Page 2 of Fire & Ice

Tripp doesn’t pay them much mind. While he’s definitely worried about Eleven (natural, when he has friends at every station in the city), this type of situation is a part of the job, and it’s precisely what having a dedicated RIT team is for: rescuing the rescuers.

Less than two minutes after Gunnar’s order, Tripp’s standing outside the front door with a nozzle in hand and the rest of his newly-minted search and rescue team lined up on the pipe behind him. By that time, RIT is already extricating, leaving the house carrying two injured firefighters on Reeves. They move past Fifteen’s hose team in a wave of smoke, bringing the victims over to where EMS is running rehab so that they can be assessed.

A quick glance towards the rehab tent tells Tripp that there are only two ambulances on scene right now. He frowns, pausing before entering the house to radio Gunnar and ask for status on a third. Thinking ahead is important, since the kid they’re about to go looking for is more likely than not to need care, if not resus. Words the Chief told him during his probationary period years ago echo in Tripp’s head:Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.

“On the way, sugar,” Gunnar’s Louisiana accent crackles next to his ear. “Coming from Central, ETA four to five. Everyone from Eleven is accounted for, you’re cleared to enter the building. Make good choices, brotha.”

Behind his face shield, Tripp can’t help but roll his eyes at the sarcastic note in Gunnar’s voice. He does know that the Captain means well, so he traps the return barbs that bubble up in his throat, instead zeroing in on what he has to do. A hand patting his shoulder says that his team is ready, and with it, Tripp advances forward. Easy, low and tight to the wall, assessing for structural integrity as he steps in through the blackened doorway.

The first floor is dark and thick with the odor of fire and smoke, but it’s relatively clear. From the intel Gunnar received, there must’ve been some miscommunication with Eleven—the kid was never on the first floor to begin with. It’s now up toTripp and the rest of Fifteen to find him, wherever he might be hiding, somewhere on the second level. With the flames pouring freely from the third floor windows, Tripp doesn’t allow himself to dwell on the implications of someone being stuck any higher in the building—they’ll cross that bridge when they (hopefully don’t) come to it.

As he and his team are climbing the stairs, their breathing loud inside their masks and their arms full of hose line, Gunnar’s voice sounds again over the radio. “Idiot on Eleven tripped and took her buddy down with her. No one’s seriously hurt, ‘less we’re talkin’ ego. Only relaying so you don’t get all up in your head—I know how you are. Evac wasn’t even fire-related. Tripp, mother says the kid’s name is Ben, room is a left off of the stairs and two doors down on the right.”

“Ten-Four, Cap,” Tripp replies after depressing the button on the speaker mic clipped to his epaulette. At the top of the stairs, he follows Gunnar’s directions. The smoke pervading the second floor is much thicker, forcing the firefighters to get down on their knees and stay close to the ground, moving frustratingly slowly as they slog forward on all-fours. Tripp fumbles a little as he works to juggle holding onto the nozzleandfeeling along the wall for molding or breaks that indicate doors.

“One,” he calls out to the team members behind him, knowing that they heard Gunnar’s message over their own radios. Normally, they’d be checking every room and clearing as they went, but time is of the essence here, and they’re working with reliable intel that there’s only one person to rescueandthat he’s likely in the second room. The house isn’t particularly stable, either—drywall and beams creaking and snapping around them—and Tripp has no desire to be on the rescue-needing-end of a RIT team tonight.

“Two,” he declares, holding out a hand to stop Aydin, who’s right on his heels, from slamming a helmet into his ass.

Making quick work of a heat-check to the door, Tripp decides that it’s unlikely there’s fire behind it and turns the knob to shove it open. Sure as he was, the roomisalmost directly below where the fire is raging, so he still breathes a sigh of relief when it turns out the flames haven’t spread. Unfortunately, while wet marks are steadily tracking down the walls from where hoses are flooding water into the house from outside, the fire is nowhere near controlled.

“Ben!” Tripp calls out, but there’s no reply. They look to be in the right place, at least, if his bedroom is where Ben is hiding. Definitely decorated to be a young boy’s room—sports posters on the walls that are curling and falling, shriveling in the heat and threatening to catch. A twin bed boasts a Lightning McQueen comforter and matching pillow, and toys and clothes are scattered all over the floor.

A quick glance around doesn’t reveal anything overtly out of place, save for the smoky conditions that are worsening by the minute. From where he’s crouched, Tripp can confidently clear the space underneath the bed—no Ben.

Within seconds, he clocks the closed closet door that’s directly across the room and locks onto it. Tripp follows his instincts, standing and striding over to throw the door wide, feeling conflicting swells of relief and fear at what he sees inside as he drops back down into a crouch. Ben is curled up small and motionless in the farthest corner of the dark space, his skinny arms wrapped tightly around his legs, his head buried firmly in between them.

“Ben,” Tripp repeats, this time more gently as he reaches out to touch Ben’s arm. The closet wouldn’t have done the boy any favors if the flames had spread to this room, but it actuallyseems to have kept some of the smoke out, or perhaps the clothing hanging above Ben’s head provided some filtration. Tripp isn’t sure, but whatever the reason, Ben is relievedly awake. Lifting his head, the boy blinks owlishly up at him, looking terrified and sleepy. He’s got soot on his face, ash under his nose and around his lips, and while he seems to be compensating well at the moment, Tripp realizes that time is of the essence—much longer spent inside this house and Ben will be in deep trouble.

“Come on, buddy,” he urges, opening his arms and wrapping them around Ben’s little body as he eagerly climbs into them, clinging on tight. This close, Tripp can feel that his breathing is raspy and rattled. He stands and activates the mic with his free hand as soon as they're set. “Coming out with one, awake and alert but needs EMS, Mom can meet us.”

Abandoning the nozzle, Tripp brushes past the rest of Fifteen’s crew to exit down the stairs, knowing that his people will take care of the hose line and whatever interior attack Mickey orders next. Ben is the priority right now, and Tripp’s extremely glad that he didn’t have to warn Gunnar to keep the boy’s mom at bay. It’s nothing he takes pleasure in doing, and only would’ve happened if Ben was found in worse condition. Hurt kids are something no emergency responder wants to see—something that’s almost universally dreaded and generally agreed upon to be nightmare fuel—and devastated parents are their own tragedy.

Not today,Tripp resolves, his gloved hand cupping the back of Ben’s head protectively, the kid’s face buried in the fabric of his bunker jacket.

Stepping out into the LED-lit front yard and emergency-vehicle-strewn street, Tripp blinks against the harsh, bright lights and looks around for the raised hand he knows will bethere.Gunnar.Standing to one side of the scene, out by the curb, his Captain is waving wildly, trying to attract Tripp’s attention. His eyes find their target just as Gunnar’s voice comes over the radio.

“To your left, sugar.”

It feels like every eye on location is following them as he and Ben exit stage left, but only for a minute, and then they’re back to focusing on the project everyone was sent here to solve.Rescue. Contain. Extinguish.So far, so good, even considering Eleven’s minor mistake.

Shit happens.

Out of the direct glare of the lights, Tripp’s able to find and focus on the EMT standing next to Gunnar on the sidewalk—a familiar red-headed pixie that he’s extremely happy to see. Marley, EMT-Basic extraordinaire and Tripp’s best friend, grins as he steps up, turning Ben in his arms so she can eyeball an assessment.

Marley’s holding an oxygen tank in a bag slung around her shoulder and has a non-rebreather mask inflated and at the ready. She’s great with kids, and it takes very little coaxing for Ben to allow her to apply the mask. Despite that, he continues clinging to Tripp, even as his mother rushes to his side, grabbing at his torso and kissing his head from the side, sobbing into his hair. Sometimes that happens—kids are quick to bond to their rescuers.

“Thank god, thank god,” Tripp hears the mom crying.

“Let’s move this to the ambulance,” Gunnar murmurs, more for the mother’s benefit than anything else. He takes the distraught woman’s elbow and gently guides her towards the box truck, idling with its lights flashing. She keeps looking overher shoulder to thank Tripp, crying and gushing profusely, but he barely notices.

In another world, this woman would be exactly his type, what with the dark hair and the dark eyes, and the yoga pants that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination. Maybe it’d be something to consider if everything in his life wasn’t already in the process of changing.

Marley opens the side door to the ambulance and Tripp climbs in, Ben’s positioning in his arms initially preventing him from seeing the paramedic who is occupying the back. Whoever it is must be setting up their gear, preparing for the worst while Marley went and retrieved their patient.

At the top of the three steps into the box, Tripp turns and nearly comes nose-to-nose with a pair ofveryfamiliar blue eyes. They crinkle at their corners at the sight of him, and in response, his stomach turns over, doing its best to tie itself in knots whileTrippdoes his damndest not to let it show.

“Heya, Lee,” Tripp says. The greeting comes out a little breathless, which he hopes can be attributed to his current situation and not the reality, which is that he’salwaysa little too happy to see his best friend. Leander just smiles back, motioning for Tripp to hand the boy over, which Gunnar doesn’t seem overly thrilled about, but allows. Gunnar’s big on doing the heavy lifting for the ambulance crews whenever it’s possible, and most of them love him for it, but not Leander. He mostly takes the rule as a personal affront to his biceps.

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