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Something about Howard Han made Bobby forget he was supposed to be grieving, just for a moment.
He was used to the misery, the way it burnt through him like the alcohol used to, like the flames had. There was a certain comfort he had garnered from the coil of guilt, that boa constrictor around his neck stealing his words with the promise of one day stealing his life.
Bobby had plans. He had his book, tucked neatly in his breast pocket, to remind himself why his heart was still beating, why he had taken this job, why he had to walk away from it all.
But when Chimney looked at him so coyly, jaw working around the gum in his mouth, he was aware of his heartbeat for an entirely different reason.
He didn’t know when it started. Frankly, when Bobby had jumped in as captain, he wasn't sure what to think of Chimney. Something about his carefree attitude rubbed him the wrong way.
It reminded Bobby of times he never got to have, of his dreams as a boy of what a fireman was, of what his father was, both now marred with shattered glass bottles and the sickly allure of hops.
Chimney didn't have the same storm cloud above his head. He was resilient, cheery in a way that made something stir in the depths of Bobby's guts, something that churned like nausea and settled like cement.
He was doing a bad job at hiding it, he knew. If not for the steely way he barked out Chimney's name on calls, he would have figured it anyways from Bobby's hesitance to meet his eyes, the way his gaze was only ever fleeting.
Chimney was a smart man. Bobby knew this. He could almost hear the question Chimney wasn't asking, an undercurrent of tension in every response that cut into Bobby without preamble.
Bobby was fine to allow it to continue. It was just another form of self harm to him, which at that point he welcomed with as much warmth as he could muster. Let himself be hated, he figured, and thus he could make another person happy when he was gone.
He should have known better, in retrospect. Cheery Chimney, the one who could charm any snake. Who would at least attempt it, who could never let unsaid remain unsaid.
Bobby wasn't fully surprised that shift, when Chimney let himself into his office and shut the door behind him, the quick click of the latch echoing louder than Bobby thought possible. Or perhaps Bobby was just mistaking it with the sound of his heart pounding in his ears, quickened with each step Chimney took towards him until he settled in the seat in front of the desk.
They both stayed quiet for a moment. Bobby's eyes stayed trained on the desk, solid mahogany. He, for a fraction of a breath, wished it were a tree once more, sturdy between them, keeping him from having to look at Chimney's face.
Stubbornly, the desk remained a desk.
"Look, Cap," Chimney finally said, voice calm, "I don't really know what I did to make you hate me, but whatever it is, I'm sorry."
The apology made Bobby feel about three inches tall. "No, it's nothing you did," he insisted. He forced himself to look up at Chimney and tried to push down the skips of his heart. His eyes were wide and sincere, open in a way Bobby had a hard time understanding. "It's my own problem and something I need to work through on my own. I'll try to be more professional in the future."
Something about the way Chimney looked at him then felt a little too knowing. Bobby was sure Chimney could see down to his bones, picking out his sins from sinew like a vulture in wait. Bobby waited with bated breath for the strike, but Chimney only leaned back in his chair, head slightly cocked.
"I've been trying to figure you out," he admitted casually. "We've had a lot of temporary captains after Gerrard was booted. None have lasted nearly as long as you, and yet you're twice as miserable as all of them combined."
It was phrased as a statement, but Bobby could hear the interwoven question there, words plucking at his defenses with impressive accuracy.
He looked away, walls reinforced.
"I don't see how that's any of your business," he replied stiffly, "I'm your boss, and this isn't an appropriate conversation."
Chimney snorted. "You think I cared about how I spoke in front of the last five bosses either? I care about the work environment, and making sure no one's getting targeted for anything they can't control."
"What does that even mean?"
He cocked an eyebrow. "Well, for starters, I'm Korean."
Bobby's blood, which had felt like lava before, was instantly glacial. "Oh, no! Absolutely not. That's not it at all."
"So then what is it?"
Bobby hesitated, words rolling in his mind before slipping from his tongue, "You're just so happy, all the time. This is a serious job filled with tragedy every day, and sometimes I wonder if you understand the gravity of it."
It clearly bit at Chimney, sending a wince through his body that Bobby didn't quite understand, a haunted shade crossing his face for a moment before it was pressed back down under a cellophane smile. "Trust me, I understand the gravity of the job just fine."
"Do you?" He was too far gone to bite his tongue now. "Every single call, it's one joke after the other, smacking that gum in everyone's faces. Don't you take anything seriously?"
Chimney's eyes squeezed shut. Bobby wished almost instantly that he could take the words back, wrap them up one by one and tuck them inside whatever dark corner of his mind thought they should be unleashed in the first place, or perhaps use them for self-flagellation.
It didn't matter. He had said them, Chimney had felt them.
They breathed for a moment, in and out, silent until Chimney broke it. "You know, there was a call. Big fire, a few houses all on it. My brother was on one of the crews with me."
"I didn't know you have a brother," Bobby said lamely.
Chimney smiled tightly. "We were up on the roof. A woman stumbled out, and we knew the structure was compromised. He sacrificed himself to get her to safety."
If Bobby hadn't already been certain his name had been struck from Heaven, he was sure he would have fallen like timber with the slice of Chimney's words, absolute in the stillness of the room.
He finally brought himself to look into Chimney's eyes, and behind that ever-present joy he could finally see the grief, pain driving coping. Were those lines in Chimney's face? Had they always curved so gently?
"I'm sorry," Bobby finally said. "Sorry for your loss, sorry for the assumptions I've made, and sorry for treating you so coldly."
Chimney shrugged, but it was too late now; Bobby could see the way insecurity danced on his skin. "It's okay. You had your reasons for it, I'm sure."
He did, but in that moment, he felt the wild urge to blurt them out, confess on his knees to Chimney like a sinner in church. It was a twisted thought, the image of Chimney's disgust etched into his mind, the way he would contort with loathing.
It felt almost as painful as the thought of Chimney's forgiveness.
"I do," Bobby said hesitantly. He breathed the words in his head, rearranged them until they felt almost dishonest, "I came here from a tragic situation involving fire. I'm just trying to get through my day without letting the grieving pull me under."
Chimney frowned thoughtfully. For a wild moment, Bobby wondered if his lips would taste like grief, or if they were saturated with something more akin to hope. "I think it's okay to let yourself get pulled under," he finally said. "It's like a riptide. Try to swim against it, and you'll just tire yourself out. You have to find a way to work with the grief, or you'll end up drowning."
Bobby wanted to drown: that was the problem. He needed to let those names wash over him every single day, for them to fill his lungs to keep them from giving out, to keep his bones from going brittle, lest he find his end too soon. He needed to drown in pain rightfully given, dutifully taken, until he was nothing except the lives he had squandered.
There was a piece of him screaming that he could drown in the man across from him instead, that same piece that eased his burden whenever Chimney smiled unabashedly or laughed fiercely.
It was only a piece, and if Catholics were good at nothing else, it was living in guilt and pushing past selfish desires. He had a duty.
Instead of saying any of this, Bobby simply forced a smile, certain that it didn't quite reach his eyes. His wants could wait. "You're probably right."
Chimney studied his face before acquiescing, letting Bobby get away with whatever he was withholding without complaint. "I usually am," he said, just a pinch too tight to be casual.
Bobby wondered, sitting across from him, if in another lifetime they could be friends. A more traitorous piece of him wondered if they could be something a little more.
But then the bell rang, and what they could have been mattered less than what they were. But Bobby stood a little closer to Chimney on the call, and each brush of his arm felt a little more like understanding.