Chapter Text
Current Day
It was humid. Humid and hot, the air thick with smoke and sweat. Buck had made a comment on the air and Eddie had made fun of them all for not being used to the Texas humidity.
She was already done with Texas. But there was a wildfire to fight.
“Kennedy! You coming?” Buck called. “Yeah, yeah.” She said, walking towards Buck and the other part of the 118 crew who had come to help. They moved with the other crews, towards the captains who were getting ready for the operational briefing.
As she walked, she thought she saw him. Her brother. She knew she couldn’t have, he's in New York. If he was even alive. He had to be in New York, he wouldn’t have just moved. This guy had to just have had the same look. The same way of walking. The same hair color. Maybe a doppelgänger. Surely a doppelgänger.
And then, as she moved to stand between Buck and Hen, she saw the back of his turnouts. “Strand”. Coincidence, it had to be. New York wouldn’t send firefighters all the way to Texas for a wildfire. And this guy’s turnouts clearly said Austin. These turnouts said 126, not 252. He wouldn’t move to Austin. He loves New York. There had to be more Strands out there, this one just happened to be her brother’s lookalike.
A captain came to start the briefing and for a moment, she didn’t recognize him. Maybe it was his hair being grayer, or all of the smoke, or the angle, or the 6 years that had passed. But then he opened his mouth. His voice was the same. And now that she looked closer, he really did look the same. He was wearing the same station number as her brother. Which means they moved. They left New York at some point. Why?
She couldn’t focus on what he was saying. Her vision was tunneling and it was hard to hear anything over the roar in her ears. She looked down. Maybe he wouldn’t see her.
Her hand went to her necklace, fidgeting with the ring, the pendant. Catching herself and hiding it back under her shirt.
Buck nudged her at one point, mouthing “Are you okay? You’re pale.” And she nodded. Mouthing an “I’m fine.”
He didn’t see her, somehow.
She made it through the briefing. He never looked her way. She could almost convince herself it was on purpose. Almost.
She had missed most of what was said, had only really heard the tail end. Something about staying safe and together and drinking water. She didn’t know.
Everyone went where they were assigned. The 118 had been spread out, and she was helping the paramedic, staying by Hen as much as she could and bringing supplies to people who needed it.
“Kennedy! Can you bring me more burn dressings?”
“On it!” She said, moving to grab them. She heard him walk up. She knew that walk anywhere.
“Hey, can I have a few bandaids, please? I’m getting blisters from the shovel.” He asked sheepishly.
Her brother. She froze. He can’t be here. He can’t see her.
She heard the exchange, the offer for someone to look at his hands, the refusal.
He sounded the same, had the same subtle accent. But he also sounded tired, which is so familiar. But he's alive, and he seemed okay. He sounded soft. Happy. Alive.
“Kennedy? Can you not find them?”
“Sorry! I uh.. I got them!”
It was exhausting.
She wasn’t even fighting the wildfire and she was so tired. Her hip starting to feel weaker in that way it always did when she had been working too hard and too long.
She’d spent hours helping the paramedics and was finally on break. Ready to find a snack somewhere. Maybe one of her protein bars, or fruit pouches she had brought with her.
She had to walk past the command center to get to where she had left her stuff. The tent was open, at least five captains standing around the map, talking.
He was there. He was busy. He wouldn’t see her. Surely she wasn’t that unlucky. She waited a moment to be sure and then walked past. Slower than she wanted but her hip was sending signals already. And if she went faster, she could fall. And that was a sure way to draw attention.
But it didn’t matter. She got a few feet away and heard footsteps. Just like her brother’s, she’d know those footsteps anywhere. And for the first time in 6 long years.
“Claire Elizabeth?”
She faltered. She shouldn’t have.
She walked a little faster. And then, in the angriest, most dad voice she’d ever heard from him, even worse than when she had gotten in her first fight, when she was 8. He said,
“Claire Elizabeth Morgan-Strand, do not walk away from me.”