Chapter Text
April
The face that looks back at him is just how he remembers it. The dark, deeply brown eyes. Warm and kind, despite the fact that they are almost black. The sharp jaw and low, angled cheekbones. The mouth, hidden behind his black, shortly trimmed beard. Short enough to have grown out over a two week long vacation, shaved off again the second before his next shift. Black, thick hair, tinged with grey strands here and there.
Stern. Warm. Kind. Funny. Strict.
Healthy.
Xaden lets out an exhale and shifts on his feet, staring at the face of his father. Or, rather, the face of his father almost twenty years ago when the portrait was taken. Closing his eyes, Xaden pushes away the image of his father the last time he had seen him. His face hollowed out, skin pale and lifeless, his breathing labored, his body nothing but skin and bones.
A visual of how Xaden feels every day.
The picture of a younger Fen hangs on the wall, surrounded by familiar and unfamiliar faces of the captains that came before and after. Dead, retired. It doesn’t matter, none of them are here anymore. They all left a legacy behind.
Xaden lets his eyes travel slightly to the left, to the others. The fallen, those who had died, sacrificing themselves while doing their job. He doesn’t let his eyes travel far though, stopping them on another familiar face. Dark brows, curly hair, a massive grin and a single dimple.
His father's best friend, his second in command in all the ways that mattered. Xaden's godfather. The reason his best friend runs toward bullets on a daily basis. Not that he can complain, since he himself runs into fires.
Or, he used to.
If he looks close enough, he can see the disappointment in his father's eyes. It’s not hard – he sees it in the mirror each day too.
Refusing to let his eyes wander further left, refusing to see that face, he instead locks eyes on a photo to his right. Taken about a year ago, it houses some of the people he cares about the most. His work family. People he would risk his life for without a shadow of a doubt. People he has risked his life for.
People he's now mostly avoided for the last four and a half months.
He takes a single step back at the sound of bootsteps against the hard concrete floor, and as Xaden twists he pushes one hand into his pocket.
“Well, well, well, look who the cat dragged in,” Drake drawls as he comes up to him, a massive grin on his face. Xaden ignores the sting of pain in his chest and returns it as best as he can. It feels hollow, but he doesn't think Drake can tell. “Not the actual one, but you’ll do.”
Drake Cordella looks the same as always. A couple of years older and a few inches shorter than Xaden, he still wears a quick smile underneath his mop of black hair, his lean build perhaps a little leaner than Xaden remembers. Fuck, he’s known and worked with him for almost five years by now, and Xaden ignores the pang of guilt at the fact that this is the first time he’s seen him in a little over a month.
“What are you doing here?” he asks and Xaden raises his right hand just a little bit, enough to draw attention to the folder he is holding.
“Dropping off some reports to Cap,” he replies, and ignores the second sting of pain and how it is laced with guilt and grief. “She wants some stats on possible probies.”
If Drake's face falls at that, it is so quickly Xaden can't be sure he didn't imagine it. As he pushes both hands into his pockets, he grins wider. “Gods, I love new probies. They always do what you tell them to do, no questions asked.”
“You mean they wash the truck and bring you coffee and donuts because they don't know any better," Xaden drawls and Drake chuckles.
“They're not supposed to know any better. You're not supposed to teach them that. Speaking of teaching, do your records still stand?”
Xaden grins at that. For real, this time. Fifteen years later, he still holds all the records from training, snatched right from under his father's nose. He shouldn’t be as proud of that as he is. It shouldn’t matter.
“That arrogant fucking smile of yours says yes,” Drake answers his own question, shaking his head. Then his smile does waver, just a little bit. “She's back home tomorrow, right?”
There is no point in asking who he means. There is only one she he can mean. But in truth, Xaden’s not entirely sure about the answer. They haven't talked in a few days. Which is more than fine by him. Maybe it shouldn’t be fine, a small part of him warns.
But no, he has always been clear about his expectations. About how he does things. Or doesn’t do things.
“Late tonight, I think,” Xaden replies and Drake nods, a little absentmindedly.
They both fall silent for a moment, Drake's eyes wandering to the picture Xaden had just looked at. Then, quietly, he says: “We miss you around here.”
Xaden swallows the lump that suddenly appears in his throat, trying to clear it.
“Any plans on coming back soon?” Drake presses gently. Xaden knows it’s not meant as anything, but still, a sharp knife twists in his core. It feels a whole fucking lot like a metal rod.
He is about to answer that he doesn’t know, that he still isn't cleared, that he’s waiting for the doctors to tell them all he is good to go, that his shoulder is back to full capacity.
But the truth is it has been almost five months since the incident and physically, he was cleared for work shortly after that. No, the reasons he isn't back yet are not because of a dislocated, shattered shoulder.
The reason is ghosts he can't fully face yet.
Well, one ghost.
“Soon as I can,” he replies, and it sounds like the truth because it is. He wants to come back. He just… can't. Not until he can trust himself again. Not until the nightmares have stopped. How is he supposed to come back here, put on the uniform, and do his job when the last time he did everything went to shit? Someone died. Not someone. It was -
His thoughts are interrupted by a familiar flash of blonde, and his veins fill with dread as he meets the gaze of the one person he's not sure he can face. Not yet. He’s never thought of himself as a coward, but he looks away from icy blue that feel like they pierce his soul.
Drake follows his gaze, and lets out a heavy exhale.
“We’re all pissed you're not back yet, but we both know no one holds it against you. It was an accident. There was nothing you could do to change it.”
But he does. He's been holding it against himself since the same second it happened. It was his damn fault, wasn't it?
He watches as she takes a step toward them, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder, and his mind starts to spin, to think of ways to avoid her, get out of here as quickly as possible. But someone’s apparently on his side, because just then the alarm goes off.
He almost breathes a sigh of relief. Almost. Instead, Xaden digs his toes into his boots, standing firm when his entire body is screaming at him to go, go, go, to follow Drake as he turns around and takes off, as others scurry to do their job, to respond to the call.
He counts. Because of course he does.
Seventy-two seconds. It takes seventy-two fucking seconds for the truck and engine to start moving, the rig following closely behind. Fucking pathetic. The goal is always under a minute. Always. Anything more than that is abysmal. Every second counts, could save lives. Especially here, his house one of the busiest in this city. For fuck's sake, what's happening to his house? When did they become this fucking lazy?
He gives just the smallest of nods, his face a perfectly collected mask of boredom, as the truck drive by him and out of the house, followed by the engine and then the ambulance. Drake grins at him, but his own gaze meets that of his Captain. And he hates that he feels relief, mixed in with everything else.
He's damn fucking lucky to work in the same house his own dad worked in, the house his dad led for almost two decades, the house that was a second home to him as a kid, as a teenager. And he's damn fucking lucky that Sgaeyl took the Captain's hat a few years after his dad died, that she was there as a mentor to him, that she's now led his house for so many years. And she's doing a damn fine job, not counting the ridiculously long time it took for them to answer that call.
But they both know she didn't just want reports of the recruits he now spends his days training. She wants to continue the conversation they had four months ago, when he was cleared for duty. She wants to talk about what he said yes to right before the incident happened.
And he isn't really ready for that conversation right now.
Not sure if he ever will be.
He waits until the house is empty before he moves, making his way up the stairs and into Sgaeyl’s office, dropping the folder on the middle of her desk. She knows where to find him if she has any questions. If she doesn't want to wait to have the conversation he is dreading.
As he passes the photo wall again on his way out, he screws his eyes shut and pushes his fists into his pockets, refusing to look at the faces staring at him, screaming at him that he's a failure, a disappointment, that he doesn't deserve the uniform he's wearing.
But even with his eyes shut, the memories surface, flooding through him like poison, darkening his mood and his heart. Flashes of one of the worst moments of his life have his hands slightly shaking by the time he's in his car, and as he backs out, he can still hear the echo of his own screams.
His afternoon meeting at the firehouse was last in his working agenda today, and he sees no point in driving back to the Academy. There's some paperwork to do, but he can come in tomorrow morning and write that up. There's far too much paperwork these days, but with a new group of recruits coming in next week, it should calm down.
Knowing he'll be early, he still drives toward the gym and grabs his bag from the back of his pickup after parking, spotting his best friend's car a few spaces away. He’s not surprised, knowing his schedule and that he has a day off today. He didn’t expect anything but his best friend to be early for their regular sparring session.
For someone who’s permanently late for everything that isn’t controlled by his wife, Garrick Tavis has never once been late to the gym.
“You’re early,” Garrick states as he spots Xaden, calling out to him across the space. He’s by the punching bag, his hands wrapped and the bag swinging in front of him. As Garrick grabs it to hold it steady, Xaden takes a quick look at him. He looks about as exhausted as Xaden feels.
“You look like shit,” he responds and fights the grin when his best friend flips him off. “Thought we were stating obvious facts.”
“Oh fuck off, Xay.”
Xaden laughs despite himself, heading into the locker rooms to quickly get changed. He switches out of his station wear uniform - leaving the t-shirt on, but changing his pants to a pair of shorts - and then walks out barefoot to join Garrick, where he finds him fiddling with his phone.
“You okay?” Xaden asks as he starts taping his hands and wrists, and Garricks nods, tossing his phone into the open gym bag on the floor next to him. “Still nightmares?”
“Third night in a fucking row,” Garrick responds on a loud exhale, clearly frustrated. “She begs for bedtime stories involving fire breathing dragons, but apparently Frozen 2 is too much.”
“She's your kid,” Xaden huffs, almost rolling his eyes. “Of course she has nightmares of music created in this century.”
Of course, she's only half his. The half with the dark curls and dimples, the impatient and overly loud side. The other side is pure tornado - chaos, slightly terrifying and leaving small pink messes all around.
Garrick groans. “It's not even the music. I wish it was the music. It's the tiny, little stone creatures - last night she was convinced that the rock in our backyard, the one right outside her window, would make its way into her room and whisk her away.”
Xaden winces, unsure if it's because of the situation his best friend is in or if it's because of the dark, shadowy tendril around his heart that, against all wishes, longs for something like this. Longs for what Garrick has had for so long, what his cousin has found in the last few years. But no, he gave up on those wants and wishes long ago. Before he barely had a chance to truly feel them.
It's not for him. Not anymore.
He was young and stupid, it was before he knew what a fucking mess life is and how much it can hurt you. No, it’s better to keep to himself, to keep his heart safe and secured.
But, he can borrow three-year-old little tornados from time to time and give her parents a much needed break.
“I can take her for a few hours on Sunday,” he offers. “Give you two some time alone.”
“You're a fucking life saver,” Garrick tells him, and with it comes the first swing, Xaden just barely having the time to duck. He uses Garrick's momentum against him, lunging right away, his fist hitting ribs. That’s what the fucker gets for punching without warning. He should have learned by now.
They spend the next forty-five minutes sparring - dancing around each other, lunging and deflecting, swinging and kicking, ducking and attacking.
They've done this for so many years by now they know the other's every move, every planned attack, it's a well oiled machine by this point. It would be a lethal, dangerous dance if they actually wanted to go for blood. But they don't. It's just a way to get rid of some pent up frustration, a way to move their bodies, a way to have fun together.
By the time they're stretching, they're both panting, sweaty messes and Xaden feels better than he did coming into the gym. He loves the feeling right after a sparring session, his muscles tired and his head clear. Lately, it's also a valid excuse for how exhausted he is.
“Dinner?” Xaden asks as they make it out to their cars, and Garrick shakes his head as he throws his bag into the trunk of his.
“Gotta get home,” he explains and it's enough of an explanation. And maybe, just maybe, Xaden only asked because he knew Garrick's answer would be no. This way he can hide his want to be alone, to not be social, not even with one of the few people he truly loves and cares about, one of the people that doesn't drain him of energy. One of the people that allows him to be himself, no questions asked.
They part without saying goodbye, knowing they'll see each other tomorrow again, and Xaden stops for takeout on his way home. He eats in his car, enjoying the silence while simultaneously drowning in it, before driving home.
He doesn't bother with a shower, even though he needs one. Instead he quickly pulls on a different pair of pants and makes his way into his kitchen, connecting his phone to his speakers via bluetooth.
He plays the music loud enough to drown out his own thoughts.
Xaden looks around himself for a moment before he grabs the sledgehammer on the counter, and then takes a deep breath and contemplates where to start. He emptied the kitchen yesterday, so anywhere should do. It all needs to go anyway, to make way for something new, something improved.
Then he adjusts his grip and swings, the wood cabinet in front of him shattering and splintering into a thousand different pieces. And he continues to swing until he feels numb, until his shoulder is screaming in pain, until the dark patch of grief inside him is barely there.
It will be back, it always is.
But maybe, by the time he's done with the renovations of his old childhood home, he can also be something new. Something improved.
Something deserving.