#im the last person to ship anything ever but the sheer GRIP this pairing has on me.

[pequodyaoi]

I'm just the way that the doctor made me

[turtle-steverogers]

Hero Complex

lmao hi IM BACK i wrote a fic pfffff it’s kind Shit cuz i started writing at midnight and now its 2:40 am so excuse the BAD WRITING dajfdslkfjalsdkfs

warnings: fire, mentions of death (kinda graphic ish, sad), crying

ship: ralbert

word count: 2762

-

Earlier

“Just- don’t try to be a hero, dumbass.”

Albert’s fingers freeze on the top button of his uniform, eyes darting up to study Race’s face.  He bites back a sigh, something weighing down on his chest as the fear in his boyfriend’s eyes grows.  

“That’s the whole point of my job,” He says softly, “But I’ll be careful.”

Race nods, wordlessly handing him his helmet.  Albert takes it, drawing in a deep breath to steady his hands.  Queso lifts his head from his paws, looking at the two of them questioningly before padding across the room and nudging Albert’s knee.  He lets out the breath he’d been holding and bends over the slightest bit to scratch behind Queso’s ears.  No matter how many calls his squadron responded to, his nerves still managed to run high.

“That’s all I ask,” Race responds, gently tilting Albert’s jaw and kissing him intently.  Albert presses back, heart kicking double time as adrenaline starts to overcome him.  He pulls back, the need to move overtaking him.  

“I gotta go,” He says, shifting the helmet onto his head, “I’ll be home later…”

The unspoken, ‘hopefully’, rings loudly in the air.  Albert really hates this part of the job.

Race nods, dropping his hand from Albert’s face and squeezing his bicep briefly, “Go.  Be safe.  I love you.”

Albert smiles, but it feels strained, “I love you, too.”

Now

“Dasilva, get that room on the right!  Some kid’s in there!”

Albert swears under his breath, shooting a quick nod to Finch as he hurries past him, carrying an infant in one arm and shielding a young looking mother with the other.  He grimaces, adjusting the mask on his face as the building gives the second unsettling creak in as many minutes.  

In the three years that he’s worked for the FDNY, he’d never seen a building fire this destructive.  Details were still being investigated, but from what had been gathered, an apparent fireball had formed on the 14th floor, engulfing the top four floors of the building and spreading quickly to the lower levels.  The casualty count was already tragically high, but between the first responders and following squadrons showing up to the scene, the fatality rate was going down.  

That didn’t make it any less gut-wrenching.  

Albert crosses to the apartment Finch had pointed him to and easily knocked the handle off the door.  He knocked once, calling a loud warning into the room before shouldering the door, which gave way easily thanks to the heat. 

In the corner of the room, a young boy sat cowering against the wall, arms wrapped protectively around an even younger girl.  Panicked breaths were coming vehemently from the pair and as Albert gets nearer to them, he can see the tear tracks that cut through the soot.  He crouches down, trying to seem nonthreatening.

“Are your parents here?” He asks, raising his voice over the roaring flames.

The little boy lets out a sob, pointing a trembling hand to the room adjacent to them.  Albert glances to the side, nausea rolling in his stomach as he takes in the flames licking under the closed door.  Whoever is in there, sure isn’t getting out.  

“Okay,” Albert takes a deep breath, turning back to the siblings, “I need you both to take your shirts and pull them over your mouths and noses, okay?”

He waits for them to do so, then scoops them both up easily, ensuring that they have secure grips on his shoulders, before moving swiftly out of the room.  The building lets out another threatening creak and Albert falters, trying to map out the safest route in his head.  He settles on running to the stairs on the southside of the building, opposite of where the fireball had started.

Five excruciating minutes later, Albert is able to exit the building, immediately seeking out some paramedics and dumping the kids in their care.  He turns back around, taking a deep breath before running back towards the building.

“People still up there?” Spot, another commissioner, calls.

“I don’t know!” Albert calls back, “But we can’t risk leaving anyone!”

“This building’s ‘boutta go down, man!” Spot shouts, jogging up to him.

“I don’t care,” Albert says, firmly, tightening the strap on his helmet, “If I can even get one more person out, that’s one more life saved.”

“Alright,” Spot concedes, “But I’m coming with you.”

Albert nods, steeling himself.

“Don’t try to be a hero…”

Race’s words echo in his head and he bites his lip, casting a hurried glance in the direction of their apartment complex, across the Brooklyn Bridge.

“Sorry, Racer,” He murmurs, hesitating for a short moment before running back into the building.

-

A recently opened beer bottle sits forgotten on the table as Race paces anxiously in front of the TV, a cigarette dangling loosely from his lips.  He’s not entirely sure why he’s smoking.  The thing that usually eases his worries only worsening the sick feeling in his stomach as smoke rolls over his tongue, parallel to the cloud of smoke he’s watching climb higher and higher from the building until it billows off-screen.

This routine is familiar, but it never gets easier.  Letting Albert go will never fucking get easier.  It feels like he’s dumping him into the jaws of death, fire biting at his ankles every time he leaves through their apartment door.  

But he does let him go, allowing himself to grow sick with worry as he immediately searches for whatever information he can find, usually settling on the local news and popping open a beer or lighting a cigarette.  Maybe both.  More often than not, they remain unfinished.

He lets out a frustrated hum, stubbing his half-smoked cigarette out in the ashtray they keep on the coffee table.  He forces himself to sit down and drags a sweaty hand down his face.  Albert had been gone for a good two hours by now, but the fire doesn’t look like it’s getting any closer to being put out.  If any, it looks worse.

Every time a firefighter passes by the camera, Race’s stomach does a violent flip.  He can’t really tell who’s who underneath their face shields and helmets, but it doesn’t stop him from trying to differentiate them.  

Once, the news caught a clip of a firefighter being wheeled into the back of an ambulance looking very much not alive and Race had been violently sick for an hour before Albert came home and assured him that it was not him and he was okay.

That had been a bad fucking night.

Suddenly, the face of the reporter on screen morphs into one of sheer terror and the camera shifts sideways to show the building, crumbling in on itself.  There’s a moment where no one seems to react and Race scrambles to unmute the channel.  Screams ring through the speaker as the reporter and the cameraman run for shelter.  

Race feels his eyes go wide, but he can’t look away.  Somewhere to his left, Queso lets out a whimper, but he can’t find it in himself to look.  A second later, he feels Queso hop up next to him on the couch cushions and settle his weight against his side.

A million frantic thoughts crowd Race’s mind, eventually settling on the horrible debate of whether Albert is in the building or not.  Part of him wants to believe that he got away in time, but logic tells him that the idiot was probably in the building until the last second, searching for straggling survivors.  Fucking dumb shit.  Always has to be a fucking hero.

Sometimes he really hates Albert’s lack of self-preservation over others.

Scratch that.

He always hates it.

He runs his hand through his hair, pulling it almost painfully as his chest tightens.  Taking a deep breath, he presses his knuckles to his eyes, trying to stave off the oncoming panic attack.  He has to stay calm.  If Albert is alive and got out of there unharmed, he’s going to need Race to be a rock for him tonight.

Race takes another deep breath, letting it out slower this time as the vice that previously gripped his lungs loosens a bit.  He can do this.  He just needs to be patient.

He watches the news for another few minutes, picking at his cuticles distractedly as shots of firefighters and paramedics work to reign in the newly charged chaos.  Then, he clicks off the TV, heaves himself off the couch and begins to prepare for Albert’s (hopeful) return back home.

He puts some more food and water in Queso’s bowls, then crosses to the bathroom to take a quick shower.  The water is too hot and he drops the bar of soap three times before he can steady his hands enough to use it.  

He dresses himself mechanically, then digs through their dresser for Albert’s favorite pair of briefs, sweatpants, and a hoodie, setting them neatly on the end of the bed.  As an afterthought, he grabs a fresh towel and washcloth from the closet and sets them on the toilet in the bathroom.  

It’s doubtful that Albert will want to eat much of anything if- no, when he gets home, but Race busies himself in throwing together a quick pasta primavera nonetheless.  If anything, the cooking helps to settle his own nerves a bit.

Another hour passes and Race has managed to finish cooking, eat a little, and clean up the kitchen, all the while forcing down the ever-growing wave of dread.

He’s starting to run out of distracting things to do, so he picks up the book he’s been reading and settles on the couch, eyes scanning the pages, but not comprehending a thing.  

45 minutes later, the front door unlocks and opens.

Race is off the couch before it can swing back closed.

Albert doesn’t look at Race as he hangs his helmet on it’s hook, but Race can already tell that it’s going to be a rough night.  Despite the gear protecting every inch of Albert’s body, his face and hair are covered in a thick layer of ash.  He’s still dressed in his turnout pants, but his uniform top has seemingly been abandoned at some point on his return home.  The sharp tense of his shoulder has rendered his movements stiff and Race watches in carefully masked concern as he tugs off his boots.  

Once they’re dutifully lined by the door, Albert straightens up, looking at Race for the first time, a dull, haunted look in his eyes.

For a moment, Race is scared that he’s going to breakdown then and there, but Albert only clears his throat and croaks, “I need to shower.”

Queso is lingering by the kitchen entrance, but he seems to sense that his company would not be very well received right now.  Race nods at Albert, bending down to pluck one of Queso’s toys from the ground and tossing it in the direction of the kitchen.  He hears the slow patter of Queso’s paws on the tile and sees him pad out of the room in his peripheral.

“Let’s get you out of those pants before you do anything else,” Race says in a measured voice, working to sound easy, but firm.

It’s a testament to how fucked up Albert must be feeling that he doesn’t make a dirty joke at that.

Albert barely moves as Race unbuttons his turnout pants and eases them down his hips.  His gaze is unwavering as he stares blankly across the room.  Race can hear his slightly erratic breathing and it seems as if the adrenaline has yet to wear off.

“Lift up for a sec, love,” Race says, tapping at Albert’s socked feet and waiting for him to lift his legs one by one, allowing for Race to fully remove his pants.

“You can go shower now,” Race says, standing back up, “do you need me to come with you?”

Albert shakes his head, “No, I’m-I’m good.”

“You sure?” 

Albert nods, “Yeah, just- yeah, I’m good.

“Okay,” Race smiles a little, trying to look encouraging, “Shout if you need me, though.”

Albert nods again and makes a stiff beeline for the bathroom.  A few minutes later, Race hears the shower turn on.  He crosses to their bedroom to find that Albert took the clothes he’d set out in with him.

He smiles a little more genuinely as he crawls into bed.  Rolling onto his side, he busies himself with his phone while he waits for Albert to finish up, turning up the brightness to keep himself awake.  Albert was bound to take a while in the shower tonight.  He always does after missions.

A half hour later, he hears the bathroom door open and close and a moment later, the bed behind him dips as Albert joins him under the covers.  Race clicks off his phone and sets it on his bedside table, shifting onto his back as Albert settles into his arms.

“Want me to keep the lights on or off?” He asks quietly, pressing a little kiss into Albert’s now clean hair.  It’s still a little wet and smells strongly like the coconut shampoo he likes to use.

Albert nestles closer, pressing his nose to Race’s neck, “Off, please.”

Race extracts his arm momentarily to flip off the lamp switch, then draws Albert in protectively.  The silence between them stretches on for what could be hours, but Race knows Albert is still awake.

This is also part of the routine.  If Albert wants to talk, he will, but if he’d rather just lie quietly and process, Race wasn’t going to push him.

But he’d stay up with him either way.  There’s no way in hell he’d leave him to handle this alone in any capacity.

Eventually, the silence is broken by a soft whimper, then a short sniffle and Race feels Albert tuck his face further into his collarbone.  He feels his heart break in his chest, but he wills himself to remain steady as he tightens his hold on Albert.

A moment later, Albert begins to cry in earnest and Race presses a firm kiss to the crown of his head, shushing him.  

“I’ve got you,” He murmurs as Albert fists his hand in his nightshirt, holding on like a lifeline, “I’m here and I’ve got you.”

“There-there was a little girl on a fire escape,” Albert hiccups, “and she was screaming for her mom and I was about to go back in to get her, Race, I was about to go get her!  But the building…” he trails off, an awful keening noise sounding from his throat.

Race blinks back his own tears, rubbing a hand up and down Albert’s back, “You did what you could, baby.”

Albert shakes his head, “But it-it wasn’t enough.” His words are stilted- broken- and his breathing is harsh and heaving.

Race maneuvers them so they’re lying side to side, facing each other.  He cradles Albert’s head with one hand and rests the palm of his other hand on his cheek, brushing away his tears with the pad of his thumb.

“It wasn’t your fault,” He whispers firmly, “There’s nothing else you could have done.  You can’t save everyone.”

Albert closes his eyes, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood as he tries to take slower breaths.

“I wish I could,” Albert says after a lingering pause, “It’s fucked up.”

“It is,” Race says, “But you helped a lot of people get out of there today, you did a lot, Albert.”

Albert doesn’t answer, just tucks himself closer to Race, breathing in his warmth.  

“Rest, baby,” Race mutters, knowing that neither of them are really going to sleep that night, “I’ve got you, you can relax now.”

Albert lets out a shaky sigh and Race feels his heart grow heavier still.  The concern, grief, and anger at the world for plaguing Albert with the fucked up trauma that accompanies his job are indiscernible from one another.  He wishes more than anything that he could take away his pain, but he also knows that’s as naive as wishing he’d quit.

The most he can do is be there for him, even if there’s nothing he could say to truly make it better.

But he can be there and maybe that’ll be enough.

“I love you,” He breathes, lacing their hands together, “I’m here.”

Albert squeezes his hand, “I know,” he pauses, “I love you, too.”

And for a second, things are a little okay.

-

yeah, so im still alive!

anyway

thanks for reading, chiefs

hmu to be added to my tag

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