Chapter Text
They’re stuck. They’ve been stuck in traffic on I-15 near Miramar for over an hour now — the cars stopped not far from where they are, maybe a hundred meters away. There’s a fire truck there now, parked across both lanes, the lights blinking as it shields whatever is happening, and they’ve heard the sirens going on and off as different emergency services arrived but he doesn’t know what the accident was about, completely.
There’s been something on fire, for sure. The smoke that was floating around behind the truck changed from a black cloud into a semi-transparent puff, but he could still smell the nasty odor of burned gasoline and plastic penetrating the air.
They’ve already spent six hours getting to San Diego from Lemoore and Jake will explode if they did that just to kiss the doorknob of the base housing office — it’s almost five in the afternoon and their time is running out. They can’t just sit there in Javy’s truck indefinitely, they need to pick up the keys by six or they’ll have no roof over their heads.
Jake isn’t spending the night in a hotel either, not when he paid to be able to move in today.
And Javy’s truck doesn’t even have a working air con and they can’t sit there for hours in San Diego heatwave.
“I’m just going to check how long it’s going to take,” he tells Javy, opening the passenger door after the conversation stalls.
“Jake—”
He slams the door before Javy can finish and leaves, walking past the cars on the hard shoulder. There isn’t enough space between the barrier on the right and the truck so he walks around it, maneuvers between the cones that close off the road and looks around.
The accident is actually stretched out for another hundred meters. It’s a bus swayed to the side, a scorched-to-the-ground car that is still being managed by two firefighters, masked up and hosing down the remains, and another car that’s become a pancake through a run-in with the bus’s side. A group of firefighters is standing near the bus, two pairs of feet sticking out from underneath it and two putting blocks under the wheels.
There’s a rescue squad parked not far from where he’s standing, number 56 on it’s side, and an open ambulance further away, the stretchers already prepared close to the bus.
The door of the rescue squad slamms as a firefighter steps away, two yellow poles in his hands.
“Hey there,” Jake calls out.
The guy turns around like a deer caught in headlight and Jesus, he’s a literal kid, Jake can swear he’s not even out of high school. He’s shorter than Jake by a couple of inches and the turnouts are practically swallowing his hands and face.
He walks toward Jake and starts, tries for a firm tone but that baby face is not giving him any favors, “I’m sorry, sir, this space is reserved for first responders—”
“Look, I just want to know when we can move along,” Jake says. “It’s been hours.”
“This is an active scene,” he says, totally ignoring Jake’s words, sounding a bit like a robot. “Please step behind the line designated by the red cones.”
He waves in the direction behind Jake and turns around to go to the bus. When Jake follows, not giving up, he stops again, shielding him from going any further.
“Kid, come on,” Jake presses. “Where’s your boss? Can I talk to him?”
He’s looking at Jake but glancing behind his shoulder every other second. When Jake doesn't relents, he shouts out, “Lieutenant Bradshaw! Sir—”
The walkie-talkie thrown over his collar crackles up and a smooth, deep voice speaks up, “Use your radio, Santos, and how many times did I tell you not to call me that?”
When Jake looks behind the kid, he sees a firefighter holding a radio pinned to his front pocket walking toward them, detaching from the group from around the bus. He’s wearing a red helmet with a shield with Lieutenant 13 SDFD written on it in thick letters, the oxygen tank still on his back but the mask limps freely clipped to his side along with a pair of gloves.
“Is there a problem here?” he asks as he comes close enough for them to hear.
Jake freezes as the deep, steady voice reaches his ears and puts his focus on the lieutenant. He’s standing tall, towering over Jake with his back straightened up, jaw set, a couple of dark smudges of dirt on his face, one making a perfect extension of his mustache. His tan turnout jacket is open, a black hood folding around his neck, and the fabric has a gray smudge here or there, too. He makes clear, burly strides as he walks, his hips visibly swaying even in those bulky pants and Jake can see how big his chest is despite the heavy material.
He’s hot.
The kid nods his head at Jake like that explains everything and Jake makes himself focus on the issue at hand. He got exactly what he wanted — a talk with the kid’s boss. Maybe they’ll actually get here somehow, maybe the guy will be reasonable.
“Jesus, kid, when I told you to do crowd control, the idea was to control the crowd,” he says and his voice is light and he smiles, eyebrows slightly quirked, like he is amused to see Jake there.
“Maybe if you didn’t employ middle schoolers, we wouldn’t have been waiting here for hours,” Jake spits out as his brain short-circuits.
The kid takes a step back, hiding half-behind the lieutenant. He really is just a kid.
“Go learn how to use the lift bags, Santos, I’ve got this,” he orders. The kid moves without hesitating. The lieutenant grabs his radio, clicks a button, and adds, “Andre, the kid is coming your way, make use of him. Over.”
“On it, Lieu.”
The guy turns to Jake, shifting on his feet. The oxygen tank is metal and looks heavy enough that Jake is almost impressed at the grace his back is moving with.
“Okay, let’s begin again,” he says, turning back to Jake, and his tone holds an edge. “Lieutenant Bradshaw, I’m the current Incident Commander on scene. What’s the problem, sir?”
“We’ve been stuck in a traffic jam for over an hour now,” Jake points out.
Bradshaw looks at him, giving him a full glance over. He seems unimpressed as he starts walking toward the ladder truck, and tells him, “We’re doing our job as fast as we can.”
“Well, not fast enough, apparently,” Jake retorts, following him like a moth to a flame. “We need to be in Coronado by six, there’s no other way to get there but forward, at this rate, you’re going to make us late. Just one lane would be enough.”
Bradshaw opens one of the gates on the side of the truck, lifts it up to reveal more oxygen tanks and a huge sign with OXYGEN! NO OPEN FLAMES! In the middle of them. His profile shows the curve of his nose and the little curls behind his ear and Jake notices he has a sticker with PARAMEDIC on the side of the helmet, too.
He unclips the harness from around himself, putting the tank in the empty line on the right side, and takes out a clipboard, writing something on it with an attached pen. “Should have left earlier, sir.”
Jake senses this is going nowhere. He’s running out of time, no matter how good looking at Bradshaw feels, they’re not sleeping in a hotel today.
“Look, at least let us through, just us, we need to pick up the keys for our house or—”
“This is not how it works, sir,” Bradshaw cuts him off.
And he’s adding that sir at the end but it actually holds no weight and it’s gritting at Jake’s nerves.
“I’m actually a real lieutenant, okay? I can show you my military ID, I just got restationed, we need to get there before six or we’re spending the night in our car,” Jake explains again, voice slowing down like he is talking to someone stupid. “We’re just really in a hurry here, five minutes and we’d be on our merry way—”
“Oh, you’re in a hurry?” he asks and he’s smiling but there’s something in his tone that works like spikes on Jake.
“Yeah, we are,” he confirms.
“Well, I have two dead here because someone has already been in a hurry today,” Bradshaw says.
Jake licks his lips and the silence falls over. Bites his tongue not to add something stupid. Fails.
“You can’t just hold us here for hours.”
“I can and I will,” Bradshaw says calmly. “Now get behind the barrier before we get you some zip ties and a free hold cuffed up in the truck cabin until the police arrive.”
He pats the side of the truck and looks Jake dead in the eyes, a fake smile back on his face.
Jake laughs straight into his face because that has to be a joke. “You’re threatening to arrest me? On what basis exactly, impatience?”
Not missing a beat, he replies, “California Penal Code Section 402a, lingering at the scene of an emergency in such a way that it hinders first responders from performing their duties, and California Penal Code Section 409.5, unauthorized entry into an emergency area.”
And he is staring at Jake with a narrowed gaze, the black smudges still on his chin, one eyebrow raised as he puts his hand on his hip, uncovering the suspenders from behind the turnout jacket, his navy blue uniform shirt visible — the buttons on his chest are stretched tight, screaming to be let go, showing the see-through, sweaty tank top underneath.
Jake’s mouth is dry as he tries to concentrate on putting words together but it doesn’t work.
The guy is really hot.
The radio on his collarbone crackles up as a new voice comes through, “Lieu, we extracted the patient.”
Bradshaw turns away from Jake but keeps him in the corner of his eye, bringing the radio up. “Condition?”
When Jake looks toward the bus, the bus is now lifted on its axis by two airbags, the yellow poles the kid was carrying stabilizing it. The two paramedics that were underneath it are working on a patient, another firefighter leaning over them, and a path of blood follows them under the backboard.
There’s a motorcycle, crushed into pieces and bent in half like a glowstick, under the chassis.
Bradshaw grabs him by the shoulder, turning him around so he doesn’t look, and gets into Jake’s face, shielding the view.
“Life functions intact but pupils are still unresponsive,” is the radio response. “Ivan and Alex are almost ready to go. Should the kid go with them?”
“No. No, it’s too early for that,” Bradshaw says back, his warm palm still on Jake’s shoulder, but his thumb on the radio button. “Tell them to take him to UC Medical if he’s stable enough, he’s going to need Trauma I.”
“Copy that.”
He lets go of Jake, switches the button on the radio, turning away again. “Dispatch, this is Lieutenant Bradshaw, we’re ready for that heavy tow truck.”
It takes a bit longer but he gets a response, too. “Copy that, Lieutenant, there should be one in twenty.”
“So you’re going to open up the lane in twenty,” Jake quips and it comes out extremely snarky.
Bradshaw laughs but it’s humorless. “No, I’ll have a tow truck in twenty. This is an emergency scene until I declare it otherwise.”
“But—”
The siren comes through again and Jake turns to see two police cars rolling at the end of the close-up, stopping near the ambulance. They’re towing one of those gigantic bottleneck signs, the neon blinking.
“Look at that, sir, Highway Patrol has arrived, they’re going to open a lane for you, make us both happy,” Bradshaw says and he’s not even trying to hide how irritated he is as he grins through his teeth. “Now, go back to your car, lieutenant.”
And there’s just something in the way he articulates the words, in how calm and unmoved his voice is even as he’s sending Jake an unimpressed look, in how he’s cocking his hip, one hand on his belt.
Jake bites down on his lip, regretting putting his foot in his mouth — he’d have asked for his number if he hasn’t known he has no chance after backchatting like that. It’s too bad.
They aren’t going to make it to the housing office on time, anyway.
He walks back to Javy’s truck like the fool he is, the ambulance’s sirens going off as whoever they were transporting drives away. He sits down and sighs, not feeling like talking.
“So,” Javy begins. “Do you know when they will open up the road?”
“The Highway Patrol is going to open the opposite lane in a few,” he says as he reaches for the seatbelt over his shoulder. There’s a smudge of soot on his white t-shirt, shaped like fingertips.
His face warms up as he recalls the image of Lieutenant Bradshaw, his big hand weighing down on Jake as he stirs him away, the smell of smoke that encircled Jake as he leaned forward, as his bulk towered over him.
This is so inappropriate, he realizes.
Javy is silent for a minute, observing his wide-eyed expression. “What did you do?”
“I might have—I might have made an ass out of myself,” Jake admits.
“That ain’t new,” he points out.
Jake licks his lips and, with a straight face, says, “Well, there was this sexy fireman—”
“Oh my fucking god, Jake,” Javy gasps, staring at him in disbelief, his hands flopping on the steering wheel. “Please tell me you didn’t mouth off at a first responder.”
“What? You know my brain shuts off around hot guys.”
Javy huffs at him and Jake doesn’t know why he’s so surprised — he’s known Jake long enough. He says, shaking his head at Jake, “Well, at least this one we’ll never see again.”
“Yeah.”