was itching for a real challenge - something that didn't tear him from his lunch bowl just long enough for it to get cold. And he didn't particularly want the bigger disasters that seemed to be the norm in the thick of the city - car wrecks were a sad, sorry business that made his heart squeeze with fear and anguish. Cliff edge disasters were only slightly better, a strange reminder of his brief but powerful days as a rescue man, before he realized he didn't necessarily have the nerves for the crunch of bone and squelch of blood. (How he'd forgotten that little detail when he'd agreed to captain a station outfitted with a pair of fully trained paramedics, he couldn't really say. Must have been that rush of adrenaline that coursed through him before the rest of the scene had a chance to register.)
Whatever the case, Hank was not a happy camper. He was hot, tired, hungry, antsy and half convinced that the universe was getting ready to sweep the rug out from under his feet.
One thing he could say, the men were good. They needed no real instruction from him. Kelly and Lopez obviously had a rhythm, and they hopped right to it, pausing only long enough to get his confirmation on hose size. The charred sopping mess in the dumpster was squelched, the hoses were piled back on top of the engine, and the boys waited patiently for the all clear to get aboard and return to their cold bowls of stew. "Let's get going," he said, more to himself than his waiting crew.
No one seemed interested in the cold, abandoned lunch when they got back in. Hank poked at the fridge's innards, but in the end they choked down what they'd left on the table and scattered themselves across the station. That was fine by Hank. He needed to fill in the log (such a joy), and he wasn't particularly in the mood to be sociable.
"Hey, Cap?" Gage poked his head in the office door, and Hank had to tamp down the surge of guilt at getting caught daydreaming. He was the captain, dammit. So long as the work got done, no one could give him shit about woolgathering. He schooled his face into what he hoped looked like calm openness, and waited for Gage to speak. (If Gage noticed all the emotional changes, he was gracious enough to keep it to himself.) "You got a visitor. Should I send him in here, or...?"
A visitor? Who the heck would be visiting him at work? In all his years in the fire service, he'd never had an unexpected visitor (unless one counted random inspections, which he didn't). Maybe it was someone hoping for some OT who wanted a look at the station? Or maybe it wasn't for Hank specifically, maybe it was just a citizen who just wanted a look at the boss... that had to be it. "I'll be right out," he said, and abandoned the log book.
No sooner did he get to his feet did the squad get called out. John snorted and said, "He's in the kitchen, Cap. Don't worry, he seems to be in a good mood today." With that, John ran off and jumped behind the wheel.
Hank frowned. He had a visitor who Gage knew well enough to warn about moods, but who didn't come through typical channels, but also couldn't have been any one pulling an inspection, because Gage wouldn't just casually leave the guy alone in the dayroom... "Nuts," Hank whispered, and stalked into the kitchen to uncover this mystery.
Michael was at the stove, likely already halfway through a dinner that would also get abandoned halfway through it. Only he wasn't paying attention to the multiple posts and pans that were bubbling away. Instead, he was in deep conference with a suited civilian, who spoke in the low tones of someone bearing disappointing, if not entirely bad, news. The look on Stoker's face was hard to read - he wasn't as demonstrative or elastic as the others, and Hank was still learning what his particular cues meant. But then he nodded and sighed, and said, "Well that's a relief, Doc. We've all missed him - even Cap, though I don't think he knows that's why he's on edge."
Familiar laughter, dark and sexy, filled the room, before this doctor said, "How could your captain miss a man he hasn't served with yet?"
Mike smiled and shrugged, and finally noticed Hank hesitating by the table. "Hey, Cap. Spaghetti for dinner."
"That's great, Stoker," Hank said, but his mind was a billion miles away from dinner. He was too busy looking at Foxy, who was standing in his station, looking at least half as flustered as Hank felt. "Doctor Brackett," Hank said, and was terribly proud of himself when he didn't choke.
"Captain." A moment ago, the good doctor seemed so cool and collected. But now that he was aware of Hank's presence, he seemed almost skittish, like maybe he expected Hank to lash out at him.
"What can I do for you?" Hank reached for one of the chairs, but the way Dr. Brackett tensed up, and looked over his shoulder at Michael, made Hank switch tactics. Instead he leaned casually on the back of the chair and asked, "Would you like to chat here, or in the office?"
Rather than answer him, Dr. Brackett just smiled, that tight little smile he usually gave Hank before twisting out of his grasp and running for the hills. But Hank wasn't holding him, wasn't even touching him, hadn't touched him since the other day in Dr. Brackett's office - ho boy. Hank could feel the heat creeping up his neck, settling on his cheeks, as he realized how his invitation might sound.
But Brackett stuck his hands in his pockets and brushed past Hank, out to the bay, and left towards the office. The realization that Dr. Brackett wasn't entirely unfamiliar with the station set up rankled Hank, though he didn't know why. The doctor even seemed to know which desk was Hank's - he grabbed a chair from across the tiny room, and whirled it around to face Hank's desk. Hank ignored his irritation and eased the door up a little. "So, what can I do for you?"
Dr. Brackett cleared his throat, and hunched over in his seat, almost like he had to have a conference with his knees before he could say his piece. Hank resisted the urge to rush him - if the klaxons went off before Brackett said when he came to say, well, he'd learn a valuable lesson.
Finally, Brackett looked up with a tiny smile. "I wanted to say thank you."
"You're quite welcome," Hank said, bewildered. "Uh, for what?"
"Your kindness." Hank must have looked lost, because Dr. Brackett's little smile grew broader, brighter. "The list. And the company."
"Oh. You didn't have to come all the way down to the station for-"
"I wanted to."
Joy bubbled up inside Hank, like a babbling brook on a sunny day, and he couldn't stop the goofy, giddy smile that stretched his face in two. "Did you?"
Brackett's face twisted into something so miserable it made Hank's chest hurt. "Yes," Brackett said. His mouth twisted and trembled, and Hank knew he didn't want to hear the rest. Dr. Brackett was speaking in a low, soft voice, a voice that stirred up the butterflies in Hank's already churning belly. "I wanted you to know, you can't begin to understand just what you mean to me. You were a single candle in a very, very dark night. You came to me and kept vigils with me when I thought I was truly alone, when no one else could get through to me. There is no way I can possibly repay you for that."
He stopped. He stopped and looked at his leather booted feet, like maybe the boots were the ones feeding him these bullshit lines. Hank tried to wait out the sudden silence, but each thud of his heart threatened to crack his chest wide open. His only possible salvation was a word from Dr. Brackett's lips, an unknown word that apparently wasn't going to come. "Is that all?"
"No." Brackett finally looked up from his shoes, a slow, mechanical movement that looked like it took all the life force he had left in him. "No, there's more. Listen, Captain..." He winced. "That sounds so impersonal."
"But that's the way it has to be, isn't it?" Hanks voice sounded so calm to his ears, so reasonable, when he felt anything but. "If this is goodbye-"
"Not goodbye. Just... a change in course. If you're willing."
Hanks face pulled tight. A smirk, a grimace, it was all the same. "Are you giving me the let's-be-friends speech?"
Dr. Brackett actually had the audacity to look crushed. "I... He loves-"
"Now there's a he?" Hank buried his face in his hands for just a moment and tried not to give into the hitch in his throat, the hysteria that could either be a cackle or a sob. "Rebound," he said. "I'm the rebound guy."
"Not the rebound guy," Brackett said gently. "You were a friend when I didn't have one - well, a friend that could help me when my other friends were at a loss." He looked like he wanted to touch Hank, but thought better of it. "He and I... It's complicated, and ugly, and I'm trying to salvage the last twenty years of my life. But that doesn't mean that those few days of interconnection you and I shared were meaningless - just the opposite."
"Forgive me for being blunt, but it sounds to me like you just want me to be a backup in case your affair goes south again."
"That's not it at all," Brackett said a little too quickly, Hank thought. "I wanted to give you my new address. When we finish moving in, I'd like you to come have dinner with us. So we can thank you properly. You know, for pointing us to the apartment." He paused like he expected Hank to have some kind of intelligent response to such nonsense. When he finally caught on that, no, Hank didn't have shit to say, he sighed. "We have to work together-"
"We do?" Petulant, but Hank was past caring.
"Yes. You and I share the supervision of two men in this station, so we need to be able to get along. I believe we can, because they wouldn't have given you the position otherwise. But I'd hoped we'd be able to do more than tolerate each other. That you'd be able to... to forgive me."
Hank looked away. "We never made any promises," he said quietly.
"No. But I think I might have mislead you all the same, and for that, I do apologize."
"What do you expect me to say to that?"
"That you'll consider it. Consider forgiving me, and consider accepting my invitation."
That sweet, gentle sadness that kept Hank coming back for more was working its magic again. "I'll consider it," he said, though he knew it was a terrible thing to do, would only lead to more heartache in the end.
"Thank you," Brackett said with a smile. "I'll see myself out."