Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

August, 2025.

Luke wakes up with a start, covered in sweat and heart pounding like a timpani against his ribcage. It was another nightmare about That Day, when his whole life and plans for it ended abruptly and without fanfare.

Running a hand over his face, Luke looks over at his phone, catching 4:45 AM glaring back at him. He figures that sleep will evade him now, and since he's still at the station until 6:00 PM he might as well start breakfast for everyone.

Ignoring the tightness in his right leg, he climbs down and pads out to the kitchen. Their set up in the station isn't fancy, actually it probably needs an upgrade sooner rather than later, but it still works. But Jesus, would it kill headquarters to replace this fridge? The door squeaks as eggs, milk, bacon, and orange juice are pulled out. 

Rutger only eats egg whites, the freak, and Mark needs his bacon extra crispy. Seamus will eat just about anything except for waffles whereas Ethan would prefer a BEC on a bagel. Dylan rarely eats breakfast at all, preferring straight black coffee.

Nearly five years together and Luke knows these guys like the back of his hand. He was nervous, initially, about the assignment to Station 43 since its radius covers both Madison Square Garden and the Empire State Building. Those two buildings are emblematically New York, and he thought they'd be manned by some hardasses who didn't care his grandfather was a former battalion chief. Instead he found guys around the same age as him, if not a little older, who welcomed him like they came up through the academy together.

When he left the station on that first day of his probationary year, Luke had found what he considers to be his real brothers. There was Mark and Ethan, the chaotic paramedic duo; Dylan and Rutger the suppression team with the engine; and Seamus, who was paired up with Luke for extractions on the ladder truck.

Together they lambasted the state of the New York's housing market before Luke suggested they go in on a place in Astoria - three bedrooms, one bath - a month into his tenure. They'd have to double up rooms, but the rent would be manageable, and by then they were already thick as thieves. It was of no surprise to anyone in the station when the five of them said yes.

Cooking breakfast relaxes Luke a bit. The rhythmic motions of stirring the batter and cracking the eggs onto a sizzling pan is automatic to him. He throws on a pot of coffee - using beans from Mark's "super secret" store in Harlem that he swears by. The station is out of tea, but with any number of bodegas nearby picking some up would be no issue. 

"You're up early." Luke jumps slightly, turning around from the stove to see Seamus, with a serious case of bedhead. The clock behind him reads just after 6:00.

"Couldn't sleep." He replies, pouring his partner a cup of coffee and sliding it across the island. Seamus hums like he doesn't believe Luke, which fair. You don't spend every waking minute of your life with someone without them picking up on what Rutger calls the 'deep stuff'.

"Same nightmare?" Seamus asks, causing Luke to halt for a second too long.

"Yeah."

Seamus waits for an elaboration, but it doesn't come. Instead he just nods to himself. He knows about that Labor Day weekend back in 2017, why Luke never speaks of his brothers or Michigan and how he got those scars on his leg. That whole ordeal isn't something Luke speaks about much at all, if he can help it.

"Here, let me help." Seamus takes over the eggs so Luke can focus on the pancakes and waffles. It's always been like that. Luke admits just enough but not everything, and they don't push or prod, instead stepping in with him on whatever task he's doing. It could be breakfast, like now, or it could be cleaning the engine, restocking the ambulance, joining him in the station gym.

"Ethan's gonna be pissed we don't have fresh bagels." Luke says after a comfortable pause.

"Ethan can hug a landmine and run up one block to West 32nd if he wants fresh ones."

Luke huffs out a laugh and Seamus counts it as a win, even slipping on the morning radio at a low volume.

Slowly the rest of the station wakes up. Mark and Ethan file in first - the paramedics have some weird sort of mind meld - followed by Dylan and finally Rutger.

"It's like, so ungodly early." Rutger yawns, plating some food for himself before joining them at the table.

"It's nearly 7:00. You should have checked the foam on the engine by now." Dylan offers up from sipping his coffee. Rutger merely flips him off goodheartedly.

"Hey, we still on for going out tonight? I was thinking we could try that new place in the Lower East Side along Orchard Street." Ethan asks, plate half empty. Mark is already rolling his eyes.

"Dude, you want us to go all the way back home to change and then come all the way back to Manhattan?"

"It's not that far."

"It's a N to F transfer, I might as well bring my passport." Mark settles in his chair, arms folded across his chest.

And thus begins some early morning chaos, each man arguing his case on where to go out. Luke will go some nights. He does enjoy it, but after a long shift his leg - especially his knee - becomes stiff and inflamed, so there are times he opts to stay back at the apartment.

"Regardless of where you guys go, I'll not be joining tonight. I have dinner with my grandpa, so I'll be back late." Luke cuts in.

"Awe, really, Moose?" Rutger pouts, actually jutting out his bottom lip.

"Yeah, sorry man. Rain check?"

"You know one of these days we are going to cash in the hundred other rain checks you keep giving us." Dylan teases, earning an exaggerated eye roll.

"And one of these days I'm not going to bring back my grandpa's banana bread that I know you sneak from the fridge late at night." He shoots back, earning various 'oooo's. Dylan opens his mouth, but the tones of a call come in.

"STATION 43. ENGINE, LADDER, EMS UNITS REQUESTED. GREASE FIRE. 29 WEST 30th STREET. APARTMENT 402."

Scarfing down whatever food and drink remain, they hustle down to the bay. In seconds, their turnout gear is thrown on and the garage doors open. Before a minute even passes all three vehicles are rolling out with full sirens. There's no communication over the radio, there's no need for it. Each guy knows their buddy, knows procedure, knows who is gonna be where and what their role is gonna be.

When they get to the scene, Luke moves swiftly to get the ladder truck up and swung over to the apartment window. Putrid, black smoke is pouring out of the opening, and two girls - around his age - are waving their hands wildly. It's definitely a pre-war building, all stone and ancient wiring and poor ventilation. Luke would bet money it's a gas stove too.

Dylan and Rutger are already inside, running up the stairwell in full gear - masks, hood, an SCBA too. Meanwhile Mark and Ethan are already armed and ready with gauze and oxygen masks. They do a great job of crowd control too, even after the NYPD shows up. Late, as usual. 

As the ladder lines up with the window, Luke locks it's position before attaching himself via carabiner and rope.

"Seamus, meet me half-way when I get up there. I'll hand you the first person to take down for medical." Luke says through his radio, already beginning the climb. The height doesn't freak him out, never did. His only priority is maintaining the three points of contact and getting up to the window as fast as possible.

"Roger. En route. Mark, Ethan, you have a hospital in mind?"

"Langone. After triage we'll confirm." Ethan replies.

"Approaching window. Seamus?" Luke is nearly at the top of the ladder now, just a few more steps and he can lift the women out.

"Right behind you."

Luke crinkles his nose from the smell of melted plastic and burnt tar. The heat of the fire is palpable, even through the turnouts.

"Hey, hey, it's ok. We're gonna get you out of there ok? I'm Luke, just take a beat to compose yourself, you both are gonna be just fine." His voice is practiced now, no uncertainty or fear for him. But he can see those same emotions in the girls' eyes.

Carefully he extends both hands, helping the first woman out of the apartment. She's coughing, dragging in gulps of fresh air. He can make out the soot and tear tracks on her face and, more concerningly, the irritated red skin on his lower arm from the searing grease.

"Seamo!" Luke says, efficiently handling her off. "Mark, Ethan, burns look superficial at first pass. Worried about her airway though."

"Roger."

Luke turns back and helps the other girl out of the building from the window. Taking another look inside, he sees that the stove top is completely engulfed in flames and the cupboards have started to catch too. Just then, Dylan and Rutger enter, covering the grease fire with a lid and using an extinguisher to put the rest of the flames out.

"I-It was just… It happened so fast and… I put water on it and it only made it worse…" The second girl starts to really cry then, coughing with each sob. Luke does his job, slowly carrying her down and whispering in her ear.

"It's ok. You're alarms worked, you called 911, you're safe. That's all that matters, yeah? All that stuff can be replaced, but you can't. You have renter's insurance?"

The girl nods.

"Yeah. Had to have it to move in."

"Then it'll all be covered. No harm, no foul." He helps her down off the ladder and then off the truck, guiding her to Mark and Ethan who are still working on the first girl. Luke steps back, radioing up to Rutger and Dylan who reply that they're watching for any embers and flareups.

"Another masterclass in bravery and being a heartthrob, Firefighter Hughes." Seamus grins, helping Luke retract the ladder back to its resting position. He rolls his eyes, giving Seamus a look.

"It's way too early for this." Luke murmurs, but Seamus is nothing if not a pest.

"$20 both of them are going to call their parents tonight and regal them with the story of how this big, strong, sexy firefighter from Station 43 saved their dainty little lives."

"Technically Mark and Ethan are doing, like, the actual saving. I - we - just pulled them out of the building." Luke powers down the ladder and hops off the truck, but he's unlucky to escape Seamus.

"Yes, but paramedics are so," Seamus makes a wavy gesture with his hand, "whereas you… You're the first person they saw. You probably, like, imprinted on them."

Luke slaps Seamus's shoulder.

"Dude."

"What? You swing for both teams, why not just, you know…"

"Because? I'm not interested right now? Those girls went through something traumatic? And besides, what am I gonna do for sex? Drag whatever guy or girl back to our apartment that has a total of six men living there? Sexile you to the couch? It's so not happening."

Seamus wraps an arm around Luke's shoulders and shakes him slightly.

"Always so noble and considerate. This is why you're getting that promotion to lieutenant."

He blushes and ducks his head. Luke's never been the best at receiving compliments or praise, even when it's rightfully deserved.

"I haven't even applied."

"Yet. Application window is open until January, you know."

"Headquarters probably wants someone with more experience anyway. I don't even have five years of service yet." Luke dismisses, because there's more qualified firefighters out there with an actual degree in emergency management instead of the fire science one Luke received online from John Jay College in June.

"Lukey, c'mon, I mean look at how we run our station. We have no lieutenant, our captain is out on LTD and yet… you run the show, really." Luke goes to refute this point because there's a well known shortage of captains and lieutenants department-wide and everyone in the house pulls their weight collectively, it's not just him.

"No, no. Don't even try to deny it. You're the one that makes breakfast and dinner, you handle incident reports, you run scenes if needed… you're the standard. Our standard."

Luke swallows any emotion that comes with; that's how it usually goes with Seamus - a joke or tease turning into something deeper and more emotional. Luke's very lucky to have him as his best friend, even if he is a menace.

"Hey! Bozos! We're rolling out. Meet you back at the station." Ethan yells out, jarring Luke and Seamus from their conversation.

"Leaving all the hard work for us, aren't you?" Seamus calls out as Mark and Ethan load into the front and back of the ambulance respectively.

"You have Mr. June 2024, I think you'll manage." Mark replies, nodding to Rutger who- goddamnit.

"Rut! What did we say about flirting on calls!" Luke shouts as the ambulance turns on its lights and drives away. Rutger has that disheveled look after a call, the one people seem to find sexy while Luke finds disgusting - seriously, it's nasty. Anyway, he's chatting up some girl who evacuated the building when the alarms went off.

Rutger looks at least a little bashful as red rises to his cheeks, scratching the back of his neck.

"Um, that it's unbecoming of the standards and etiquette of the New York Fire Department and reinforces stereotypes of first responders?"

"Exactly." Luke stares down Rutger and the girl until he relents, shaking his head exasperated.

"I can never win." He sighs, one hand on his temple. Seamus chuckles and guides Luke back to the truck.

"You? Think of poor Dylan. That man hasn't slept in his bed in weeks."

"To be fair, I've been in other beds. Just not my own." Dylan grins, reeking of extinguisher and smoke.

"Oh my God." Luke sighs, long suffering and not serious.

-

The rest of the day passes with minimal incident. After the grease fire, they shower and launder their clothes immediately, then focus on cleaning the equipment and vehicles. Luke - and every other firefighter - is well aware of the threat of cancer or lung damage from duty, so there is a concerted effort to minimize exposure.

There's a few other calls - one elevator broken at the Fashion Institute, a collapsed tourist outside MSG, and a lift assist to an elderly man just two blocks away. In all, the shift is about as regular as a fire station could hope for, which is rare.

He's stuck writing up the calls they responded to and reporting it to the incoming shift. As a result, Mark, Eddie, Dylan, and Rutger head out ahead of him, which is fine since Luke has to head out to Long Island anyway, and won't be seeing them on their tour of debauchery around Manhattan later.

Once the handoff to the next shift is complete, Luke's off. Turning up 7th Avenue, he dips into the belly of Penn Station, hoping on the 6:35 train eastbound to see his grandfather. Sometimes it feels weird to call him that, given everything he's done for Luke. Grandpa Marty has raised Luke since June of 2018 after ten months of rehabbing his leg and the unsettled quiet of his family's home.

That was the year Quinn was drafted, and his parents wanted it to be a family affair. Something about 'resolve' or 'strength', which is funny since Luke didn't feel anything of the sort. He felt isolated and weak, watching life progress on for everyone else while his had essentially stopped.

He couldn't muster a look at Jack, or even have a conversation with Quinn after the accident. Their lives were untainted, dreams all but ascertained; Luke had to find out who he was all over again. A rift had ruptured between Luke and them, and it would never be closed or bridged. He grew to resent them a little, then erupting into full blown hatred. For it was no longer the three of them, united by hockey. Luke would always be on the outside now, from everything and everyone.

The Hughes family revolved around that sport. Breathed it, lived it. Without that, Luke didn't know how to talk to them, and vice versa. Dinners became quiet, his dad would softly invite Jack and Quinn for practice out of earshot, and his mom brought up sled hockey only once before Luke ripped up the pamphlet and threw it on the ground. His parents merely became chauffeurs to physical therapy and doctor's visits; his brothers reduced down to roommates at best.

They started focusing on Jack and Quinn more - extended tournaments away, more sticks and gear, longer practice time - anything to keep away from the brother and son that was more shame than pride. And Luke gets it, he does, but not really and not at all.

He didn't know that by losing his ability to skate he'd be losing his family too.

So when the plan to travel to Quinn's draft came up, Luke didn't want to hear any of it. He didn't want to listen to hours about how great Quinn was, or Jack's projected ranking for the next year. The ordeal was a reminder that for him, that future and destiny was out of reach and always would be.

And of course there was an angle too, protecting the image of America's "First Family of Hockey". A piece on the accident with Jack the "valiant" brother who rescued Luke - ironic, since it was Jack's fault - and the sturdy foundation of family on which Luke would bounce back, finding a new path in life that wasn't hockey.

Such fucking bullshit.

He remembers erupting like a volcano only once, spewing molten hot hatred within his blast radius. His mom had asked that Luke try to go without the crutches at the draft, when he still needed them. They'd be "cumbersome to travel with" and "sort of an eye sore on Quinn's day", so she said.

And then he said, "how's this for a fucking eyesore", took one of his crutches and launched it at the television. As the screen splintered, Luke threw the other crutch through the front window.

"Is this what you want? Huh? Me fucking hobbling around so it doesn't take away from Quinn, because God forbid something bad happens to him or Jack! No, let's just pile it on to old Luke here because he certainly doesn't have enough going on! He certainly doesn't wish he fucking died in that lake!"

Luke, with legs were not strong enough to bear his weight, then collapsed on the couch with tears of shame rolling down his face. Jack and Quinn, who were upstairs packing, came down at the outburst.

"No! No! I don't want to see you two ever again!" Luke grabbed a picture of them from the square table next to the couch and hurled it in their direction, shattering. "Just leave me alone, goddamnit! You've been doing it so well already!"

Jack made a motion to walk over, getting within Luke's grasp before he pushed him with enough force to land on the floor.

"Are you fucking stupid? I said what I said, Jack. You're the reason I'm like this and I fucking hate you for it!"

He went to live with Grandpa Marty the same day his family went to Dallas. He can't remember who's idea it was, but it didn't matter in the end. Grandpa picked him up from LaGuardia with an iced tea and hummed Tammy Wynette the whole way back to Hicksville, just above Levittown, in Nassau County.

And life was fine after that. Luke went to regular school, did his PT, and was able to very lightly jog in March of 2019. He didn't watch hockey, didn't talk to his family at all, and definitely didn't spend nine hours using a punching bag in the basement when Jack was drafted to New Jersey.

His mom and dad would call, Marty would answer, but Luke would never talk. There was nothing to say to them anyway.

-

"How's the leg today, kiddo?" Marty asked at the dinner table. He always made more food than there were stomachs, forcing various containers of Tupperware at Luke whenever he left. Tonight was burgers and pasta salad.

"Fine. No big jobs today so, that's always a plus." Luke sips from his beer, looking around at the pictures that adorn the walls. Some are old, faded ones of Jim, but a sizable portion contain Luke from the age of 13 onward - his high school graduation, a day trip to Philadelphia, graduating from the fire academy, the first day of his probie year. There's only two of Quinn and Luke from their respective draft days. Maybe there's more, hidden somewhere, but Marty doesn't have them up.

They chat for a little longer. It's standard talk between a grandchild and grandpa - whether this was the Mets year, the ongoing US Open, Luke sharing FDNY gossip that Marty swears he doesn't like but listens to anyway - just two men prattling on about anything and everything.

Marty adds a tin of brownies for the firehouse to the pile he gives Luke before taking him back to the train station. There's a 10:12 that Luke really doesn't want to miss since he'll get back to Astoria while his roommates are still out, which means the shower will be open.

"Is this the year, do you think?" Marty asks while Luke is unbuckling his seat belt. The glow of the Hicksville LIRR sign is covered in lantern flies.

"For what?" Luke asks.

"For talking to them again. It'll be eight years in a couple weeks, Luke."

He freezes, though he should have expected this question. The years have dulled the anger to a very low simmer, and his leg to ugly patches of white scar tissue. He thinks, only momentarily, of Jack and Quinn, his mom and dad. They're strangers to Luke now, barely family. How strange to have known something so well and so intricately to not knowing them at all.

No one bothered to call Luke directly, he still had his Michigan number, Instagram, Snapchat. But he wanted that, right? To go no contact? To never see them again? So he can't be mad at them for following his wishes, but he is. It hurts that they made it look easy, discarding him with no cares or concern. Their parents had everything they needed in Jack and Quinn, so perhaps it's just for the better that life turned out this way.

"I don't think so grandpa." Luke replies softly, looking anywhere but Marty's gaze. He can't see the sadness, the loss of having protected one grandson at the expense of the others.

Marty nods, just once, looking over at the train station, before continuing.

"Same time next month? I'll call you to confirm the dates."

"Sounds good, I'll uh, I'll see about bringing some of the guys next time, they're kinda dying for your ribs again." It works, Marty chuckles and ruffles Luke's hair.

"Only if you get a haircut. I know this mop has to be against regulation."

"I know, I know." Luke says like a child.

"I'm serious, if I was your battalion chief I'd issue you a citation." But the smile gives Marty away easily.

"If you were my battalion chief I'd transfer to the LAFD, or worse - Chicago." Luke grins, ribbing his grandpa slightly.

"No you wouldn't. Every firefighter in the country wants to be in the FDNY, Luke. To serve here, for this city, it's the highest calling a person can answer. That's why we're the bravest."

"The bravest." Luke echoes. He wishes he could feel that way. 

Chapter Text

Labor Day Weekend, 2025

Luke doesn't know who to kiss. For the first time since he's been with the FDNY, he has Labor Day weekend off. The whole shift does, actually. He knows, logically, that's how the holiday schedule works, and this time the draw came up for his crew. But still, having that last, gorgeous weekend of summer off is a near godsend.

It's a welcome feeling to be honest. He always loathed working this holiday in particular, not just because of the frankly asinine calls - exploding grills, usually - but because his leg would seize up towards the end. Maybe it was psychosomatic, or maybe the same cells and fascia and muscle that were shredded eight years ago can remember the pain. Either way, the day always ended with three ice packs taped to his leg while popping aspirin like candy.

He hopes this latest iteration is different.

From what he can gather, Mark and Ethan have planned the whole weekend down to the nearest half hour. The rest of them don't know entirely what's in store, but with those two at the helm, Luke should be a little worried. It'd be infuriating if it wasn't so wholesome.

"So… what's everyone's plan for tonight?" Ethan grins, settling on one of their couches in the living room. Rutger and Dylan are playing Madden on the TV, while Luke and Seamus watch on. Summer hasn't yet died, nor will it for the time being, as their AC is cranked down to 65.

"Whatever you two have whipped up for us, I'm guessing." Seamus says, glancing over at the nefarious pair.

"You'd be right!" Mark nearly jumps off the couch in excitement. "Rut, Duker, turn the game off for a sec."

Rutger and Dylan reluctantly do, with heavy sighs.

"This better be good, Estapa, or I swear I'm never helping you clean the rig again." Dylan murmurs, swiveling over to look at the paramedics.

Slowly and in a dramatic fashion, Ethan pulls out a plain mailing envelope and reaches inside, pulling out six narrow strips of what looks like cardstock.

NEW YORK METS v. MIAMI MARLINS

JOIN US FOR FIREWORK NIGHT!

SECTION 111

7:10 PM, CITI FIELD

"Dude…" Rutger whispers, out of sheer awe. Labor Day weekend tickets are hard to find, especially for team that made the championship series just last year and has some big names on the roster.

"Holy shit. Holy shit! You two idiots got tickets to the Mets this late in the year?" Dylan stands and walks over, grabbing one of the tickets to feel it.

"How'd you get them?" Luke asks, looking between the two men. These are not cheap tickets by any means since they're right on the first baseline, just behind the dugout. Like, the Marlins aren't that great, but they're also not Rockies or White Sox.

"Paramedic at the 118 was selling them because his wife went into labor. Gave me half off too, so." Mark divvies out the rest of the tickets and shoos them off to get ready. They still have hours before the first pitch, but if there's anything they collectively honor, it's a tailgate. Well, Dylan calls it a 'New York tailgate', wherein they crash the beer hall a few blocks over before taking the subway to Citi Field.

Luke is last to the room he shares with Seamus, who's already in the bathroom. He strips down to boxers, then slides on a plain white shirt and Pete Alonso alternate jersey - complete with a rich blue base and orange stenciling over the chest. Instinctively, he grabs a pair of shorts but then halts, glancing down at his gnarled right leg.

It's ugly. Garishly so. Wide sets of faded red-white skin mar the otherwise smooth complexion. He always hates looking at the physically healed wounds, and always will. They make him feel weak, remind him of everything he's lost. It's why he always wears pants - even in the summer.

Taking a quick glance at the temperature, Luke groans. The weather app reads 87 with high humidity. Even when the game is supposed to start the temperature will be 82. But there's really no choice, not really. Even if he felt comfortable with the scars, he knows other people would look, that children would whisper.

So, he dons some gray khakis that seem breathable enough and runs a hand through his hair. For good measure, he also throws on a Mets hat and steps back out to the living area.

Dylan, Mark, Ethan, Rutger, Seamus all wear shorts. None of them ask about the gray pants, or even give it a second look. Instead, Ethan just looks around as he gathers his wallet and keys.

"Ready?" He asks, earning nods.

They end up at the beer hall on 24th Avenue, splitting pitcher after pitcher of beer. It's some light Oktoberfest brew, and frankly very dangerous. Luke actually ends up ordering two of the Bavarian pretzels just so there's something in everyone's stomach. They still have a game to attend after all, and the image of four firefighters and two paramedics being kicked out for a drunk and disorderly isn't something he's keen on. 

After a handful of hours and pitchers, they sway down to the Astoria Boulevard station, giggling and already sun-kissed.

The N train - mercifully air conditioned - speeds off south before careening westward to Manhattan. At Queensboro Plaza, they transfer to the 7 train, whisking them east out towards Citi Field. The 7 is packed to the brim with fans bound for the game, so Luke and Seamus ends up standing, which is really no big deal.

It's moments like these that Luke loves New York. Generally he has a sort of baseline pride for the city as a first responder, but riding the subway and going to a baseball game with his friends on a gorgeous day with other fans is just an experience he wouldn't trade for the world. Sometimes he's glad he can just be a person and not an athlete, blending in with the other 8.5 million New Yorkers. He has his own perfect little kingdom, and God help anyone who threatens it. 

Finding their seats is easy, since they take up nearly an entire row in the section. He's been to Mets games before with his grandpa, who's a season ticket holder, but Citi Field never ceases to get old. Nor does the game. Baseball is a sport of patience, time can expand and contract based on who's pitching and how they want to approach each batter. To Luke, it's so much better than hockey is, with its violence and speed. Here, he can just enjoy the night with his friends, and that's the most special thing. 

Rutger and Dylan end up starting a de facto beer snake until the bottom of the 7th inning when sales are done. Luke imagines they'll have to pick up a great deal of overtime to cover that particular expense. Meanwhile Mark and Ethan, driven by the earlier pitchers at the beer hall, are demolishing nachos and hot dogs as if it's their last meal. 

"Oh brother." Luke sighs fondly, a tingle pink from the sun as he looks over at his friends.

"Odds Ethan commits fare evasion on the way home?" Seamus asks with an amused smirk.

"All but certain. Though there's a chance he could end up in Port Washington if he gets the subway and LIRR stations confused." Luke replies, bumping shoulders.

"Like how you fell asleep and found yourself in Montauk that one time two years back?"

"I was tired!" Luke groans, knowing that particular embarrassing memory will never die. Seamus just pats him on the back and they continue to watch the game.

The sky fades from iridescent blue to shades of oranges and purple, and the Mets end up winning in a blowout 10-1. The group stays for the fireworks show after, which is impressive and lasts nearly half an hour. Feeling like a kid, he looks up in awe as shades of color and different sparkles light up the sky. He doesn't want it to end, both the show and this night. He wants to hold on to this feeling tight. Yet it's futile, like trying to keep a wave upon the sand. 

Seamus and Luke are the only ones that are mostly sober and still have enough energy to guide the rest of the group back to the train station after, where Ethan does commit fare evasion. Luke swipes his MetroCard twice to cover him.

Riding the route backwards, they're back in Astoria only 30 minutes later, and in their apartment after another 15 minutes.

"Bar?" Ethan slurs, trying to rally while Luke pushes him to his and Mark's room. Speaking of, Mark is conked out in living room, body half off the couch. 

"Bed." Luke says softly, putting the paramedic on his side and making sure to slide his shoes off. He puts a glass of water next to Ethan's bedside table for the morning and turns to leave quietly.

"Lukey?" He freezes, and for a moment he's not in 2025 New York, but in pre-2017 Michigan. And it's not Ethan saying his name, but Jack. Blinking rapidly to keep the tears away, Luke looks back at Ethan, crafting his face into careful neutrality. 

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. Such good friend. Glad met you." Ethan's slurred speech tappers off into a soft putter of snoring, unaware of the effect the words have on Luke. Blood rushes to his ears, his heart louder than a freight train. It shouldn't affect him this much, Luke knows how he slots in with Dylan, Rutger, Ethan, Mark, and Seamus both at work and at home. He knows they love him, and he loves them too. They're not really best friends but something more. Something forged. But to hear that affection so plainly, so matter-of-factly, like it's as constant as the sun, rattles him in a good way.

Smiling, he puts on the ceiling fan and closes the door to Ethan and Mark's room before pattering over to his and Seamus'.

"You get Ethan all situated?" Seamus asks, already in bed.

"Yeah, you get Dylan and Rutger?" Luke sheds his outfit as he talks, slipping into a pair of loose gym shorts as pajamas.

"They fought me every step of the way, but yeah."

Luke snorts and chuckles, getting underneath the covers.

"Sounds about right." He plugs in his phone and doesn't set an alarm. Closing his eyes, Luke falls asleep quickly, warmed by the bonds of different kind of brotherhood.

-

Saturday morning and early afternoon is defined by laziness. The apartment sleeps in, nursing a collective hangover with coffee and aspirin and water. Dylan grabs some breakfast sandwiches from the bodega not too far from their apartment, and that seems to revive them a little.

Luke makes the attempt to jog, but barely makes it out of Astoria before he turns back due to the heat and exhaustion. A scant three miles is all he mustered.

The sun hangs high in the sky, but in the apartment the shades are drawn. Some early 2000s movie plays on a low volume while the guys sit in various positions on the couches. It's a slow, languid day; dripping with humidity and heat again.

For a couple hours, Luke thinks that whatever the plans are tonight will be called off, but around supper time that proves not to be the case.

Rutger and Ethan rouse them from their tired state, giving them marching orders to shower and get dressed in something a little upscale. For Luke this means heather gray pants and a black short-sleeve button down with the collar unbuttoned. It's a little slutty, especially with a gold chain curving around his glorious collarbone and exposed arm muscles.

Dylan and Ethan lead them to an outdoor restaurant in Brooklyn. From their vantage point on the rooftop, Luke can see the Williamsburg Bridge stretching across to Manhattan, complete with a skyline that's about to glow as the sun goes down. No city is perfect, but New York is damn close enough. It still glimmers with the neon green promise of a dream, that you can make it here no matter who you are.

The view is breathtaking, and to Luke it always will be. Sometimes, late at night or when the mood hits him, he feels adrift. There's never really been a place for him to call home. Born in New Hampshire, being a kid in Toronto, a preteen in Michigan, a teenager on Long Island, and now an adult in New York. Different stages of life with different cities or areas to match. Raised everywhere but nowhere. No dirt to plant roots in. 

It makes him think of how he's changed since moving from Michigan. Beyond the obvious - his height and buff frame - Luke notices his voice is different too. It's more New Yorker than Michigander, a mix of old Long Island and Queens. He'll catch himself saying 'dep-aht-ment' instead of 'department', or 'h-ah-rrible' instead of 'horrible'. 

New York is the one place where he's been able to grow, unfolding like a sunflower and soaking up nutrients. There's a peace this bubble of his work and friends, with the Hudson River seems like a demilitarized zone with Jack in New Jersey.

He loves it here, and he prays that it stays that way.

Hours later they're at a club in the Lower East Side. Music bumping, lights low, drinks flowing like a river. Luke's never really been a dancer, but he'll nod his head along at least to whatever song is playing. They oscillate between the bar and the dance floor, Rutger and Ethan playing wingman for each other with every pass.

It's honestly hilarious watching them try.

"When do you think Ethan will hit her with the 'mouth to mouth is important in CPR' line?" Dylan asks.

"Soon. Probably right after Rutger makes a crude joke about putting out a 'certain kind of fire'." Luke sips his drink, chuckling and shaking his head.

"Anything is better than the fucking one about Rut's 'fire hose'." Mark adds, fake retching.

"Dude that was funny as hell though, remember how she slapped Rutger for that?" Seamus nearly keels over at the memory.

"100% deserved though. I mean who says 'looks like you need my fire hose because you're steaming'?"

"And now we can never go back to Bushwick."

Luke finishes the rest of his drink and excuses himself to go to the bathroom. He does his business, flushes the urinal for good measure, washes his hands, and pushes open the bathroom door, walking directly into a man about the same height but leaner. A mop of Jet black hair, freckles, and dark brown cloud his field of vision.

The man's perfectly average, ticking just enough boxes for Luke to shift the temperature of the room hotter.

"Sorry." Luke's voice is deeper than it should be, huskier.

"It's no problem." The nameless man replies. "I'm Conrad."

"Luke."

They stare at each other, Luke unsure really how to proceed. He doesn't do hookups, doesn't really do relationships either. He works weird hours too long, is generally shy, has too much baggage, and lives in a glorified frat house. It's not the image that screams 'date me'. But right now, in this moment, he wants.

In a quick motion, Luke slides the deadbolt lock into place so they won't be interrupted and pins Conrad against it. Conrad, with eyes dilated and mouth parted, gasps softly and leans up to meets Luke's lips.

They crash together, Luke consuming Conrad for all he's worth. There's no spark, no supernova or explosion, it's just what it has to be in that moment: lust.

Luke works his teeth and mouth down Conrad's jaw and neck, biting and kissing the soft skin over bone and muscle as he does so. And Conrad doesn't sound like Luke expects. It's airy and a little too whiny for his taste, like a symphony that's just a beat off of time.

"Here… Let me…" Conrad murmurs, sinking down to his knees. His hands runs up Luke's leg, palming the hard length which earns a low curse. Luke fumble with his buckle like a teenager, but eventually it's undone, allowing Conrad to pull the pants down his knees. It leaves him moderately exposed, only his boxers covering his length.

Conrad grabs at the waistband of his underwear and Luke feels a slight tug as if they'll be pulled down in the next second. But they aren't.

"Jesus, that's gnarly."

Snapping his eyes downward, Luke sees Conrad staring at the scars on his leg. A thumb slightly brushing over them makes Luke shiver in a bad kind of way.

The spell or haze of lust is broken then. Luke feels embarrassed and exposed, vulnerable. Swallowing back shame, he grabs his pants and hoists them up, hastily tightening the buckle.

"Hey, wait I-I didn't- look, I'm-" Conrad starts.

"No, it's… Just whatever, man." Luke shakes his head, feeling his cheeks flush red.

"I'm serious, dude, wait-" Conrad's voice fades as Luke unlocks the bathroom and exits, dodging around the various bodies to find his friends.

He runs a hand over his face, pushing back whatever tears threaten to spill over. The night feels ruined, and all he wants is to go back home and crawl into bed. Even when he's trying to have fun, to be in the moment, he's always stuck in time.

Eight years ago today, he realizes then, is when the calculus of his life no longer added up. Time doesn't seem all that set in stone, rather it feels malleable. If he closes his eyes, he can still smell the antiseptic of the hospital, the tight gauze wrapped around his leg.

"Luke! Hey! We got you another drink!" Dylan snaps Luke from the dangerous allure of pity, shovel the cool glass in his hand.

"Drink up quick, there's another spot we gotta hit." Seamus says, tilting his own drink back in one go.

Luke plasters on a smile - one that doesn't reach his eyes - and does as he's told, feeling the sharp burn of whatever rail drink down his throat.

"Let's go."

-

On Sunday, Ethan and Mark break out the six IVs they may or may not have misappropriated from the station and hook each of them up. Plain water wasn't working, neither was coffee or Tylenol, so the big guns had to come out.

The apartment woke up well into the afternoon that day, which makes sense since they were out long enough to see the beginnings of sunrise. Luke vaguely remembers going shot for shot with Rutger and Ethan, but the night really fizzles out after that first club. After Conrad.

He groans as the memory comes back to him, and instinctively he rubs at his knee. Everyone looks at him like he's damaged, and while that may not be too far off, he'd like if just once he could be seen for the total sum of who he is, not just one part.

Maybe that's too much to wish for.

-

Labor Day has the entire apartment crowd onto the Long Island Railroad over to Hicksville, where Marty has planned a whole cookout. Knowing his grandpa, Luke expects them to be spoiled absolutely rotten.

Marty loves it, having young guys around and hearing stories of life at the station, the various jobs they handle. Often times he'll impart some wisdom or firefighting hack he discovered back during his tenure.

It must be lonely here, in the middle of Long Island, with really no one else. Luke knows that over the years he's seen his grandpa attend more funerals and moving parties as his friends leave the Earth or state. So he'll try to bring the guys over whenever possible to help combat that loneliness.

It's frankly the least he can do.

They sit outside on the patio, munching on chips and fries before moving onto the seasoned ribs and chicken. Luke opts for lemonade instead of a beer to wash it down, swearing off alcohol for life which will be broken in a couple weeks.

Marty's animatedly telling a story that Luke's heard a million times before - from a call back in the 1970s about a multi-block fire in Harlem that he responded to - when the phone rings.

"I'll get it, but make sure you tell the part about how you carried three dogs out of that building before it collapsed." Luke chuckles, standing up to get the phone.

"I'm getting there, just hold your horses, Luke." Marty grins before diving back into the story.

He always found it weird that his grandpa still has a landline, but then he remembers what a fight it was to switch over to cordless and it all makes sense. Something about old habits and dying hard. Closing the sliding door to the patio, he picks up the phone and hits accept.

"Hello?" Luke says casually, met only with silence. "Hello?" He tries again. Making a tsk sound, he moves to end the call.

"Luke?"

Oh.

Oh fuck.

The voice sounds the same, if not a little deeper since puberty settled in. It's the first time he's listened to it in eight years, and Luke can feel his ears ringing and stomach drop to the floor.

"Q-Quinn. Yeah, um, yeah. It's, uh, me." Luke cringes, and desperately wants to toss the phone into the nearest body of water.

"I… Luke, you're still with… in New York… We- I thought you would've…" Quinn sounds so unsure, so far from the certainty that being the eldest can be. When the three of them were younger, Luke was practically attached to Quinn and Jack at the hip. They were his protectors. He believed, like it was a universal constant, that nothing bad would happen to him if they were near.

"What, killed myself? Sorry, you're not that lucky." Luke spits out, latent rage surfacing. He can imagine the recoil or look of anguish on Quinn's face, and that makes him sick with satisfaction.

"No! No No No! I never thought that for a second. I never wanted that for second… I meant to say that I didn't think you'd still be in New York, is all. You never seemed like the type to like Long Island, even when we visited with mom and dad back in the day."

He hates how Quinn sounds. Hates the tone of guilt and worry, almost apologetic. If Quinn wants to rebuild this bridge then Luke's gonna burn it all down again. Doesn't mean he'll like it, but he'll do it to protect himself. Luke swallows again, his throat like barbed wire.

"Yeah, well… There's a lot of things you don't know about me, Quinn. You don't really know me at all, actually."

"That's not true. I know you love…" And for as much as Luke almost yearned for Quinn to prove him wrong, he knows that he was just proved right by the silence. He lets out a dark, malicious laugh.

"Right, well, I think it's safe to say you or Jack won't be winning any brother of the year award. You can call grandpa later, we'll be gone by then."

He hangs up, nearly slamming the phone back onto the stand. Clenching his fists, he forces himself to take a breath before walking back outside.

"Who was it?" Marty asks, more curious than anything.

"Telemarketer."

Chapter Text

Early Autumn, 2025

September always felt like a month of transition. There was the slow cooling from the low 90s to low 60s, earlier sunsets, the shedding of leaves. All signs that the downswing of the year was ramping up. Another year nearly done.

He used to love it. The '-ber' months. It meant hockey was coming, a chance to show new muscles and moves, to flex the summer training. Now it just means his knee locks up in the early morning cold.

And there was his birthday on September 9, all of 22. It annoyingly fell during the workweek, so Luke had a quiet evening with his crew and grandpa. They went to a Mediterranean place in Dumbo, just to the right of the Manhattan Bridge. It wasn't anything fancy or excessive. No expensive bottles of champagne or sprinklers on cake. And Luke wanted it that way.

Birthdays have always been hard for him, especially since 2017 when he spent his 14th intubated and unconscious. They became less a celebration of another year conquered and more like a growing sharp icicle aimed to pierce him. But he's trying, if not for himself than for those who surround him. To him it's just another day, only with cake.

"You know, I have to give you a gift, kid." Marty says out in the parking lot after the dinner. Luke had waved the others to go on home without him so he could walk Marty out to his car. It works out great actually since it allows the guys to get the cake out - Seamus picked it up from the bakery Luke likes in the East Village - and prep whatever else Luke definitely doesn't know about.

"Oh, grandpa no, that's- you really didn't have to…" Luke stutters out, trailing off after Marty levels him a look that only a grandfather can give. It helps the look is hardened by decades of public service.

Marty fumbles through his jacket pocket, pulling out a small black box and handing it to Luke. Upon opening, he sees a silver chain with the pendant of a Maltese cross, no bigger than his thumb. On it, in the center, is the figure of a man in Roman garb carrying a shield and sword. Above the figure it reads: ST. FLORIAN PROTECT US. Turning the pendant over, there's more words. A quote.

"LIGHT THE FIRE AND I WILL CLIMB TO HEAVEN ON THE FLAMES"

"I know you're not one for jewelry, but my father gave a medal just like that one to me back in the 60s when I was starting out. Plus, you wearing that gives me a little reassurance that St. Florian will bring you back home ok." Marty breaks the silence, flashing Luke a soft smile. St. Florian is the patron saint of firefighters, the last call for hope for some.

Luke's never been the most religious person, but he supposes there could be something out there. A God of some sort, an afterlife. In fact he's actually betting on it, because this suffering has to mean something. It can't add up to nothing.

Swallowing through barbed wire that's wrapped around his throat, he puts it on, feeling the slight weight settle on his sternum.

"I take it you got it blessed too? You know, for maximum effect?" Luke tries for levity, uncomfortable with the heavy weight of emotion. Marty gives a dry chuckle and nods.

"By a retired chaplain I used to serve with, just for extra coverage."

"Sounds about right." Luke huffs fondly.

His grandfather looks at the ground for a second before grabbing something off the dashboard. An envelope.

"Quinn called the other day."

Luke snaps his head to attention, and forces an, "Oh?" out.

"Yeah. Asked about you. Guess he called over Labor Day, but you know me with technology so… anyway, he just wanted your address for a birthday card."

Horror washes over Luke at the thought, and it must read on his face because Marty placates him.

"Don't worry, I just told him to send it to me and that I'd give it to you. So, here." Luke slowly takes the envelope with the card, handling it like an unexploded ordinance.

"Thanks." He mutters, awkwardly gripping the paper both too tightly and too loosely, unsure of how to hold the weight of the words. Marty sighs and nods, looking at Luke with almost a pleading and pained expression.

"I know it's your birthday, kid, so I'll make this brief. You know I'm immensely proud of you and love you to the Moon and back, but believe me when I say that you could survive having a conversation with them again. They're your brothers. They're always going to be your brothers. That means something."

Luke looks across the water to Manhattan, avoiding the look on Marty's face.

"Accidents happen everyday, some more catastrophic than others. You should know that by now, given our line of work. People have their own Labor Day 2017's everyday. What happened to you was an accident. A horrible one that could have been prevented if Jack wasn't Jack." Marty places a hand on Luke's shoulder, leaning in slightly.

"But, sometimes things just happen, and we just have to accept that for whatever it means, even if that's nothing. You're holding onto a past that's never going to change, no matter how much you want it too. And it's not healthy. I know you miss hockey. And I know, deep down, you miss your brothers and the life you could have had, but this is a good life too, Luke. It's full of honor, sacrifice, hard work. It's worth living, just the same as hockey is."

He hates that Marty has a point. Despises it actually. He doesn't want to concede an inch, not to his grandfather and most certaintly not to his brothers. But he's never been the best in being resolute in anger. The years have eroded the pointed hatred like water over a stone, sharp edges giving way to near softness. And Luke has his better angels, an almost yearning to touch the pan and see if it'll still burn. But there's always going to be a part of him that wonders if it's too late. Maybe Luke is just on his own path now, adrift, never intersecting with Jack and Quinn again.

There's so much to untangle and unsay, he doesn't even know where to begin. Or if he even really wants to begin. But he looks over at Marty, seeing a different kind of exhaustion that didn't come from fighting fires. Luke never connected the dots of what his grandfather sacrificed, choosing him over everyone else. Allowing him to escape Michigan and hockey all together with no conditions attached. No more visits to Michigan, Newark, or Vancouver. No subscription to ESPN+ and MSGN. Hushed calls to Jack, Quinn, or Jim; playing referee for a never ending game. At the time it felt like balancing some fucked up equation, now Luke wonders if that was ever the case at all.

"Yeah, um, I…" Luke huffs and takes a deep breath, steeling composure, "I'll see if I can call Quinn. I think I still have his number, so..."

Marty exhales in relief, years of strife appearing to lift away at the words.

"Well if you don't, just call me and I'll give it to you." He then checks his watch and makes a 'tsk' sound.

"I should get going, I suppose. I'm sure your friends have the cake ready by now, and I don't wanna keep bothering you."

Luke shakes his head vehemently, and pulls his grandpa in for a long and deep hug. It's the one he once reserved for his brothers after stupid fights over the remote or rink time, and it feels so foreign to him in that moment.

"You're never a bother, grandpa." He murmurs, stepping back from the embrace. "Call me when you get back, ok? You know the highway's always busy this time of night."

Marty waves a hand flippantly as he gets into his car, making a little quip.

"I drove a fire engine in the three most populous boroughs for 30 years, I think I can handle the Expressway just fine."

Luke dramatically sighs at his stubborn grandpa, shaking his head slightly.

"Hey." Marty pokes his head out of the window as he reverses, really taking in the look of his youngest grandson. He's no longer the lanky soft boy, whose smile and laugh could light up half of Michigan.

Now he's older, jaded in a way that a 22 year old shouldn't be. For Marty, raising Luke as he entered his teenage years following the boating accident felt like trying to dam the Hudson - almost insurmountable. But Luke's a good kid, always has been. Marty takes joy in that he's found a stable outcropping to hold on to.

"I love you, Luke."

Luke smiles and ducks his head like a bashful kid. Still there, Luke's still there under all the shit, Marty thinks.

"I love you too, grandpa." Luke replies.

He further promises to enjoy the evening, waving goodbye to Marty as the man starts the journey back to Hicksville.

-

The train back home takes him through Manhattan, transferring from the F to N at Herald Square near the Empire State Building. The first part of the journey, from Brooklyn up the spine of 6th Avenue, takes 15 minutes. It took Luke that whole time to even open the envelope. Ten minutes later, crossing under the East River and Roosevelt Island, is when Luke pulled the card out of said envelope. And just past Queensboro Plaza, he began to read.

Moose,

Luke,

Every time I sit down to write this, I'm taken back to the day you were born. I remember it was a breezy and cool day - often how New England is in the Fall. The leaves were already changing, and earlier that day Jack and I 'helped' bake the pumpkin bread that mom loves. Dad was just coming back from coaching in Boston and Grandpa Marty had driven up from New York to watch Jack and I while mom and dad went to the hospital to have you.

I was so excited to meet you. Ecstatic, really. Jack didn't really know what was happening, he was too young, but I knew that I was getting another baby brother. To me, that's all that mattered.

And then I saw your face, all red and crying, with that big mop of hair and I loved you immediately. There you were, my perfect little brother, looking around at a brand new world. I swore then that I would protect you and Jack, not matter the cost. You two were - and still are - the most important people to me.

There are 1,426 days that separate my birth and yours. 1,426 days that I have known without you. And I never want to know another day without you for as long as we both live.

I hope you have a great day, and that you spend it with the ones you love. Knowing Grandpa Marty, I'm sure the day will be one to remember.

I miss you.

Love,

Q.

He reads the letter once. Then twice. At three times he gets off the train at his stop, folding the letter into thee envelope and stuffing it in his pocket.

Placing Quinn in his life was never the easiest task. The two never shared anything; no team, no friends, no nothing. The division between where Quinn ended and Luke began was more stark than it was when Jack and Luke, who were only separated by two years.

Quinn was just collateral damage, really. A casualty of Luke's hate and Jack's idiocy. Lots of things died like that, upon reflection.

But this card, and the contents of it, have cracked something open a tiny bit. One small chink in the steel around Luke's heart. Running one hand over his chest, he uses the other to grab his phone.

Scrolling through his contacts, he finds Quinn's number and presses 'call' before he can think better of it. As the line rings, Luke thinks that Quinn won't pick up. He doubts his older brother has his number saved, and the chances that he'd answer a call from an unknown New York area code are slim.

The call predictably goes to voicemail, and after the beep Luke struggles for a second to find the words. English is too small a language sometimes, the words lacking depth in a time like this.

"Quinn, hey, it's um. It's me. Luke." He scratches the back of his neck, cringing internally. "I, uh, I don't know if you'll hear this but, um. I just wanted to… to thank you for the card. Grandpa gave it to me tonight and… and thank you, I guess. Um, yeah. So, uh, good luck this season, I'll see you… later. Bye."

He hangs up and groans, shoving his phone back into his pocket. First contact in how many years and Luke just babbled like a fucking idiot.

Running a hand through his hair, he pushes the call and the card to the back of his mind. He tried, at least, being the bigger person. Not entirely sure he'd recommend it.

His feet fall hard against the still warm sidewalk. Making a few turns, he's on the same block as his building, just on the opposite side of the street. Their unit is on the third floor, so it's not terribly hard to see into it from the street level. It's not a perfect view, but from his vantage point, more of the apartment is visible. That's what Luke's doing now, craning his neck upwards.

There's Rutger, getting the wine out of the fridge. Dylan and Seamus are sneaking little scoops of ice cream thinking nobody will notice. Mark and Ethan are having a very passionate discussion over which movie to watch, that Luke can hear because of the open window.

His lips twitch upward briefly, then he heads inside for cake and wine, for Rutger, Seamus, Dylan, Mark, and Ethan. And as they sing 'Happy Birthday' while shoving a large corner piece onto his plate, Luke feels like this particular rotation around the sun will be different. Both a beginning and an end.

Every year Luke's been in New York, he's accompanied his grandfather to Ground Zero on September 11 without question. At 15 or 16 he didn't really understand the weight of that day, or what it meant to Marty. History can often feel like that - nebulous and shapeless - especially as 2001 recedes further and further from view. But not for Marty, and now not for Luke.

He has a duty now, to carry it forward. To never forget.

This year is no different.

He meets Marty down in Tribeca, just a couple blocks north of Chambers Street. Luke wears his Class A uniform - blue button down, black tie, dress jacket with the FDNY logo on the left arm, white gloves, and hat - the formal attire for promotions or other official events. Marty opts for his own Battalion Chief version too, which has some differences. For starters, it's a white button down and white hat, and there's a collar insignia and bars on the left chest - not unlike what one sees in the military. He looks less like a grandpa and more stately, there's a refined posture about him now.

One thing that's always stuck with him about the stories of 9/11 is that people start out with the same thing: it was a perfect day. No clouds, sunny, the sky vibrantly and piercingly blue. It's almost like that now, as Luke and Marty walk down Broadway.

Luke tries to conjure what that day must have looked like. Two large, monolithic steel towers standing taut in the quiet morning, then the planes. The hum of the engines as they ducked close to the ground, the blast of fire at the collisions, smoke and papers billowing out into the streets below. The confusion and chaos. Jumpers from the higher floors slamming into the solid concrete below, the roar of the collapse.

8:46 a.m. to 10:28 a.m. Only 102 minutes between first impact and final fall. 102 minutes that changed everything.

"I don't want you to be mad." Marty starts, causing Luke to jump a little. He'd been lost in thought. Blinking, he tilts his head towards his grandpa, saying nothing. Marty takes a breath and continues, "Jack and Quinn are going to meet us down at the memorial."

Luke halts immediately, legs sticking to the ground. The sound of the city turns to ringing briefly as he turns to his grandfather.

"What?" Luke tries, thinking that by some chance he misheard. Marty's face tells him that's not the case.

"Jack and Quinn are going to meet us down at the memorial." His grandpa repeats, resolute and unyielding. "They both have time before the season starts, and… damnit, Luke, I want them here and they want to be here. It was a last minute thing. Quinn said you called him on your birthday and thanked him for the card, I thought… well, it doesn't matter I guess. Just thought you three were working towards something."

Luke keeps his face carefully neutral but his brain zaps with rising tension. There's a part of him that wants to rage and make a scene. He wants to gatekeep not just the memorial, but everything else - the day, the city, the state, even the fucking MTA. Jack and Quinn aren't worthy enough to be here, standing next to him and Marty because they didn't earn it. They have lost nothing.

It's not rational, not in the slightest, but he doesn't care. Luke opens his mouth to say anything that would get Marty to call Jack and Quinn off, but his grandfather's beaten him to the punch.

"We're trying to work around you here, kid. They've sworn that they'll take cues from you - if you don't talk to them, they won't talk to you. They're not coming here guns blazing or halfcocked. It's a day of remembrance, of honor, they know that." There's a pause, Marty looks towards the Financial District, then across to where New Jersey is.

"I'm not getting any younger here, Luke." He says wearily, the words hitting Luke's heart and stomach like a mallet.

Luke looks at his grandfather, seeing the cruel entrenchment of age. And Luke, still a pushover and with a relatively strong moral compass, concedes the fight before it even begins. He can muster a handful of hours and a few words. Then they can all go their separate ways again as intended.

Luke pulls his gloves on tighter and continues walking, Marty falling in step next to him.

"When was the last time you physically saw them, Jack and Quinn?" Luke asks, curious.

"2017, same as you."

A mirage of guilt washes over his face for forcing his grandfather to pick a side, dividing their family. Marty just grabs his arm and squeezes it, reading his youngest grandson easily.

"If there's one thing to learn in life, it's to make peace with your choices. No matter what."

Luke hears the meanings of that, and tries to accept that for whatever it's worth.

"Do they know I'm a firefighter?" Luke fiddles with the button on his suit jacket, his gloved palms suddenly feeling very sweaty.

Marty shakes his head. "No, they don't."

The shadow of the One World Trade Center envelopes them then, and the roar of the two waterfalls fills their ears. The memorial is packed today - rightfully so - crammed with first responders, survivors and their families, high ranking politicians. Flags dot the names on the bronze parapets, and the sweet smell of flowers are carried on the breeze.

And there, standing between the North Tower Pool and the Perelman Performing Arts Center, are Jack and Quinn.

They're taller. Broader too. Not so much in the upper body compared to the legs. The thrum of his heart becomes louder than the waterfalls and the commotion of people. His skin feels hot, the uniform too tight.

This is a mistake. A huge one.

He could leave now, they're facing the other way so a hasty retreat is entirely possible. But then Marty walks forward, tapping them on the shoulders. Jack and Quinn turn, their faces breaking out in smiles as they hug him for the first time in years. It's a reunion that makes Luke feels like an outsider. He's intruding in this moment, on the fringes yet again.

But then Quinn glances upwards - by mistake probably - and sucks in a breath. Luke feels all of 13 again, like he's right back in 2017.

The pain has stopped - cut nerves probably - but Luke's leg is coated in hot blood. His own blood. Glassy eyes look upward, blinded by the Michigan sun. Paramedics and first responders crowd his frame, lifting him onto a gurney. He thinks he hears his parents crying, maybe berating Jack.

A figure blocks out the sun, hovering over him. Eyes just a few shades of color different from his own look into his.

"You're going to be just fine, Luke, ok? I promise you everything will be ok. Just keep looking at me, alright? I'm right here." Quinn. It's Quinn who says this. Who gripes his limp hand tightly, with warm and solid hands.

His big brother is here, and Luke knows that nothing will harm him now. Not with Quinn around.

Luke blinks and Quinn is slowly making his way over, like he's trying not to spook him. When he gets too close, Luke feels himself take a step back out of instinct.

"Moose…" Quinn says softly, hands twitching to reach out. Luke fights the urge to undo his own tie that's too tight around his neck.

"Don't… don't call me that." Luke forces out, each word like nails on his tongue. Quinn nods slowly, taking in his appearance and uniform.

"You're a firefighter."

"I am."

Another bout of silence takes root, Quinn breaks it.

"Thank you for the voicemail."

"Thank you for the card." Luke replies, the conversation becoming painfully stilted. Jack and Marty join them then, with Jack keeping his gaze low.

"Luke. It's, um, it's good to see you." Jack stumbles over the words, spitting them out like rocks.

"Yeah, um, it's good to see you too." Luke takes a breath then, forcing himself to calm down. The world is not ending and he is not dying because of this, which seems unimaginable based on the various scenarios he dreamed up. He thought that this reunion would be profound, filled with shouting, but instead it's just… whatever this is. A tenable, fragile peace.

The group slowly walks around the four sides of the North Tower, stopping occasionally so Marty can run his hand over the names of firefighters he knew that died that day. Luke offers an arm, which he takes.

Then, they do the same around the South Tower. Luke knows these people by heart now after years of this ritual and from stories Marty would tell about the fallen. 75 in all.

Marty excuses himself to go greet some old coworkers he sees, leaving the three brothers alone for the first time. Luke pretends to stare at the plethora of flags perched in each name, then finds his gaze drawn upwards of One World Trade. He tilts his head too far, causing his hat to fall off.

Scrambling to grab it, he finds a pair of hands already on it. Jack's hands. He dusts it off before offering it to Luke.

"Here."

"Thanks." Luke takes the hat back and puts it on a little more tightly this time before staring back at the South Tower pool. Jack stands next to him, hands shoved in his pocket. Quinn joins them on the other side of Luke, and he hates that he doesn't mind it.

"That uniform looks good on you." Jack says, pointing to the FDNY patch on his shoulder. Luke nods, swallowing.

"Are you… Can you at least tell me if you're ok?" Jack asks quietly and guilt laden. He's looking for something like absolution, and Luke's not in a position right now to give it. But, the truth is that he is happy.

"I am. I'm… I've got my people. My station. A three-story walk up in Queens. I'm good." Luke gives a slight smile, not entirely fake but not entirely real. Here goes again, still trying to please the people who hurt him.

"That's… that's great." Jack replies, sounding a little choked up. Maybe it's over the fact that he seems to no longer fit into Luke's life, but who knows. He turns back to the pool, watching the water pour down the sides.

Jack goes to say something else, when a voice from behind calls out.

"Hey, Luke!" Turning around, he sees a familiar face from his time at the Academy.

"Lieutenant Marino." Luke grins, pulling John in for a hug. John Marino, the youngest lieutenant in the FDNY and barely a handful of years older than Luke, was the one who tutored Luke for his engineer exam. He was like an older brother to Luke, filling a crucial void.

"Cut the lieutenant bull. You still slumming it in Midtown?"

"Beats being assigned to Staten Island like you." Luke chirps, nudging his arm.

"Yeah yeah, laugh it up. I'm sure when you take the LT exam you'll get your choice of station." Luke flushes red, and John finally takes note of Jack and Quinn.

"Oh, um, John these are my brothers - Jack and Quinn. They came with my grandpa." Luke explains. John nods politely, shaking their hands.

"Marty's here? I gotta see him before I go. But hey, come talk to my friend from station 20, you know Curtis right? He wants to try and poach you." Then, to Jack and Quinn. "We'll just be a couple minutes, hand to God."

Then, with a hand on Luke's back, John leads him to Curtis Lazar, another lieutenant who's station covers downtown Brooklyn.

Jack and Quinn exchange a glance before watching Luke's retreating frame. Pangs of hurt radiate in their chest, along with the realization that the same broken boy from Michigan is someone they no longer know. Luke's his own person now, risen from the ashes. A puzzle that Jack and Quinn worry they're no longer pieces to.

"Do you think we'll ever get him back?" Jack asks Quinn, watching Luke and Curtis animatedly talk while John and Marty look onward, chuckles evident on their face. It's a world they no nothing about.

"I don't know, Jack. I just don't know."

Chapter Text

"STATION 43. ENGINE, LADDER, EMS UNITS REQUESTED. LNG TRUCK COLLISION WITH MTA BUS. WEST 33rd STREET AND 6th AVENUE."

"I literally just made this smoothie." Rutger groans, shoving the blender pitcher into the refrigerator.

"At least when we come back it'll be cold?" Seamus tries, abandoning his barely eaten tuna melt on the plate with a sigh. Calls always seem to come in at the worst time - always around breakfast, lunch, or dinner, but never when the engine has been cleaned for the sixth time out of boredom.

"I don't know Seamo, this seems like it'll be a long job. Next shift might take it." Dylan adds, descending to the truck bay. Luke's close behind, finishing up the last of his coffee and starting to don his turnout gear.

"Bus crashes are always a mess, especially with those blowhards from the PD's transit bureau. They always try to take over a scene, like they carry any real authority." Rutger hastily throws on his jacket, heading over to the engine.

"Seamo's right. This job will be worse." Luke tosses his jacket on the ladder's driver seat and bends down quickly to tighten his boots as the bay door opens.

"Why, 'cause of the gas truck?" Seamus jogs around to the passenger side, climbing in.

"It's not like gasoline for your car, it's LNG. Liquid natural gas. Highly flammable and combustible. The sparks from a car driving by it could cause the entire intersection to go up."

The station pauses and looks over to Luke, the seriousness of the situation setting in. It will be a big call. Possibly the biggest of the year. The whole thing is complicated by the fact that New York was bursting at the seams today. The opening of the U.N. General Assembly, coupled with the proximity to the Empire State Building and the Garden means people. Victims.

"Well shit." Mark throws an extra med bag into the ambulance for good measure.

"Couldn't have said it better myself." Luke mumbles, hefting himself up into the ladder truck. In the blink of an eye, all three vehicles are peeling out of the station with full sirens.

Luke leads the caravan, looping around down 7th Avenue and cutting across West 30th before turning up 6th Avenue and gunning the pedal.

"Dispatch this is Station 43 en route. ETA is two minutes. Requesting additional engine and EMS units as well as HAZMAT. Over." He sounds over the radio.

"Copy, Station 43. HAZMAT is just leaving Randall's Island now, ETA is 20 minutes. EMS and Engine from Station 86 is 13 minutes out. Over."

Next to him, Seamus curses and grabs the radio, shifting to their personal radio.

"Mark, Ethan, set up triage in Greeley Square Park. Rut and Duker, take the bus, Luke and I will check out the LNG truck and the driver."

"Roger." Rutger's voice rings out just as the stench of sulfur hits them.

"20 minutes might as well be a lifetime." Seamus murmurs, scrunching his nose.

"So is 13 minutes. We'll just have to make do." Luke replies, resolute.

The klaxon howls as Ladder 43 slows next to the park. From the driver's seat, Luke sees a horrifying scene: a silver LNG tanker jackknifed on its side across three lanes with the nose of an MTA bus buried near the front carriage where the driver is. Shards of glass glittered on the asphalt, crunching underfoot. Steam and a thin white mist hiss from a gash in the truck’s belly. People staggering in the street, screaming, bleeding, clutching phones and filming the carnage. The NYPD were waving in frantic circles trying to establish order and a perimeter, but they as well not have shown up at all.

The trucks squealed to a halt. Doors slammed. Boots hit pavement. Diesel, sweat, and the chemical tang of LNG hit the crew in full force. Yanking his hood up and tightening his helmet strap, Luke keys his radio.

"Dispatch, Station 43 on scene. Confirming bus entrapments with at least 50 souls. Surveying scene now. Can I get an ETA on HAZMAT and backup, over?"

He's greeted with static, and curses. Damn line is busy.

Rutger is already prying at the bus’s rear door with a Halligan bar while Dylan was helping pull people from the emergency window exits. Mark and Ethan are hauling their med bags toward a cluster of bleeding passengers. Police were shouting orders no one was listening to. A woman screamed from a smashed window. The whole street felt like a pressure cooker.

There's something else. Something we're missing. It's that weird sensation of imminence that first responders can develop, like the whole calculus of the call is gonna change in an instant. Luke hates that feeling.

"Seamo! Take driver's side of the truck!" Luke calls out, grabbing another Halligan. They can't use any saws due to the sparks, which also means the jaws of life are out of the picture.

"Copy, approaching driver's side." Seamus responds, just as Luke heads to the passenger side, rounding the back of the truck.

Then he sees it: five feet away, a manhole cover propped open, steam curling out like breath. And on the lip, an orange spray-painted cone for ConEd. The kind they use for electrical work. The world slows and his stomach drops, he tunnel visions in on the cool white gas sinking into the manhole.

LNG heavier than air. And right now, it's not just pouring into the 34th Street-Herald Square subway station, but possibly the Amtrak and LIRR tracks below it and the PATH station just a block away.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit,” he whispers. “It’s in the tunnels.”

He runs for the opening and crouches, taking a whiff. Sulfur curls up his nose and he scrunches his face on instinct. The hum of the subway rumbling faintly below breaches the sound of the scene, which means one very dangerous thing.

The third rail for the subway was still live.

One arc, one spark, and half of Midtown Manhattan would go up. The Empire State’s spire looms overhead like a cruel angel of death.

“Luke!” Mark yells from across the intersection, seeing him freeze. “What are you-?”

Luke keys his radio again. “Dispatch, Ladder 43. Confirm MTA third rail shutdown at Herald Square.”

Static. Then a useless dispatcher: “Working on it.”

Fuck.

Craning his head up, he notices the crowd that's formed beyond the barrier. At least a hundred or so people, plus a dozen cops, his people, and those on the bus. He doesn't want to imagine the potential carnage, torn limbs and liters of blood, but this is a disaster waiting to happen.

Luke turns to his crew, waving his arms.

“Get everyone back! Clear the streets!”

He runs back to the truck, hurriedly grabbing his SCBA, mask, and hood. These were precious seconds, and he dares not waste them.

“What the hell are you doing?” Ethan barks, garnering the attention of Rutger and Dylan now as they turn their heads.

“I need you to buy me at least ninety seconds,” Luke says, calmly gathering his wits. His voice is calm, almost detached. “If it sparks before that, this whole block is gone.”

"Luke-" Ethan tries, but is cutoff.

"No. Ethan, this whole intersection - possibly a couple block radius - is a giant bomb. We can't wait for HAZMAT or the MTA." He attaches the oxygen line to his mask and sucks in a breath of clean air, marching over to the manhole.

He takes a quick look at his crew, his friends. It's not lost on him that this could be a fruitless, one-way trip. But if anyone has to die, if anyone's string has to be snipped, it should be his. Maybe saving the lives of the people above ground at the expense of himself will balance out the debt he has for being alive, for surviving. It's something he's willing to risk, anyway. Better him than someone else.

Before anyone can stop him, he mounts the ladder and starts his descent into darkness. Even with his SCBA, the putrid stench of gas bleeds in.

It was like diving into another world. The hiss of gas from above, the low growl of trains down the tunnel. His boots splash in oily water, scattering large rats. Crouching low, he sweeps his flashlight, trying to see through the fogged mask.

There. The tracks glinted like black snakes. And next to them, the third rail hummed faintly, still very much alive. Even through his insulated gloves, he's sure the current is enough to kill him.

"Oh I'm in it now, aren't I?" Luke mumbles to himself.

His flashlight searches the support beams and sides of the tunnel. Each subway station has a small electrical relay that when pulled shuts off the preceding and following station tracks. They're usually used during maintenance, and easily identifiable by a red handle.

Behind him, the hum of the R train grows louder and closer. Time isn't on his side, but then again when has it ever been? He imagines Death materializing then, aiming the cold scythe at the crux of his south, gleeful at finally collecting him after eight years of evasion.

He's not afraid of it. Dying. Sometimes, maybe more than he lets on, he welcomes it. And if the stakes were lower, if it was just his life on the line, then maybe he wouldn't be searching so hard for this damn handle.

The airlift to the children's hospital in Ann Arbor feels like dying itself. Like his soul is ascending to Heaven.

He's long since lost conscience now, not even the chafe of the tourniquet around his leg or the burn in his throat from inhaling lake water is enough to keep him awake. But even at the veil of this world and the next, the scream of his mother and wails of Jack and Quinn overpower the sound of the helicopter's blades.

His heart rate slows more. Blood loss. He thinks he hears a flatline nearby. His own.

"Luke? Luke, hey stay with me bud, ok? We're almost there." The paramedic. Or God. Or his dad. Or somebody just telling him to hold on. But it feels so easy to just let go, to fall into the darkness that claws at him. All he wants in this moment is silence. 

So he gives in, and falls.

The medal from Marty grows hot against his sternum then, St. Florian Protect Us.

And call it fate, but Luke spots a maroon handle out of the corner to his eye, covered in decades of grime. Nearly sprinting over, he grabs it and pulls with everything he has, hearing the audible click as it falls into the downward position.

The third rail crackles briefly before its dulcet and constant hum falls silent. The same R train comes to a stop and goes dark.

Luke sags against the wall, lungs burning, and realizes that the patter in his chest is his heart. He's still alive. For now, at least.

He hauls himself back up the ladder, his knee aching and mask fully obscured by breath. When his head emerges above the rim, the street looks different. Evacuees cluster at a safe distance, the trucks from HAZMAT and Station 86 are finally assisting, and his crew is staring at him like he’s crawled up from hell itself. 

Seamus grabs his arm, yanking him fully out of the manhole. Luke rips off his mask, sucking in the clean and cool air. The LNG had abated somewhat due to the work of the HAZMAT team, but Luke's body still feels ill with it.

For a moment, the noise blurs out — the sirens, shouting, wind through the canyon of buildings. Luke stares at the manhole like it might still swallow him. His gloves are shaking. He’s alive, and he can’t decide if that’s a relief or disappointment.

"You're an idiot." Seamus settles on.

"A massive, huge, stupid, idiot." Dylan adds.

“Yeah,” Luke rasps. “I won't fight you on that one."

-

They stay on scene late, the late September blue sky fading to oranges and reds. By the time they got back to the station, the next shift was already there. Rutger's smoothie was not.

Luke stayed behind to fill out a lengthy incident report, detailing his own actions down in the subway tunnel. He knows there's a good chance he'll be reprimanded for breaking protocol when he split up with Seamus. Whatever comes down from HQ is sure to be nothing compared to the long voicemail from Marty that he doesn't want to listen to tonight.

He doesn't even check his phone until he's on the way home, seeing texts from Quinn with a linked article.

Quinn: Is this you? <New York Firefighters Avert Tragedy in Manhattan>

Quinn: Call me.

Luke swipes the notification away, then opens the messages anyway.

Luke: I'm fine. No limbs or appendages otherwise lost.

Luke: So you don't need to worry.

Quinn: I'm always gonna worry.

Luke stares at the text and turns his phone all the way off. The day's been long enough, he doesn't need a different kind of explosion to start with Quinn.

On the walk from the train station to the apartment, Luke takes note of his neighborhood. There's kids playing on the sidewalk, drawing with chalk to create a grid for hopscotch. A young couple walks their dog. The world, as always, continues to move on. That's always comforted him. Scared him too.

Back at the apartment, the adrenaline finally bleeds out of his veins, leaving behind the jittery emptiness he hated most. He wants another shower, maybe a beer, maybe silence.

Instead, he walks into an ambush.

Rutger posted up in the armchair, arms folded like a pissed-off dad. Seamus paces a hole in the kitchen tiles, chewing his lip raw. Dylan leans against the counter, face pale but jaw tight. Mark and Ethan hover near the couch, both tense enough to snap.

Nobody says anything at first. Just stares. Luke tries for levity.

“What, did I miss dinner again?”

Rutger’s glare didn’t budge. “What the fuck was that today?”

Luke drops onto the couch, tugging at his too-long hair.

“That was me making sure half the city didn’t turn into a crater.”

“You went down there alone,” Seamus shoots back. His voice cracking. “Gas filling a tunnel, third rail hot, HAZMAT still blocks away, and you just what, played hero?”

Luke exhales, slow. “I didn't play anything. This is the job, someone had to go down there.”

“Bullshit.” Seamus jabs a finger at him, eyes alight with anger. “You didn’t even wait for dispatch or backup. You just decided you’re expendable and jumped. That wasn’t bravery, Luke, that was reckless!”

“And self-sacrifice,” Ethan supplies quietly. “Not the noble kind.”

Silence presses in again, the walls of the apartment becoming too tall and too close. Luke stares at the floorboards, his jaw tight and heart drumming.

Rutger leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Listen. We’ve all seen close calls. We’ve all had them. But what you did today? That wasn’t a split-second instinct. That was a choice. Like you didn’t care if you came back up.”

Luke barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “ Better me than-”

“Don’t you dare,” Mark cuts in, voice louder than anyone had ever heard from him outside of a call or a game of chel. “Don’t you dare feed us that martyr crap. We’re not letting you trade your life like it’s worth less than ours or the people we save. We need you here.”

The room goes still at that, even the city that never sleeps sounds like it's leaning in.

Luke rubbed his face, swallowing hard. “You don’t understand, I-”

“No, you don’t understand,” Seamus snaps. “We’re your crew. Your family. You think you’re making some noble calculation, but all you’re doing is leaving us to clean up the mess if you don’t come back. You dying would torch us just as bad as that rail could’ve torched Midtown.”

Luke’s throat closes and the salt of unshed tears burn.

Finally, Rutger speaks again, low and steady. “You’re not alone, Luke. You haven't been since the day you walked into the station on your probationary year. You don’t get to carry every fire like you’ve got nothing to lose. Because you do. You’ve got us. And if you can’t see that yet, then open your damn eyes.”

Luke stares at him, something raw twisting in his chest. For a moment he wants to snap back, push them all away, and retreat behind the steel walls he’d spent years building. He's never had people like this, at least not for a while and not since Michigan. Even now, after nearly five years of living and working together, he keeps finding their roots digging deeper into him.

He just nods once, sharp and unable to trust his voice.

“I’m-” The word sticks, heavy and foreign. “I’m sorry.” Luke whispers, his voice breaking.

"I know. We know." Seamus says, placing a firm hand on Luke's shoulder. Not pressing him into the couch, but ground him to the people in the apartment. He feels another hand on his other shoulder, it's Rutger. Soon Dylan, Mark, and Ethan join, each finding purchase on his body.

It's intimate, not sexual in the slightest, but it's still full of love all the same.

-

The footage hit the morning news before Luke even woke up.

Helicopter shots of the LNG tanker tilted across the intersection, smoke rising with the bus smashed into it took up the TV screen. Cell phone clips of Station 43 hauling bleeding commuters out of the bus were spliced into it. There's even blurry video of a firefighter disappearing into a manhole as cops and EMTs scream on, followed by the the cheers when he came back up, alive.

“-a potential catastrophe averted thanks to the fast actions of FDNY Station 43,” the anchor’s voice said over the B-roll. “Experts say if the gas had reached a spark in the subway system, the resulting explosion could have devastated Midtown. Witnesses are calling the young firefighter who shut off the electrified third rail, a hero.”

Luke shuts the TV off before the clip rolls again. The word sat heavy in his stomach, sour and bitter. Hero.

He could still feel the third rail buzzing under his gloves and the gas in his nose. It hadn't felt like heroics yesterday. Or brave.

At the firehouse next shift, it was worse. The brass descended from their lofty towers - chiefs, commissioners, even some of the mayor’s staff. Cameras flashed as they shook hands with Luke and his crew in the station bay. The station's exterior had bouquets leaning against it and thank you notes taped onto it. A local school had even made a banner that now hangs in the loft. Station 43 had never been this loud or prominent.

“Outstanding work,” one of the deputy commissioners tells him, gripping his shoulder proudly. “You exemplify the courage and sacrifice of this department.”

Luke strains a smile, flanked by Seamus and Dylan on either side of him. Seamus mutters under his breath, just loud enough for Luke to hear: Don't get any ideas.

"Thank you, sir." Luke says, feeling anything except courage.

"Your grandfather must be proud."

"In his own way." Luke replies, earning a hearty chuckle from the deputy commissioner.

"Sounds like Marty, probably reamed you out six way to Sunday for your stunt, huh?"

"Like you wouldn't believe." He lets out a long exhale at that, to which the deputy commissioner slaps his back good-naturedly.

"I promise you he got up to worse back in the day. He'll cool off."

Then the battalion chief for their division gathers them around, looking all too happy.

“Listen up. The Rangers are hosting their annual First Responders Night in mid-October and they want representatives from Station 43 to do the ceremonial puck drop. It's prime time, a national broadcast, needless to say it’s a big honor. And after what you pulled at Herald Square, frankly it’s well deserved.”

The guys whoop and clap each other on the back, breaking up into brief celebration. Rutger punches the air, and Dylan grins like a kid, high-fiving Mark and Ethan. But for Luke, that same feeling of imminence from before overcomes him again. He already knows who the Rangers will be playing. Call it fate, or destiny, he thinks the universe it just vindictive.

"Who're they playing?" Seamus asks.

"The Devils. Hudson River Rivalry and all that. Should be fun."

Luke feels his throat go dry as the words leave the battalion chief's mouth. It's real, now that it's been said. A hard truth. A puck drop means standing in front of 20,000 people in one of the most iconic venues in sport and entertainment.

His stomach churns at the thought. All it would is take one simple search of his name or Jack's, or someone asking online if 'Jack looks like that random New York firefighter' for his whole life to be blown wide open. Everyone would know then, about the accident. It would become a whole ordeal that Luke would have to confront after years of running from it.

But, sometimes things just happen, and we just have to accept that for whatever it means, even if that's nothing. You're holding onto a past that's never going to change, no matter how much you want it too.

They're your brothers. They're always going to be your brothers. That means something

Luke shakes his grandfather's words out of his head, but they still echo as they leave.

Chapter Text

Early to Mid October

Luke hobbles to the apartment kitchen in the early morning, wincing with each step. The cold in the apartment doesn't help, but they left the windows open since yesterday was so nice, and, like idiots, no one checked the temperature. Glancing at the thermostat, Luke silently curses as 59 F glows in the darkness.

Fall was the worst for these - what Luke calls - "flareups". Something about the changing air pressure and cold stiffens the joint fluid and make nerves more sensitive. At least that's what his physical therapist told him way back when.

To make matters worse, he and the rest of the guys had just wrapped up a long job that bled six hours into the next shift. There was a lot of lifting and kneeling, squatting and climbing, so ever little movement caused his right knee to feel like it was on fire.

He grabs Advil - stupidly perched on the top shelf of the cabinets - but his fingers don't coordinate with his brain, and the bottle crashes to the floor. The cap was on, so none of the reddish pills spilled, but now it's well out of his reach.

"Great. Just fucking great." Luke grumbles, attempting a couple different ways to grab the bottle - which all cause his knee to lock up even further in extraordinary pain.

Tears prickle at his eyes, from agony and shame. He feels useless, burdensome in this moment because now it's just a mess for someone else to clean up.

All Luke does is create messes. It's the one thing he's ever been good at.

"Luke?" Looking over his shoulder he sees Seamus, rubbing his eyes and hair all askew. "What're you doing up?"

"Uh, nothing. Force of habit." The lie rolls off his tongue as he grips the counter for balance, leaning on his good leg.

"Right." Seamus slowly walks around the counter, spotting the Advil on the floor. "So this just… fell then?" He rattles the bottle a little. "This is what woke me up by the way."

"Seamus-" Luke tries, but Seamus holds up a finger, silencing him.

"Go sit on the couch and put your bad leg on the ottoman." Luke's throat bobs up and down once, nodding quickly before using the wall as an aid to sit down.

On the couch, he grabs a blanket and throws it over himself, trying to keep it together. Guilt prickles in his gut, worming north toward his lungs and neck. He hates that he woke Seamus up, hates that he needs help again. As if trying to make himself smaller and less inconvenient, Luke refuses to turn on the TV or a lamp, sitting statuesque in the predawn darkness.

He hears the microwave start to hum, followed by the tear of paper, and the opening and closing of one of the cabinets. Trying to calm down, Luke picks at the skin around his nails, relishing in the slight pinch of pain.

"Here." Seamus says, holding a warm mug of tea in one hand and three Advil in the other. Luke takes them thanklessly, popping all of them at once. He doesn't notice Seamus retreating, doesn't notice or hear him rouse Ethan from sleep, all he can do is focus on not burning his tongue.

The tea is good. He suspects it must be Seamus's secret stash from the Sensuous Bean on West 70th in Lincoln Square. Honey bursts on his tongue, contrasting against the slightly bitter taste from the brew.

"I know I paid ConEd, so why the fuck is it dark in here." Ethan's voice is like Seamus's - gravelly and low from sleep. He paddles over to the lamp and flicks it on, casting the living room in a soft glow.

Luke jumps, but doesn't spill his tea. "Why'd you wake him up?" He asks, accusatory in nature.

"Because." Seamus replies, going around to shut the windows and turn on the heat.

"Because I have skills." Ethan grins, pulling up a dinner chair next to Luke's leg.

"And CBD lotion." Seamus adds, plopping down on the couch next to Luke and turning on the television, settling on the news. Ethan snaps on some gloves - most definitely stolen from the station - and moves the blanket to expose Luke's bad leg.

"Guys, seriously, it's fine. It's just a little pain. I've lived with it nearly my whole life, it just acts up in the fall. And - And! - we're all sore and fucking exhausted, so just go back to bed." Luke pushes back, earning eyerolls from both men.

"Ok well tough shit. You're our friend and we don't like seeing you in pain." Ethan squirts a dollop of the lotion on his gloved hand and rubs his palms together before applying it to Luke's leg. Luke whimpers as the muscles and tendons of his knee are worked over, knots and scar tissue being pulled and pushed in a way that he isn't used to this early.

"Sorry, I know it's a bitch. I'm sorry." Ethan apologizes softly, but not letting up in the slightest.

"No, it's fine, just- ah, shit." Luke groans, feeling Seamus' arm wrap around his shoulder. He winces and buries his face in Seamus's shoulder with gritted teeth.

"Have you tried a cortisone injection?" Seamus asks, watching Luke's grimaces slowly fade as Ethan works his magic.

"No, not really. Repeated use of cortisone causes joint deterioration and weakens the muscles, tendons, and cartilage." Luke replies, parroting back the words of the doctor he saw his probationary year, when the pain started to build up as his work did.

Seamus looks to Ethan for confirmation who nods.

"It doesn't help that it's the knee and that our line of work is hard on the joints. It's really just a case of pain management now." Ethan says, looking at the men on the couch. Luke points to him like 'see, told you'.

Seamus sighs, frustrated at the situation. If there's anything he could do to take away the debilitating pain from Luke, he would. It wouldn't matter if he had to sell his soul, journey to a monastery in China, or somehow engage in magic. He would do it. For Luke he would.

"Hey, are you still thinking of applying to med school?" Luke asks Ethan instead, switching topics. Ethan, working in another layer of the THC lotion, pauses.

"Um. Maybe. But it's crazy expensive, you know? And like four years of studying, then residency, and who knows if I'd be able to stay in New York with you guys. What if I match in fuckass Connecticut or worse - Pennsylvania?"

Seamus and Luke chuckle, but Ethan continues, "I think I'd miss you guys too much. Not just at the apartment, but at work too. And I'm not," Ethan gathers his thoughts, "I wouldn't stay because it's comfortable or easy. Nothing about this job is. But I'm… I don't know. I think I'm meant to be out in the city, you know? Sleeping on those hard beds at the station, drinking Mark's orange juice, carrying Narcan because Rut takes us to some sketchy clubs. I love what I do, and I love the people I do it with."

Ethan gives the ghost of a smile before moving his hands again, desperate to look busy under Luke and Seamus's watchful gaze.

"You sap." Seamus settles on.

"You love me. Admit it. And plus, you'd really trust my replacement if I left? Fat chance."

"Whoever it'd be, they'd fuck up all the Station 43 juju." Luke huffs, amused.

Ethan finishes and de-gloves, tossing the pair into the trash before making a coffee. Already the pain has abated mostly, and Luke's fairly certain he'll be able to go for a light jog today once it warms up. He looks down at his leg, counting the healed gashes. The number is always the same. Always seven. Seven times the propeller cut through him while Jack - or anyone else on that boat - didn't notice.

"Can I ask you guys a question?" Luke asks.

"Yeah, man of course." Seamus tightens his arm around Luke slightly, as if furthering the connection to keep Luke grounded.

"Totally." Ethan replies, coming back with large ceramic mug that definitely has way too much creamer.

"You guys know my brothers, right?" Luke puts out the question, forcing each syllable. Ethan returns, sitting on the other side of Luke with a cup of coffee in hand, and shares a look Seamus a look.

They know, of course, the whole sordid tale from beginning to end. Luke's told it exactly once after one too many porch beers last summer, then never again. However the memory always plays in Luke's head, mostly at night when he's trying to sleep, but usually it just sits there in the back of his head on a low simmer. And while it's painful - enormously so - it's partially why they love Marty so much, besides his obvious paternal side and former FDNY status, because he took Luke in. The rest of the Hughes family though? Well, there's no love lost there.

"Yeah, the hockey players right? For the Canucks and um," Seamus snaps his fingers trying to remember, "the Dallas Stars?" He tries. Luke laughs almost, he's not that lucky. Not by a long shot.

"The Devils, actually. Canucks and Devils."

Ethan's eyebrows raise comically high in shock, glancing at Seamus to gauge his reaction before turning back to Luke.

"You're joking. Like the New Jersey Devils? The ones that are 15 miles away from the station? Those Devils?" Seamus asks, incredulous. He may have heard of Jack Hughes, seen his silky mitts and breakaway goals, but he never connected that with Luke. But Luke's always been like a welded steel plate when it came to his family or where he's from. He always says he's from Long Island, never Michigan.

"Afraid so." Luke murmurs, taking another sip of his tea.

"Oh shit… I didn't even... are you gonna go to that First Responders Night for puck drop? It's ok if you don't."

"I sorta have to, don't I? Thanks to my idiotic stunt in the subway." Luke runs a hand through his hair and sighs.

"Which you're never doing again." Seamus adds.

"Which I'm never doing again." Luke confirms with an almost sarcastic eye roll. "But no, I mean the brass is expecting me to go, so is the mayor probably, so I'll go. It's no different than our regular marching orders. I won't like it - I'll hate it, actually - and I won't stay for the game, but I can muster 30 seconds for a picture. Helps that Jack will be off on the red line and not with the captains for it."

Whatever false sense of bravado Luke exudes does nothing for the painful anxiety that forms in his stomach whenever he thinks of the game. And because his life is cosmic comedic fodder, the game falls on Quinn's birthday - October 14, just barely less than two weeks away.

"Jack's the-"

"The reason why my leg's fucked up? Yeah." Luke gives an exhaled chuckle. "Some days I hate him, and wish he was the one that-" got tangled in the wake surfing rope instead. He shakes his head, banishing the unsaid words away. "But other days I… I want to forgive him. I think. Maybe. For my grandpa, really. I just don't know how to do that."

The low murmur of the news anchor fill the silence, neither Seamus nor Ethan quite knowing what to say.

"I think," Ethan starts, "that forgiveness shouldn't be freely given. It should be earned in some way. But, I also think that holding onto this… grief, I guess, hinders more than it helps. And I'm not saying that you let it go, not at all, but that it's just one part of your story. It's not who you are, it doesn't define you."

"Yeah, right. Seems pretty fucking definitive if you ask me." Luke replies. Ethan goes to reply, but Seamus beats him to it.

"You know what I see when I look at you? I see my best friend. A brother, really. I see someone who is so reckless, so irresponsibly self sacrificial because his heart is too big for his body. I see someone who cares for others, who visits his grandfather regularly, who carries so much on his shoulders that I don't even think Atlas could do the same. I see someone who's brave. Who's nose crinkles as he laughs when Rutger tells a dumb joke, who could prattle on about the Mets for hours, who makes sure there's always a tin of cookies in the pantry just because. I don't see your leg or its scars, not at all."

Luke's throat bobs wildly and he has to look down at his lap for a moment because if he glances at Seamus or Ethan he'll fall apart.

"I wish you could see yourself how we see you, Luke. I think you'd see someone that you'd really like." Ethan murmurs. And Luke can only nod and sniffle, giving a very faint smile.

"I'm trying. I really am I just- I can't unlearn it all at once." Luke mumbles.

"I know. We know." Ethan and Seamus find a way to pull the blanket over all of their bodies, shifting closer to Luke. Together they watch the morning news without any real interest.

He notes from the sports segment that the NHL regular season starts soon, and that Jack's Devils are probably preparing for their road trip through Carolina, Tampa, and Columbus. He hates that he knows that, that the years of suppressing his love of hockey are being chipped away.

"What about your other brother? The one on the Canucks. Quinn, I think his name is?" Seamus breaks the silence, going back to earlier in the conversation. Luke sits up slightly, thinking for a moment.

"Yeah, Quinn. Um, he's… He was just easier to lump in with the rest of my family, I guess. And like he was leaving anyway so I just… I don't know. Quinn's basically collateral damage. He didn't do anything and I don't know if I'm mad at him for that or not. I know he had one foot out the door, but he's my big brother, you know? He should have - fuck - like, stuck up for me or something."

Another silence, and Luke wonders if Seamus and Ethan are counting their lucky stars that their family isn't nearly as fucked up as his.

"His birthday's coming up actually, same day as the First Responders Night. I, um, I've been thinking of writing him a card since he wrote one for mine."

"That's a good idea, Luke." Seamus says, Ethan agrees, adding that he has stamps for Luke to use.

Luke chuckles softly and shakes his head. Of course Ethan would have stamps for him.

Mark joins them soon after, with the sun finally breaking over the horizon. It'll be a lazy day for them in their apartment, filled with a contented tiredness where there's only enough energy to grab more snacks from the bodega down the street.

Rutger and Dylan, known for treating sleeping like hibernation, come out from their bedroom just as Seamus and Ethan are whipping up some breakfast.

"Well this is cozy." Rutger grins, sliding into the loveseat.

"Yeah. It sure is." Luke replies, relishing in the warm, familiar comfort of just an ordinary day.

-

The empty card mocks him. Well, it's not totally empty, Luke did manage to scribe Quinn's address on the envelope.

QUINN HUGHES

800 GRIFFITHS WAY, VANCOUVER, BRITISH COLUMBIA V6B 6G1, CANADA

Then, below that, he writes his own.

LUKE HUGHES

31-13 30th AVENUE, ASTORIA, NEW YORK 11102, UNITED STATES

He debated putting Marty's address, but then decided against it. If Luke's going to really try with this letter and with Quinn, he has to start somewhere. And besides, Quinn's in a different country across the continent, it's not like he's just going to randomly show up one day. He's sensible. The eldest. Mature. Objective.

"Mom, Dad, you have to stop this! He can't go to New York, he can't leave!", Quinn's faint pleas bleed through the drywall upstairs. Luke's already half-packed, angrily tossing clothes into a suit case.

"I know… I know… But, it's for the best, Quinn. For all of us. And it's only until he's 18." If Jim is worried or anguished over Luke leaving, his voice doesn't show it. Luke opts to leave his medals from youth hockey behind. No use for ghosts.

"But he's my brother!"

"And he's my son."

"This is his home. Everything he's ever loved is here. There's you and mom, Jack, me."

"I think that's part of the problem, Quinn."

Luke's hand slightly shakes as his picks up the pen. He's already put this off for so long, and if there's a prayer of this being delivered in time, he has to write it today. Any longer and he'll have to send it Overnight Priority Mail Express, and that's not a cheap endeavor.

Glancing outside, he watches as the wind blows some leaves loose and to the ground. Everything has its season. Even this.

With an exhale, he starts to write.

Quinn,

I guess I have to return the favor, huh?

Happy Birthday. 26. Seems like it was just yesterday we were kids in Ontario in the youth program.

I thought about that a lot after I moved to Long Island, actually. Things seemed so malleable then, less rigid than the path of hockey each of us were shuttled on. It was easier to be your brother then too. Just your brother. Not a competitor or someone to envy.

I think I lost sight of that when we moved to Michigan. We all did that with each other, in retrospect.

And I think I've been crucifying you for no reason too. In my eyes, your only crime was leaving. I was so mad at you for… for getting drafted, I guess. For getting everything you wanted. I think it was at that point I realized that what happened to me was real. We were growing up and apart, life was moving on but I wasn't. I'm sorry for that. And for how I've treated you.

I've never known how to place you. I know where you fit in with our parents and with Jack, but I think the days that separate our births you mentioned - 1,426 - already put us at a disadvantage. I keep thinking about that number, too; and how you said you never wanted to know another day without me for as long as we both live.

So, for your birthday this year, my present to you is me.

I don't want to know another day without you either, Quinn, and I'm sorry that I've let over 2,920 pass where I have.

I hope you have a happy birthday with your guys out in Vancouver. Maybe next year I can fly out and see what all the fuss is about, if you want.

Love,

Moose

There. Done. He doesn't bother to read through it again, it's too fresh, too raw, and maybe a little too honest. Instead, he grabs a couple pictures that Marty printed off for him.

The first is of Quinn holding him the day he was born. Quinn's looking down at Luke like he's the most precious thing in the world, supporting him like he was made to do it. If Luke could remember that day, he'd hear Quinn's promises to be the best big brother in the world and that he'd protect Luke from every monster out there.

The second is a group picture with Luke, Mark, Ethan, Seamus, Dylan, and Rutger under the sign that says 'FDNY STATION 43' taken on his first day of his probationary year. It's goofy, and filled with promise. Seamus gives Luke bunny ears in the picture, Rutger's head is tilted back mid-laugh, and Luke gives that shy smile he can be known for.

On the back of the first picture he writes, "Never felt safer"

And on the back of the second, "Never felt safer"

It's maybe too on the nose, but it's how he truly feels. He never felt safer with Quinn until That Weekend and he's never felt safer with his crew. Maybe this is his way of merging the two, marrying the same ideas and virtues he so desperately wants.

He drops the pictures and card into the envelope then seals it, taping over the back flap for extra assurance. Then he goes on a jaunt to the post office; it's not that he doesn't appreciate Ethan's offer of stamps, but rather this letter needs to be in Vancouver on October 14 - just seven days away, so he's springing for Priority Mail.

Luke blindly files out a customs form, declares that the contents is nothing of value, and that there's nothing hazardous inside either. $30.90 later he hands the envelope to the nice clerk behind the desk who informs him that the estimated delivery date is Quinn's birthday on the dot. She hands Luke a receipt with the tracking number, which Luke folds into his wallet, before he heads back to the apartment.

-

Luke's maybe 10 seconds away from yelling 'quiet' in the station so the alarm goes off. It's been pretty dead all shift - just a handful of calls, nothing for Luke to handle anyway - so Luke's been doing every odd job around the station he can. As a result, the shower heads no longer leaks, the kitchen pantry door doesn't need to be jimmied to open, and the squeaking bay door is now silent, among others.

He sits with the guys in the little living room area watching the fifth game of the NLDS - where the Milwaukee Brewers are up 2-1 against Chicago at the top of the sixth inning. No one really cares, not with the Yankees being eliminated and the Mets not clinching at all. So Luke's not really paying attention that deeply. Rather, he reading the horizontal bottom ticker when he sees: "NHL: NEW JERSEY DEVILS (NOW 1-1) DEFEAT TAMPA BAY LIGHTNING (NOW 0-2) 5-3."

Luke's phone dings with a text. From Jack. Odd, Luke wasn't aware that Jack still had his number, let alone that Jack would be texting him. Cautiously, he slowly unlocks his phone and navigates to the notification.

Jack: hey so i just found out about this: <Rangers to Honor Firefighters from September's Herald Square Incident at Hudson River Rivalry Game>

Jack: why didn't you tell me about any of this? the herald square thing and the rangers/devils puck drop?

Luke works his jaw loose, feeling it tense as he reads the texts. Typical Jack, a brat to the end.

Luke: it just didn't cross my mind.

Luke: if this about people finding out that we're related or blowing the whole boating accident to a national crowd don't worry, i won't steal the spotlight away from you.

Luke watches the text bubbles appear and disappear over the next few seconds. He wonders if he was too harsh. Sometimes it feels like that, him cracking a whip of retribution so hard it creates lightning, scorching everything around him.

Jack: that's not what i meant and you know it. look, i know there's some shit between us and i've let you wallow for the better part of a decade, but i'm your brother. you have to start talking to me.

It's shit like this that make forgiveness so hard. Jack just doesn't get it. He can't draw a line between who Luke is now to who he was, or see the crucial part he played in Luke's post-accident life. To Jack, it was a ruined Labor Day weekend. To Luke, it was a dream denied.

He doesn't bother with a response, just a read receipt that probably leaves Jack in agony. There's a fire forming in his gut now, one that feels familiar, of competition. Luke will go to Madison Square Garden, he'll go with his friends - though friends feels like a woefully inadequate term for the depth he feels for each of them - and he'll wear his brightest smile as he drops that goddamn puck on the ice that was supposed to be his.

Jack may have everything he wants out in New Jersey - the fame, the athleticism, the fans. But, Luke has everything he wants here in New York, and that isn't something money can buy.