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1 | ONE
Frank Perconte sets lab station four on fire on a rainy Thursday evening in March.
Chuck’s four long seconds into panic before common sense kicks in and he’s up and out of his chair. “Alright, everyone, calm down, grab your stuff, make your way outside!” He yells over the wail of the alarm while simultaneously pulling the fire extinguisher from the wall. His students seem to listen for the most part -- an instance in which he feels oddly proud of himself -- until the overhead sprinklers spritz to life.
“Godammit.” He gripes as he pushes his way through the now screaming mass of Inorganic Chemistry III students. They’re no longer his pride and joy. He pulls the pin as he gets to the aflame station, tells himself it could be worse.
There could be an actual student on fire and not a stupidly expensive pile of textbooks, lab manuals, and equipment that costs more than Chuck gets paid in a year. Hell, three years.
The extinguisher lasts long enough for him to get the table put out along with any other surrounding areas that may hold any inclinations of catching spark too. He grimaces at the scene of smoking, dripping foam, wipes at the water running down his face from the still going sprinklers above. A walkabout of the lab reveals no one hiding paralyzed in fear beneath a lab table before he makes his way out into the hall, extinguisher spluttering out residual gloppy white agent as he goes. It leaves a trail behind him as he exits the building, finds his Thursday night lab group huddled together at the edge of the parking lot.
Just behind them are two firetrucks and an ambulance, each impressive with their flashing lights and hive-like commotion of activity.
“Sir, are you alright?” A firefighter comes jogging up to him, his blank face defying his otherwise concerned words.
Chuck tries to wave him off. “I’m fine, I got everything put out.” He hefts the extinguisher. “Is my class alright?”
“We have twenty-six individuals accounted for, is that correct?”
Chuck nods, motions to himself. “I make twenty-seven, no one skipped tonight.”
“Are there any others in the building that you know of?”
He shakes his head. “Maintenance left at five and there aren’t any staff or student services here, it was just us.”
“Very well.” The firefighter nods, waves two others over from one of the trucks. “We’re going to do a routine check, make sure everything’s alright. Which room were you in?”
“1102.” Chucks thumbs over his shoulder. “Down the hall to your left, door’s still open.”
“And it was a chemical fire?”
“It was an idiot fire.” Chuck snaps before he can stop himself. “Shit. Sorry.” He rubs at his face, finally drops the extinguisher. The firefighter looks down at the sad thump it makes in the grass. “Acetic acid, a basic experiment. I’m going to kill him.”
The firefighter looks like he’s trying not to smile. “Duly noted, sir. We’ll get the sprinklers turned off and everything checked out. Captain Speirs will want to speak with you as well.”
Chuck follows the line of a pointed finger to a man who looks very much like he’s yelling at Chuck’s students. Fuck that, those are his assholes to yell at. He starts off towards the parking lot, doesn’t hear what the firefighter says to his back. His clothes stick to him as he walks, but it’s background discomfort compared to what he can manage to hear over the mechanical hum of service vehicles.
“--level of sheer incompetency displayed here tonight will not go unnoticed, I can promise you that.” Captain Speirs is saying, his back a rigid line of steel. “As an alumni of this institution it’s shocking to see the amount of entitlement and blatant stupidity today’s undergraduates bring to campus. It’s as if you pack it with your socks.”
Chuck would never admit it, but he’s kind of impressed as he comes up short behind the other man.
“It’s this kind of fuckery I’d expect from a Caltech washout, but never from an individual associated with the prestigious name of MIT.”
Okay, nevermind, Captain Speirs can go fuck himself.
“Excuse me?” Chuck snaps as he steps around the Captain, falls in rank in front of his class. Their wide eyed looks tell him all he needs to know about the dressing down they just got, makes it known that they know the Captain’s crossed a rather personal line without even knowing it.
Speirs just blankly looks at him. “I take it you’re in charge of this clusterfuck?”
“Yes, I am.” Chuck glares, attempts to discreetly unstick his shirt from himself. “And as an alumni I’m sure you can remember some of your more challenging moments here, Captain. As this is an institution of learning and all.” He cocks an eyebrow in challenge.
“Nonsense, I was an upstanding student, Mister…?”
“Doctor Grant.” Chuck grits out.
“Ah.” Speirs has the audacity to smirk. “Weren’t you an accelerated learner.”
“No.” Chuck corrects with strained patience. “I did my time, paid my dues. Unlike some institutions Caltech doesn’t just give you a take home science kit and a crayon to write your degree with. They make you work for it.”
Someone lets out a low whistle. Captain Speirs reaches up to remove his helmet.
Chuck feels his heart stutter a little, wasn’t quite expecting this grizzled Vietnam war veteran sounding of a man in front of him to be so stupidly attractive. Seriously, what the shit.
“I take it you went to Caltech?” The Captain frames his accusation like a question.
“I take it you went to MIT?” Chuck parrots back with an eyeroll, turns to face his class. “You’re all dismissed, get out of here. Look for an email about next week’s lab.”
His students scatter like particles, each making a beeline for a different direction. “Perconte!” Chuck manages to pinpoint him. “My office. Tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock sharp.”
“What?!” Frank gapes at him. “But it’s Friday--”
“Eight.” Chuck snaps back. “Now beat it before I make it seven.”
Frank has the decency to look ashamed as he nods, quickly looking between Chuck and Speirs before darting off on his own.
Chuck turns back to the Captain, eyes him skeptically. “Anything else?” He asks, soaking wet and unimpressed.
Speirs just stares at him. “I’ll need your signature on some forms.”
*
“So, Chuck.” Lewis Nixon smiles at him from behind his rather superior looking desk. Chuck’s desk isn’t even a quarter of its regal-ness. “Tell me about last night.”
Chuck’s never felt so pinned to the spot by someone looking so cheerful. It’s frankly a little disturbing. “One of my students, Frank Perconte, accidentally ignited a beaker of acetic acid on fire.” Chuck explains, tacks on a sir for good measure. “Everyone followed the proper safety measures of both evacuating and grouping together outside while I extinguished the fire inside.”
“Wow, all by yourself?” Nixon whistles, shakes his head in something Chuck almost wants to call excitement. It’s a little too manic laced to be sure.
“Um. Yes?” He tries. “I made sure the lab was secure before exiting the building to prevent any further incidences.”
Nixon continues to just stare at him.
Chuck kind of feels like he shouldn’t blink. “I’m sorry?” He throws out, not quite sure what else to say.
The gut deep laughter that bursts out of Nixon is the last thing he expects. “Chuck, man, this is what, your first actual lab fire?” Nixon musses back his hair. “God, it’s like a rite of passage or something, you know, you’ve passed muster. You’re not in trouble.”
Chuck stares at him. “But--” He starts, gets waved off with a lazy hand from Nixon.
“No one was hurt except a lab station and some overpriced books, my god, you didn’t kill a man.” He rolls his eyes. “You know how many times I had something like this happen when I was teaching?” He grins. Chuck shakes his head.
“Forty eight.” Nixon states, clearly quite proud of himself. “And it was never my fault, I’ll have you know.” He points at Chuck. “Just like this wasn’t your fault. Unless you weren’t even in the lab or something, but I know you were.” He shrugs. “Little shits are always going to be little shits, even if they’re twenty-something-year olds in college.”
Chuck snorts at that, finally lets himself relax back into the armchair Nixon had waved him into when he first got there. “You’ve got a point there, sir.”
“Oh, please.” Nixon waves him off again. “Quit with that bullshit, anything but that. As far as I’m concerned as the Dean of the School of Science you’re all good, Chuck. This is a place of learning, after all, so what’s a few friendly fires here or there, am I right?”
“Uh.”
“Good. Great!” Nixon perks up in his desk chair with a clap. “Now scoot. I’ve got a date with the cutest boy on campus and it’s Fajita Friday at La Pandereta.”
Chuck can’t help but grin, gives the framed picture of Nixon kissing the pale cheek of a smiling red head a quick glance before pushing himself up and out of his chair.
It’s something he can’t help but want for himself one day.
2 | TWO
Chuck rearranges the seating chart for his Tuesday-Thursday lab group so that Frank Perconte is at the station closest to his desk.
Two and a half weeks go by without a hitch.
Patrick O’Keefe somehow manages to set his backpack on fire on a Tuesday.
It’s a repeat of last time as everyone evacuates and Chuck puts out the fire in barely contained exasperation as it rains down on him from the sprinklers. He sops his way down the hall, shoes squelching against the tile floor with every step until he’s outside, once again in the middle of a scene straight from daytime TV.
His class is over by the parking lot, the front row of them looking a little green around the gills as Captain Speirs paces in front of them. He’s already got his helmet off, tucked under his arm all official-like as he lectures them. Chuck can’t make out what he’s saying from where he stands, but it can’t be anything pretty if the way Lacey Mitchell rears back in wide eyed panic is anything to go by.
“Hey.” Chuck demands, marches himself over before another firefighter can catch him like last time. “The hell are you saying to them, they’re scared shitless.”
“As they should be.” Speirs turns to him smoothly, eyebrow quirked. “Apparently they didn’t learn the first time.”
“In case you didn’t notice this is a school, a university, they’re here to learn. Fuck ups kind of come with the territory.” Chuck points out with a wave towards his class. “You should know, what with being an alumni and all.” He rolls his eyes.
Someone giggles. It’s effectively silenced by a single look from Speirs.
“Be that as it may, there’s still no excuse for this being the second reported fire here within the same month.”
“Blame me, then.” Chuck throws his hands up, silences the few brave souls that try to speak up on his behalf. “Little shits are always going to be little shits, even if they’re twenty-something-year olds in college. Give them a break.” He channels in his inner Nixon.
It seems to give Speirs pause, has him giving Chuck and slow once over up and down before turning back to Chuck’s students, an odd expression on his face. “He won’t always be here to account for your fuck ups.” He warns gravely before sharply turning on his heel to stalk away.
Everyone seems to deflate in on themselves, Chuck especially. “Go.” He tiredly tells his class. “Just go.” He waves them off as he rubs at his face, shivers as the night air settles in against his wet clothes.
“Dr. Grant?” Someone asks meekly off to the side. It’s Patrick O’Keefe. “Dr. Grant, I am so sorry.” He starts.
Chuck doesn’t need this right now. “Just don’t let it happen again, alright?” He sighs.
Patrick nods vigorously, opens his mouth to say something else Chuck really doesn’t want to hear. “Next week you’ll be at Perconte’s station so I can keep an eye on you. You’ll put your stuff at my desk.”
“Yeah, yeah, yes, okay.” Patrick babbles, finally seems to get the message and jitters away. Chuck watches him go with a shake of his head, turns to head back into the building to collect his own waterlogged bag of stuff.
Captain Speirs calls him over halfway there to once again sign some forms.
Chuck’s never hated paperwork more.
*
The next week goes off without a hitch.
Chuck doesn’t trust it to last if the little bouts of giggling he has to tamp out during his lecture sections are anything to go by.
It also doesn’t help that Nixon sends him a random email with nothing but three paragraphs of winky face emojis.
What the fuck.
3 | THREE
Tuesday’s a close call, but all it takes is one pointedly cleared throat from Chuck for Alex Penkala to put down the little origami crane he has hovering over the open flame of his table’s bunsen burner.
On Thursday, Laura Palmer slips on some spilt acid but manages to catch herself on James Miller’s shoulder who, in turn, upturns his beaker into Antonio Garcia’s lap who then spills his own beaker onto his open textbook.
Lester Hashey, in his haste to be helpful, knocks over a bunsen burner and together they all watch a rented copy of a one hundred and sixty two dollar book go up in glorious, 9-1-1 worthy flames.
Chuck’s once again the last out of the building, once again has to explain the situation to one of Speirs’ underlings, once again has to confront the Captain himself about his outstanding methods of consolation.
“Caption Speirs.” Chuck grunts out as he takes his place in front of his students.
“Dr. Grant.” Speirs acknowledges with a small nod. “To whom do we owe tonight’s mind blowing display of ineptitude?”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Chuck grits out as the guilty culprits shift behind him, “but it was a joint effort.”
“Simply amazing.” Speirs shakes his head as he surveys the group, something like a thread of awe in his voice. “Would you like me to call the fine folks at Guinness World Records to come and document this historic event?”
“Fuck off.” Chuck spits out before he can think of anything else. There’s a collective gasp behind him. “They’d be more impressed with the size of the stick up your ass, we wouldn’t stand a chance next to that thing.”
“I don’t know.” Captain Speirs steps into Chuck’s space, peers down at him. “They might find your pathetic likelihood to a half drowned Grumpy Cat more scintillating. Really, it’s uncanny. Maybe I should call Ripley’s instead?”
“I’m sure you have them on speed dial.” Chuck grits out, refuses to lose this little staring contest they’ve started. “What with being so completely devoid of a personality and all. Truly, it’s a phenomenon, could you not hack it as a gaudy novelty stripper so you had to become a real firefighter instead?”
There’s a low chorus of oh’s from Chuck’s students like it’s elementary school again and someone just got called to the office.
Even some of Speirs’ minions have stopped to take in the show.
Speirs himself seems to thrive in being challenged. “I’m curious, Dr. Grant,” he inquires lowly, “why your sorry ass teaching at my alma mater. Caltech run out charity spots for graduates without jobs?”
Someone titters at that, gets smacked.
Chuck snorts. “Sure, they had plenty of openings.” He shrugs. “But MIT’s boner for teachers with actual degrees was practically stabbing me in the eye over in California, so here I am.”
Two of the gathered firefighters double over in laughter.
“Don’t you all have anything better to do?” Speirs barks over Chuck’s shoulder with a glare. Chuck doesn't need to look to know his students are scattering like cockroaches, can see it reflected in the little grin threatening to tweak the corner of Speirs’ lips. Holy shit. That shouldn’t be that hot.
“Got any paper work for me?” Chuck blurts out before the Captain can step away, palms suddenly wet with what he refuses to call sweat. It’s left over sprinkler water, it has to be.
Speirs’ lips twitch as though they’re trying to act without his permission. “Do you always ask stupid questions?” He asks, a glint of something in his eyes.
Chuck’s never been so turned on in his life.
*
Nixon offers to sit in on his Tuesday-Thursday labs the next week, waxes poetic about how they’re such perfect little angels after they’ve all cleaned up and left.
Chuck just stares blankly at the half-graded quiz in front of him, wonders how the fuck Lewis Nixon became his boss.
Hell, the head of an entire academic department for that matter.
4 | FOUR
Tuesday’s a shit show that results in yet another appearance from the fire department and Captain Speirs.
This time, though, Chuck snaps from the sheer stupidity of it all.
“What the fuck would possess you to spray an aerosol can around a goddamn open flame?” He practically yells at his class, still somehow manages to avoid pointing out the sole perpetrator.
He’s mean, but he’s not that mean.
Even Skip Muck doesn’t deserve the laser focus ire of Captain Speirs.
“Eight o’clock tomorrow morning.” Chuck commands, fists on his hips. “I want handwritten letters from every single one of you addressed to President Winters explaining why this lab group finds it so fucking hard to follow basic instructions.”
Chuck kind of feels like a dick when Lacey Mitchell starts to cry, but hey, what can you do.
“Is that understood?” He surveys his class with a glare. Each and every one of them nod their head. Satisfied, Chuck waves them off, sighs as they trip over one another in their haste to get away.
“Dr. Grant.” Captain Speirs speaks up quietly from behind him.
Chuck doesn’t have the patience for this right now. “Can we not, this evening?” He snaps as he storms away, not even worrying about his bag for the night.
“What about the forms?” Speirs calls after him, amusement clear in his voice. “Still need your signature.”
Chuck can’t help but feel slightly hysterical that this is all even happening to him in the first place. “You went to school here.” He yells over his shoulder, doesn’t stop to see what the response is. “Fucking forge it!”
*
President Winters’ desk isn’t even as fancy as Nixon’s. Chuck wonders why.
“Dr. Grant?”
He focuses back in on the matter at hand, looks between the two men across from him. His mouth goes a little dry. “Yes?” He manages to get out.
Nixon laughs. “Unclench, Chuck, jesus. We’re not firing you.”
“Oh.”
“We’re just really amused.” The dark haired man continues, reaches out to grab at the stack of papers piled in front of Winters. “This class of yours, I mean...shit, man.”
“I think what Nix is trying to say, Chuck, is that your class appears to have a very unorthodox approach to matchmaking.” Winters translates with a grin.
“Um.” Chuck stares blankly.
“Did you read any of these?” Winters cocks a brow. “This is some quality stuff right here.”
“I’m not sure I follow?” Chuck makes a face. “I had them put them in sealed envelopes, I didn’t need to read what they had to say, I experience it enough.”
“Dude, you should’ve.” Nixon whistles lowly. “I mean, like this…” He clears his throat, reads from a letter. “The animalistic sexual tension between these two is enough to nuke the whole of humanity to mere ashes; we’re just trying to find the right launch codes.”
“What the hell?” Chuck’s voice comes out more strangled sounding than it should.
“Wait, wait, wait, this one’s my favorite!” Nixon shuffles to another letter gleefully. “This Caltech/MIT rivalry these two have going on is cute and all, but Captain Speirs is only fanning this flame so he can put it out with his own hose personally…” Nixon doubles over in laughter.
Even Winters gives a chuckle. Chuck’s so confused.
“And this one, oh my god--”
“I think the point Nix is trying to make,” Winters cuts the other man off, “is that your Tuesday-Thursday lab group thinks you and Captain Speirs would make a nice couple.”
“What.” Chuck blurts out dumbly. “They think...I just...he’s an asshole.” He shakes his head.
“He’s a hottie firefighter, Chuck, come on.” Nixon throws his hands in the air. “He’s a walking, talking wet dream.”
“I guess?” He admits feebly. “I may have insinuated he was a failed stripper?”
Nixon blinks at him. “Well that means you’ve thought about him as a successful stripper then, right?”
Winters saves Chuck from having to answer. “I appreciate your efforts here, Chuck, I really do. I’m sorry it didn’t really, uh, work like you thought it would, but nevertheless it was informative.”
“That’s one word for it.” Nixon snorts.
Winters chooses to ignore him. “I’ll schedule you in to come talk to your class, see if we can’t get this thing nipped in the bud. They’ve had their fun, it’s time to rein it in now.”
“Thank you, sir.” Chuck practically melts back into his chair in relief. “I’m so sorry--”
“No need to apologize, Chuck.” Winters smoothly cuts him off with a smile. “From what I understand you’ve been doing your job quite well and that’s all I can really ask for. What your students decide to do is beyond you, and I understand that. There’s no reason you should be held accountable for their actions.”
“You should listen to them, though.” Nixon chimes in, effectively ruining whatever little moment Chuck was just having with the President of MIT. “About the hose thing and stuff.”
Chuck tries very hard not to lose it on his department head like he lost it on his students.
It’s a close thing.
5 | FIVE
By the grace of the universe they somehow make it to the end of the semester. Slightly charbroiled and suitably scolded by the president of MIT like they’re all three years old again, but they make it.
Nixon was right: what’s a few friendly fires and a couple thousand dollars worth of ruined lab equipment amongst friends?
It’s out of well founded paranoia that Chuck grades one quiz, checks on his students. Grades another, surveys the room left to right. Does one more, surveys right to left.
They really are too close to the end of everything for someone to fuck it all up with some eleventh-hour bullshit. With every other breath he checks and double checks that everyone’s got their goggles and gloves on, that any and all hair’s pulled back, that all loose clothing’s stashed away under tables.
That no one’s spraying, applying, or playing with anything flammable.
They’re going to make it, goddammit. He’s not even going to fail any of them. They’re all going to somehow magically pass just so he doesn’t have to see them again in the fall for repeating a failed course. It’s going to be great.
Maybe.
“Who’s doing what and why?” He wrinkles his nose, looks up suspiciously to take in the lab in front of him with narrowed eyes.
Everyone freezes.
He rises from his chair as his nose twitches from another whiff of the sudden smell souring the air. “Perconte?” Chuck singles out the boy and his fellow station mates. They’re all wearing wide eyed looks of startled innocence. It’s too deer-in-headlighty to be faked.
“Everyone turn off your burners.” Chuck instructs as he cautiously makes his way around the front counter, does a slow walkabout of the room. “Anyone else smell that?”
Lacey Mitchell awkwardly raises her hand. “Burning rubber?” She guesses. There’s a few nods of agreement.
“Kind of eggy to me.” Perconte shrugs once Chuck’s looped back around to the front.
Burning rubber and schwacked eggs. Chuck grimaces. “Clean up your stations and get your stuff, but no one leaves.” Chuck stares out at his class, makes sure he has their full and undivided attention. “Everyone stays here in this room until I’ve checked the building. If for any reason the fire alarm goes off then you do what you do best, but other than that you all stay here and wait for me. Understood?”
He waits until every single one of them has nodded. He gives them all one wary last look as he makes for the door, gags a little as he opens it and the smell hits him tenfold. He leans out into the hall, looks it up and down for any other signs of life.
It’s just been him and his lab group every Tuesday and Thursday night since mid-January.
So why the fuck is there light spilling out from an open door at the other end of the hall?
Chuck pulls his own classroom door halfway shut behind him as he starts towards it, coughs as the smell grows stronger the closer he gets. He peeks into what’s normally an empty room, sees students very much like his own gathered at the front. He’s kind of confused as to why they all look like they’re about to pee their pants.
He moves in closer, reaches out to knock lightly on the door. He might as well have fired a gun for how violently they all startle. The door flies open.
“Dr. Grant!” Norman Dike greets, face dopey as ever. He’s got a beaker of something in one hand and a lighter in the other. “What’s up?”
“Well.” Chuck starts, pushes his way past the other man into the lab. “I’m wondering what that smell is and why it’s so strong in the first place.” He stares at his fellow faculty member.
“Don’t even worry.” Dike waves him off, shuffles back to his work. “We finished all our labs ahead of schedule so we’re just having some fun, trying out some stuff.”
Chuck tries not to stare in open horror at the plethora of beakers and bottles spread out in front of the other man, at the three lit bunsen burners, at the wide open doors of the chemical cabinet in the back of the lab.
Dike’s students are staring him down in silent, desperate pleas for help.
“Sounds like you’ve got it under control, then.” Chuck tries as he falls in line with Dike behind the counter. “So what exactly are you...doing?” He asks, makes a face at the range of chemicals he can manage to read the labels of. Each of them highly flammable.
“Oh, nothing much.” Dike grins as he mixes something in another beaker, completely oblivious to cloying concern radiating from every other person in the room. “We’re mostly going for some flashy stuff, different reactions and maybe a spark or two. Right guys?”
No one even attempts to respond.
Chuck clears his throat. “Is having all this out really necessary?” He subtly rearranges some beakers so they’re the furthest things from an open flame. He isn’t sure what to do with all the piles of loose leaf papers without being obvious. “You know some of this stuff shouldn’t be out unless you actually need it, right?”
“Oh, please.” Dike scoffs, sloshes whatever’s in his beaker onto the counter. “Lighten up some, Chuck, you know better than anyone how fun some danger can be.” Dike elbows him with an attempt at what Chuck thinks may be a devilish smirk. It’s too weird to tell.
It’s what puts him over the edge. “Right, well, okay,” Chuck gears himself up, takes off the kid gloves, “it looks like you’ve had your fun, why don’t you wrap this up and call it a night, yeah?”
Dike sloshes even more of whatever’s in his beaker onto the counter, mops it up with the sleeve of his lab coat. “Excuse me, but who’s class is this?”
“Yours, somehow.” Chuck deadpans. “C’mon, Dike, send these guys home and put this stuff away. I’ll even help.”
“Why?” Dike rears forward into Chuck’s space. “So you can set this room on fire too? So you can you blame it on me instead of your own shitty teaching? Get away with it for once?”
“Alright, asshole, I’ve tried being nice.” Chuck snaps. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, here?” He gestures at everything in front of them. “One wrong combo here and you could seriously hurt someone, it’s basic chemistry.” Chuck reaches out to start organizing the containers closest to him.
He’s not expecting Dike’s hand to shove him away, or for Dike to drop the beaker he’s been holding. He’s not expecting the other man to slip, to try to catch himself on the counter, to effectively sweep everything off and knock over a bunsen burner. He’s not expecting Dike to take him down with him, but that’s what happens as glass shatters and the countertop erupts in one giant hibachi grill of inorganic chemistry.
Chuck yells to be heard over the screams of Dike’s students, but it’s a lost cause when Dike himself is screaming in his face as shards of glass press into his body as Dike tries to roll them in the small space between the counter and the wall. It’s then that Chuck realizes Dike’s sleeve is on fire, that he’s trying to stop, drop, and roll.
“Dr. Grant!” Someone pulls at his legs, tries to free him from Dike. “Dr. Grant, what should we do?!”
“Extinguisher!” Chuck yells as Dike clings to him, the searing fire from the counter above making it impossible for them to stand. “Get the fire extinguisher!”
“We don’t have any, Dike took them all down!”
Chuck freezes where he’s on his hands and knees, Dike’s hands fisted in his shirt. His palms are bleeding. Above him there’s the piercing sound of shattering glass, something wet and hot spilling down onto his back. He looks up, expecting the sprinklers, but there’s nothing. Just smoke and dancing licks of fire.
“Call 9-1-1!” He yells, smacks away Dikes hands. “Find an alarm, pull it!” He commands, grips at Dike’s coat to pull the other man with him as he attempts to crawl backwards. Dike puts up a fight as he continues to panic, but he’s no match for Chuck’s sense of self preservation.
They’re out from behind the counter when there’s suddenly hands grabbing at him, separating him from Dike. He’s dragged out into the hall just as the sprinklers spritz to life, Dike right after him. Frank Perconte’s face comes to hover in front of him, his concern blurry and fogged. It’s then that Chuck realizes just how much smoke there is, how much he’s coughing from it in an attempt to get air.
He also notices all the blood he’s apparently leaking.
“The fire department’s on the way, we called them, they’re sending two trucks and two ambulances.” Frank babbles, jumps at another sharp shattering sound from Dike’s classroom.
They both wince against a gust of heat as the fire whooshes louder. Chuck coughs and wheezes as Frank drags him further down the hall.
Dike’s a paralyzed mannequin across from him in a burnt lab coat. He’s never wanted to beat the shit out of someone more.
He must try to get to him because Frank’s holding him back, yelling something to someone else down the hall. Another pair of hands grab at his other arm and Chuck’s shuffled down the hall to the front of the building, to the main door where firefighters stream in around them.
The air’s fresher outside, grassy and wet, and it’s between one hacking cough and the next that a man in utilitarian blues appears in front of him, face pinched in concentration.
“Over here, guys, this way.” The man instructs Chuck’s students, leads them to the back of an open ambulance. Frank and someone who may be Patrick, Chuck tries to think, lower him down to sit on the bumper.
“Hi, Dr. Grant.” A low, southern voice greets him as steady hands move about his body. “Can ya tell me how ya doin’ right now?”
“Can’t.” Chuck wheezes out. “Breathe.”
“I can fix that.” The voice promises, yells something over Chuck’s shoulder. “What else, huh, where ya hurtin’?”
There’s something being slipped around his head, a plastic cup pressing over his nose. “Arms.” Chuck heaves a deep breath of direct oxygen. “Neck.” He tries to reach up.
The man with the deep voice stops him. “You’ve got a lot of burns on your arms, Dr. Grant, from the fire or chemicals or both. We’re goin’ to irrigate them before sendin’ ya to the hospital, do ya understand?”
Chuck nods, tries not to shy away from the sudden water coursing over his neck and down his back, chest, and arms. “Ya goin’ to need some stitches too, alright, we gonna patch you up real good for the ride, ya hear me?”
“Hear ya.” Chuck repeats through the oxygen mask, looks down to watch as his arms turn from red to pink to shock-white pale. “Class?”
“All outside and accounted for, Professa’ Dike’s too.”
Chuck nods and shuts up, lets the paramedic dress the worst of his cuts and burns before he can manage to bleed out in a parking lot at MIT. Wouldn’t Captain Speirs just love that?
“Where’s Roe?”
Speak of the devil.
“Roe!”
“Over here, Capn’.” Chuck’s paramedic barks out over his shoulder. Chuck could really do without this indignity, thanks. He feels more than sees the Captain approach, can just somehow sense it in the way the air shifts around them.
“Everything alright over here?” Speirs demands.
Chuck has to squint to see him over the top of his oxygen mask. The other man’s a solid line of steel tension with a face of pure rage. Oh, shit.
“Dr. Grant.” Speirs addresses. “Care to tell me what the fuck happened here?”
Chuck’s suddenly glad they didn’t hook him up to a heat monitor, too. “Not…” He wheezes. “My fault.”
“Your students have made that abundantly clear. Norman Dike’s, too.” Speirs cocks an eyebrow. “They mutinied.”
Chuck tries to roll his eyes, but it’s hard when they’re burning so much. “No fire things...in the room...sprinklers…never...went off.” Chuck struggles to get out.
“We found both fire alarms in the lab disabled, pried open with their wires hanging out.”
Chuck stares at him in shock.
“Congratulations, Dr. Grant.” Captain Speirs smiles grimly. “You’re no longer the biggest fuck up I have in this city.” He walks away.
Chuck watches him go, wide eyed and wheezing.
Roe very pointedly says nothing as he continues to pad and tape his arms. “Want somethin’ to take the edge off?” He eventually offers.
Chuck’s never been more grateful for a relative stranger offering drugs. He nods lamely as he lets himself be manhandled up into the ambulance and onto a gurney. The small interior lights above are searingly bright as a needle sticks him in the arm and his oxygen’s turned up a notch.
Roe buckles him in for the ride as he hears some yelling, but he can’t be sure over the aerated hissing by his ears. Someone slams the doors shut.
“The Capn’ must like ya.” Roe comments as he settles in beside him, gets him hooked up for vitals. “He didn’t even try to poke ya burns.”
Chuck just stares at him, somehow manages to raise a slightly burnt middle finger.
It gets his point across.
Roe just laughs.
*
He’s in the hospital for almost two weeks following Dike’s claimed “mental snappage”.
Nixon had relayed the whole sordid story from start to finish once Chuck was allowed visitors, complete with stand in hand puppets for Dike and Winters. He’s not sure if it really was as funny as he remembers it or if it was the drugs making Nixon more bearable. He thinks it was the latter.
After that it was a revolving door of his own personal friends and every single one of his Inorganic Chemistry III students bearing either a card or flowers or both. It reached a point that he had to start asking the nurses to ration out the greenery to other patients on his floor just so his room wouldn’t turn into a jungle.
He remembers one instance of waking up from an after-lunch nap halfway through his stay, still hooked up to oxygen and battling an infection in one of his lungs and in a couple of his burns, to a card sitting upright directly in front of him on his bedside tray.
Grumpy Cat had glared at him from the cover.
Inside he found the signatures of various Cambridge Fire Department firefighters and a brief note wishing him a speedy and uneventful recovery. He didn’t recognize any of the names except for a Gene Roe -- the paramedic who had patched him up -- and, right smack dab in the middle of it all, a chicken scratched scrawl that looked an awful lot like Captain Speirs.
+1 | PLUS ONE
Chuck continues to heal in the handful of weeks school’s out between the end of the spring semester and the start of summer sessions.
It’s a fight just to call dibs on a piddly little six week course on the history of astrophysics, but he eventually wins out against Nixon’s resolve to not have him back in action until the fall.
All it took was some puppy dog eyes and a wink from President Winters, but still. The man’s his hero.
Nixon? Not so much.
He’s why half of Chuck’s Tuesday-Thursday night lab students from the spring are in his summer session: something about them wanting to atone for their sins.
Chuck thinks it’s more the fact their GPAs took a plunge because they were too busy setting shit on fire for the fun of it, but that’s just him.
He actually likes most of them outside of a lab setting.
It’s the end of the first Thursday of their session when Chuck shuffles out of the science building, most of his students right behind him. It’s nice out, golden like only summer evenings can be. A vicious glint of light directed right at him has him pausing at the edge of the parking lot, eyes squinched against the glare.
“Nice bike.” An eerily familiar voice says.
Chuck steps down from the curb. “Thanks?” He tries, wanders slowly closer to his parked motorcycle and the man propped against it. “Cheaper than a car.” He shrugs.
“Better mileage, too.” Captain Speirs nods in agreement, pats at the seat. “Better parking.”
Chuck just stares at him, takes stock of how he looks out of uniform. He’s not surprised by the jeans and boots, or the jacket that’s hanging from a handlebar. He’s honestly more in awe of the faded band tee stretched across the other man’s chest, the six smiling faces of Jefferson Airplane looking back at him. His mouth goes a little dry.
He thinks suddenly of a tiny, scribbled signature in a get well soon card.
Speirs smirks. “Charles Edward Grant, double majored in astronomy and physics with a minor in mathematics. Mastered in applied physics and computer science. Has a PhD in astrophysics.”
Chuck tries to keep his mouth from falling open.
“Did I miss anything?” Speirs muses as he straightens from his slouch, pulls his jacket from the handlebar. Looks at Chuck expectantly.
“Um, well.” Chuck clears his throat. “You’re either a very thorough stalker or have friends in the police department.” He scratches at the back of his head. “Either way, it’s also fucking creepy.”
Speirs grins like the cat that got the canary. “Neither.” He throws Chuck for a loop. “Nixon and I go way back, he gave me your resume.”
“That motherfucker.” Chuck huffs, glares over his shoulder at the science building sitting innocently behind him. Speirs just snorts.
“So what is it that you want, then?” Chuck turns back to him, refuses to admire the play of shadows across the planes of his cheeks in the evening sun.
Speirs reaches up to pluck the sunglasses from his face. “Resume only got me so far.” He shrugs. “Didn’t give anything personal. Nixon said you’d have to fill in the rest.”
“He did, did he?” Chuck rolls his eyes, steps away to strap his bag onto the back of his bike. “Wonder why.”
“Something about nuclear codes and a hose--”
“Stop.” Chuck cuts him off, face flushing red. “Just. No. Jesus christ.” He sighs.
“Actually, it’s Ron.” The other man extends a hand. Chuck stares at it stupidly. “Ron Speirs.”
Chuck belatedly takes it, wonders when this actually became his life. “All those forms and I never even got your name.” He points out with a shake of his head, a wry grin. “Do I get a copy of your resume too?” He quirks a brow. “Seems only fair.”
Ron grins back in challenge. “Beer or coffee?” He asks, pulls a ring of keys from his pocket.
Chuck hefts his helmet in his hands, weighs his options. “Fuck it, I could go for a beer right now.” He decides. “Where at?”
“Place across town.” Ron suggests, already walking backwards to his car. “Dog and Bone? Loser buys the first round.”
Chuck snorts as he straddles his bike, mentally maps out his route. “I’ll wait for you.” He promises as Ron slips into his car. The other man just shakes his head, lips twitching in an attempt to remain serious.
Chuck beats him to the bar by a longshot, but in a cosmic twist of irony absolutely no one saw coming, it’s Frank Perconte who ends up buying not only their first round, but also their second, third, and fourth.
Chuck can only imagine the gossip come Monday.