Beau almost wishes he had been fired.

     He loves his job—he has loved it since the first day he started. He wants to do this as long as he can, is willing to maybe even die for it.

     But he fucking hates Captain Shepherd. He'd rather choke on his balls than have to report to him ever, let alone every day for the foreseeable future. Sure, Chief sweetened the deal by giving him his first trainee. It was bittersweet, in a way. Beau was stepping into the role Jimmy had left behind. He promised to do him justice.

     That promise did not extend to doing anything by fucking Shepherd.

     It sucked before when Shepherd would show up on their calls and assume incident command and he'd have to listen to the pain in the ass telling him how to do his job. A job he knows very well how to do. Now, he had to deal with that for every call. Fuck his entire life. Fuck it twice.

     And he'd have to share quarters with the prick. Share living spaces and dining spaces and showering spaces. He never thought warm, wet places would feel more daunting than the hot, fire-filled spaces.

     Maybe he'd be better off moving out of Culpeper. He'd considered it. Considered it plenty. Go up North and join the FDNY. It was enticing. But he was rooted to the satanic town. The place where his childhood had died, where the closest thing he had to a father had died, and the closest thing he'd had to a brother had just died, too.

     He knows he should leave. But he stays, and he stays and he stays.

     And finds himself walking into the station at 7:30 AM on Wednesday with all the things he'd left at Station Three to get him through his first 48-hour shift. It's a lot, most of which he'll shove into his designated locker. He'll put his gear with everyone else's in the bay, and try to take up as little space as possible at his shared bunk. Makes it easier when he has to pack it up and unpack it every two days.

     It's balmy and bright out, a little too warm for spring but not nearly the southern fry June will bring. He likes this kind of weather, even though it's kind of sticky. Makes most people sweat and keep the lemonade pouring. Beau's got a thing for heat.

     The bay door's open, and one of the guys from the other night — Tony — is under the hood of their engine, pulling the oil stick and checking the level as he walks up.

     He must hear Beau's steps, looking up and over at him. "Oh hey," he says with a nod. "Welcome to the club."

     Beau nods, ducking his head mostly as he mumbles, "Yeah, thanks."

     Tony turns back to the truck, putting the oil stick back. "Good to know you're not shit relief. Though, doesn't matter for me, I suppose," he says, reaching up and slamming the hood down.

     "We're on the same rotation?" Beau asks curiously.

     Tony nods, wiping his hands on a towel. "Yeah. You, me, Mac, the other new kid, Eli and Cap. A-Squad."

     It sounds like a jail cell crew, but that's just how they delineate the alternating shifts. Barring any sick outs or PTO, they'll roll with the same crew for forty-eight hours every two days. The alternating shift, B-Squad, is opposite them.

     "I'll show you around," Tony says, tucking the towel into the loop of his BDUs as he walks ahead.

     Beau gratefully nods, though he imagines he doesn't need a tour. Firehouses are pretty much all the same. Station Two has more space to accommodate its ladder engine, training center, and smokehouse. Station Two is where continuing education and competencies are normally held for this reason. The smokehouse is a fairly new addition, built with the grant they received from the state for extraordinary service.

     Beau lags behind Tony, watching him as they pass between their ambulance and engine. He seems alright, this Tony guy. Friendly enough. Beau always takes stock of people's size, thinks about if he could beat them if they squared up. Tony's taller than him, but only by a few inches, which is not all that noticeable, especially if Beau were to throw his work boots on. They add a little height.

     But Beau's frame is larger. Tony has narrow shoulders and is muscular but not large. His curly hair seems to be the only big thing on him.

     Tony holds the door off the bay open for him, lets him pass, and then points down the hall. It's dimly lit, undoubtedly a reflection of the night crew. There are two doors off of that hallway: one has the unisex bathroom symbol, and the other is clearly marked "Storage." They continue down the hall, heading through an archway to their living room.

     It's similar to his old stations with a large leather couch and recliner chairs off to the side in the same chocolate leather. The arms are worn down, the beige interior starting to poke through. It smells musky in the room, exactly like six men have been lounging in it for the last forty-eight hours. There's a massive flat screen TV, and an old coffee table that's missing a leg. It's balanced on a stack of what looks like Playboys.

     It's hard to tell, though, since the room's nearly pitch-dark, all of the curtains pulled. There's a lamp by the couch that's on, but it's dim, giving Beau just enough sight to see that there's a desk off to the side, and a large computing system. It looks personal and not regulation.

     Tony catches him staring and goes, "That's Eli's. Built the thing. Uses it to play that builder game." Beau doesn't know what he's referring to. He didn't play any video games growing up, was only introduced to console games by Jimmy when he first started. "Fucking hate when they leave the room like this," Tony mutters, skirting around the coffee table to pull the curtains on the windows.

     He grabs a can of disinfectant spray and waves it around the room in a figure eight. He coughs loudly, wheezing, before he sets the can down and waves Beau on. "Kitchens through here."

     There's a swinging door in the corner of the room, on the other side of the TV. Beau walks around the coffee table (definitely Playboys) and follows Tony through it. The kitchen's huge, clearly redone in the last few years, with freshly painted cabinets in a warm neutral and stainless steel appliances.

     It's big, too, bigger than the kitchen they had at Station Three. But then that station was half this size. The kitchen has a large butcher block counter, cutting the room in half. On the other side is a banquet table that would comfortably seat eight people. You could pull up a chair on the ends to fit ten if you wanted.

     "There's a patio out the back there," Tony says nodding with his chin. "Every year we pool funds and get something for it. Finally got a Blackstone last year. Somehow the fucking jacuzzi beat it the year before. I blame Mac for that."

     Beau's not able to mask the jealousy in his tone when he says, "You have a fucking jacuzzi?"

     Tony smirks with a shrug. "It's home away from home, so yeah, we put a little effort in. Nothing really else to the kitchen except if you value your life, keep it clean."

     "Value my life against who, exactly?" Beau asks, trailing Tony as he walks past the dining table and takes the back stairs up to the sleeping quarters.

     "Captain, who else?" he responds like it should be very obvious.

     "He a stickler about chores?"

     "Not really." Tony shrugs. The stairs lead to the middle of a long hallway. The wall across from them is all glass, with a view of the bay. Directly across from the door is a hallway that acts as a bridge over the bay towards the other side of the building.

     "Shep won't tolerate a messy kitchen. Just clean up after yourself and you'll be alright." Tony hitches his thumb towards the front of the hall. "Four bedrooms that way and a bathroom. Also stairs to the front of the building. There is a firepole but no one who values their balls actually uses it."

     Beau laughs. They had one at Station Three, too, and except for a drunken night or two, yeah, no one really touched it.

     "Your room's this way, round the corner." He walks down the hall, towards the back of the building, turns a corner where there's a small alcove with three doors.

     Beau stares at the door opposite the one Tony's opening. There's a placard on it that clearly reads "Captain's Quarters."

     "How are rooms assigned?" he asks, his voice coming out a bit squeaky.

     Tony shrugs. "Availability usually. You and the other new guy got the two open beds. B Squad sleeps on the left, so you get the right side."

     Beau finally looks away from the Captain's door and pokes his head into his room, assessing it. It's about the same as his other station, only they had half the beds and usually shared their bed with their relief. Which meant he had to pack his shit up at the end of every shift and put it away.

     "So I can leave my stuff out?" he asks, surprised. The bed on the other side of the closet unit, that's acting as a partition between the beds, is decked out with covers and pillows. There's a uniform shirt draped over the armchair at the end of the bed, and boots poking out from under it.

     "Yeah, it's your room, so do what you want. Once a month, they come and spray for bugs. Ever since fucking Mickens from B bought back bed bugs on a call its become pretty standard."

     Beau nods. They did the same at his old station. He'd been the one to bring them back. His first hoarder call when he was still green, he'd made the not-fatal-but-might-as-well-have-been mistake of sitting on a soft surface in his patient's house.

     Tony points to the only other door, the one directly at the end of the hallway. "That's a bathroom. No shower, though. Those are on the other side of the bay, below the gym. You can cut across up here by the walk-over, but there's also a door on the other side of the bay."

     He checks his watch and then goes, "I'll leave you to do what you gotta do so I can finish my rig check. We can walk through the other side after."

     Beau nods and says, "Thanks for this, I guess."

     Tony waves him down before he backs out of his room. Beau drops both of his bags at his feet. The bags are overstuffed, and brimming but they managed to hold all of his shit pretty easily. He thinks they're meant to be knock-off Ikea bags. But they were cheap as hell and came in a pack of three.

     The weight of the bags has made his side sore, where he just had the stitches removed from his bullet wound — graze. It hardly counts.

     Between the two bags, he managed to fit two sheet sets and his two pillows, four pairs of 5/11s, two pairs of sweatpants, shorts, and some tee shirts. His slippers and his work boots. His toiletries. Laptop. Chargers. Lube.

     He makes quick work of getting his bed together and putting away his clothes in the closet unit.

     He checks the time. It's five to eight. The prior shift has probably started clearing out already, so he could technically be on the line for a job right now, and he's not dressed. He doesn't have any of Station Two uni's yet, but the BDUs are standard. He can wear a plain shirt for now.

     He picks the pants out of the stack, slipping his feet out of his sneakers so he can undress.

     A moment later, he hears, "Hey — oh."

❧

     There are things you get used to fast when you spend forty-eight hours with a group of men in close quarters four days out of most weeks. Modesty isn't particularly common, nor is it very easy to maintain. Shepherd does his best, but. Well. There's moments like this.

     A moment with a lingering gaze, only because he's unused to the view. And Beau is surprisingly fit — Shepherd counts an eight-pack. He even has lower abs. But he's not that lean, his chest and arms thick with muscle.

     Beau clears his throat and goes, "Hey?"

     He's unfazed by Shepherd's intrusion and if he noticed Shepherd's staring, he's not giving it away. He grabs his pants, unhurried, one leg in, the other, hoisting the waist up over his thighs, straining the fabric. He bounces on the balls of his feet, and Shepherd's remiss to note it's not the only balls bouncing. He decides the appropriate thing would be to look away now.

     "Yeah, when you have a moment, come see me," he says quickly, feeling hot in his face and maybe all over, too. It's weird, he decides, because Beau is new, and they haven't broken these barriers yet.

     Ones like talking to someone while they're taking a shit next to you, or happening to peer over the shower wall when you go to take someone's shampoo.

     No, it's all new and awkward. Seeing Beau without his clothes on. Seeing this side of Beau, so to speak. Shepherd's not surprised he looks like this, figured as much by the way he wears his clothes — the way they fit, that is. It's not like he watches how Beau dresses.

     "I have a moment now," Beau says, sounding cloyingly sweet.

     It's fake, Shepherd realizes, based on how he grins at him, and adjusts himself in his pants, practically stuffing himself in, before zipping up. It's going to be a thing. Mac will make it a thing. Cause it's a locker room thing to compare sizes and Shepherd can tell just based on this interaction that things are, well, sizable, and Mac has no filter, will make it the topic of conversation an unreasonable amount.

     And the last thing Shepherd wants to be talking about is Beau's junk. It's the last thing he wants to be looking at, too, so he's glad he has his pants on. Now if he could just get a shirt over that shaved head of his Shepherd could go back to focusing on why he came in here.

     "Right, well. I just wanted to make things clear. How you ran at your last station, under Lieutenant Abrams, is not how things will go down here."

     "And what do you mean by that exactly?" he asks, bending to grab a teeshirt from the neat stack in his wardrobe. He's unpacked all his things already. The bed is made, the sheets pulled taut and tucked under the mattress. There's no extra nicknacks around, just the essentials.

     Shepherd says, "It means if I give an order, you follow it. It means follow the rules, and there won't be any problems."

     "Can I get a copy of these rules?" Beau asks cheekily as he unfolds the shirt and puts his arms through the torso, holding the head open. Shepherd tracks the movements of his chest, his abs tightening up as he slips his head in and then each arm. The bandage across his side, probably from his GSW. His shirt is unreasonably tight for cotton. It's not a performance shirt, but it's fitting like one, which just means he sized down on purpose.

     Shepherd promised himself he'd do this the right way. The other night between him, Beau punching him — that'd been so inappropriate, setting a terrible precedence. He wanted clear lines now.

     "You can consult your training manual. I recommend freshening up on your incident command."

     Beau shoves the hem of his shirt into his pants as he says, "Well, if we're lending tips here, you might want to remember the reason we do this is to save people's lives."

     Shepherd laughs quietly. It's a mocking sound, and he knows it, knows Beau knows it by the way he flinches. "Not at the expense of our own lives, we don't."

     "For you, maybe," Beau mutters.

      "For all of us, Decker. We're useless if we're dead. Or have you not figured that out already?"

     Beau's suddenly in his space, nearly pressed against him. For someone on the shorter side, he sure moves fast. Shepherd has significant height on him, and he's tilted his whole head back to glare up at him.

     "Is there something you'd like to further accuse me of? Because if so, stop fucking beating around it."

     "All I am saying is while you run for my station, you run by my rules."

     "That's not all you're saying, though."

     "I read the reports, Beau," Shepherd responds exasperatedly. "I read all the reports. And the common theme is you. Breaching protocol."

     Beau's voice is trembling when he says, "I told Jimmy to stand down. I told him to wait for backup, and he insisted on going with me. The only life I put at risk is my own. I don't force my partners to do anything they don't want to."

     "Don't put your team in a position where they have to choose between their lives or yours."

     "But know that if you do, I'm choosing myself," Mac says boisterously as he steps around Shepherd into the room. He elbows Shepherd in the chest to make room for himself and holds his hand up to Beau. "Haven't formally met. I'm Mac. Do you go by Beau or are you like Shepherd safe-guarding the first name like it's some password to a vault full of millions?"

      Beau lifts his eyebrows, confused, looking at Shepherd questioningly before returning his gaze to Mac. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn't know Shepherd's first name, he's never seen it anywhere, and he's kind of shocked to hear Mac doesn't know it either.

      "Beau's fine," he says, reaching out to shake his hand. It must be a terrible first name. Shepherd's. Why else hide it?

     "Thanks for your help the other night," he says gratefully.

     "No worries at all. If I had a dime for every time I got fucking hammered, I'd have enough money to pay my tab for once."

     "Funny," Shepherd remarks dryly.

     "So, new guys here and standing by the door downstairs like he expects an invitation," Mac says next, and it's a bit unclear if he's talking to Shepherd or Beau.

     Shepherd goes, "I got it."

     And Beau quickly snaps, "He's my trainee."

     This makes Shepherd balk. "No, he's my trainee. You're just his FTO."

     Mac interjects, "I do believe that would make him Beau's trainee." Shepherd shoots him a look, and Mac throws his hands up, palms out. He's grinning, though, clearly entertained. "No, yep, he's your trainee. Beau, you're simply the person taking on all the training."

     Beau laughs quietly, and Shepherd groans. Mac pats his shoulder as he steps out of the room. "Get used to it, buddy."

     He wants to ask what Shepherd's getting used to but keeps quiet instead, following them back down the hall towards the stairs at the front of the building. It's a safety stairwell reinforced with fire-resistant construction and emergency lighting. The door's heavy and clicks behind them. It's warmer in the stairwell than the rest of the building that's AC'd, and at the end of the two flights, he notices sweat glossing the back of Mac's neck.

     Sure enough, when they step out of the stairwell, the new kid's standing by the door wearing a bookbag with a duffle bag at his feet. He looks over at the three of them with a look that could only be sheer horror.

     He starts to say something, opening his mouth, but then stops suddenly. Shepherd steps towards him, holding out a hand with this overly-charming grin on his face. "Hey, welcome! I'm your Captain. You can call me Shepherd."

     Beau unintentionally sneers, and Mac elbows him, smirking, before he walks over. "Hey, new guy. I'm Mac. Also known as Big Mac. And if we're really friendly, I'll allow for Big Mac Daddy."

     "No one calls him that," Shepherd interjects quickly.

     "But they should," Mac mutters.

     Shepherd shoots him a look. "Don't you have a rig to check?"

     Mac frowns and snarkily repeats, "Don't you have a rig to check?" But he walks out the door into the bay, leaving Beau behind.

     Beau who should probably introduce himself. And he's about to, before Shepherd goes, "This is your FTO. Beau Decker."

     He can introduce himself. He doesn't need Shepherd to do it. He tamps down on his annoyance and forces a smile, walking over and holding his hand out to the kid. Definitely a kid. He looks incredibly young. Chief said he'd just finished school. He actually could not imagine anything worse than working with a baby brand new EMT, but he wasn't going to turn down his first opportunity to be an FTO.

     "Good to meet you both," the kid responds, pushing his glasses up. "I'm James, by the way."

     Shepherd takes his shoulder and says, "Why don't you come with me? We'll take your stuff up to your room and get some paperwork. You can meet back up with Beau afterward."

❧

     The first hour of shift moves quickly. Shepherd onboards the new guy, hands off the Narcs keys to Beau, and then excuses himself to get some type of breakfast put together while everyone else does their rig checks. They're all pretty good about it, about not cutting corners, but then no one wants to be that asshole showing up to a call with missing equipment or with half-filled water tank.

     And while you trust your previous crew to upkeep their trucks and replace what they used, you don't bank on it. You always air on the side that the person before you left the truck a mess.

    He's curious about Beau's methods. If he's a stickler for a rig check list, or does it by memory. If he checks the necessities only — main and portable O2, jump bag, and meds. Or if he takes the time to familiarize himself with a new ambulance.

     Since the rest of the crew surfaces without him, he suspects he's fairly rigorous with his start-of-shift duties. Eli's sitting at the island between the kitchen and dining space, where Mac's rocking back and forth in a chair he's going to break, waiting for Tony to finish the coffee.

     "Can you add more cheese?" Eli asks, lifting his head to inspect Shep's work.

     "Aren't you supposed to be lactose intolerant?" Shep asks, adding more shredded cheddar to his bowl of whisked eggs. He's already diced some bell peppers and ham.

     "And?" Eli asks. "Lactose intolerance is not an allergy."

     "The meals not just for you, Eli," Shepherd responds as he tosses in a little bit more.

     "Does anyone oppose to more cheese in the eggs?" he asks the room. Shep shakes his head, because that's obviously not the point, as he walks over to the fridge and pulls out a package of bacon and grabs a bag of diced potatoes from the freezer side.

     "I oppose more cheese," Mac calls, turning around in his chair.

     "You're just opposing to oppose," Eli snaps.

     As they bicker, Shepherd walks out onto the back patio where the Blackstone's been warming up. He sets the eggs down, and uses his tongues lay out the bacon on one side.

     A few minutes later, with the eggs scrambling, Tony comes out with a coffee for him. "Need any help?" he asks because he always asks. "I can set something on fire for you."

    "Why don't you go wash some fruit," he suggests.

     "No one's going to eat them."

     "Why'd you ask me if you can help if you're not going to?"

     Tony shakes his head, muttering, "Cause I know no one's going to eat the fruit," as he walks back inside.

     Turns out he's wrong about the fruit.

     Shepherd finishes cooking, brings a platter of eggs, bacon and potatoes inside where the room has become filled with noise. Tony and Eli have relocated to the dining table, the new kid and Beau have joined them. They've already set out plates and cutlery, so Shep brings the two dishes over, placing them in the center of the table.

     He's about to circle back for his coffee, but stills momentarily, watching Beau take a bit out of the apricots his mom had dropped by from the farmer's market. It's strange, the way Shepherd watches, fixated almost? on his mouth, watching his tongue dart out to lick some of the juice that trails over his chin.

     Beau doesn't notice, too busy looking at Mac, Mac's telling a story he's heard a million times about an office building microwave situation that led to The Hottest Girl Ever™️ being drenched by the sprinkler in a white button-up. (Shep was there, and it was not that dramatic.)

     He returns with his coffee and a jug of OJ, setting that down too before he takes the seat on Mac's left. Eli's across from him and hands him a plate with a fork. The platters are still making their way around, so he waits.

     Then Mac goes, "Thanks, Shep." And everybody repeats it like a chorus.

     Everybody but Beau, who looks right at Shepherd and says, a second later, "Yeah, thanks, Shep." And he smiles at him.

     No one else seems to notice or think anything of it. He tells himself to forget it, but he can't let go of how Beau looked at him, the lilt of his tone, how it almost sounded flirty.