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*
The gap is too wide.
He knows it's too wide, runs the calculations- weight versus mass versus speed versus-
Everything.
He doesn't even need to run the calculations.
With his gear, with the building rapidly loosing its integrity beneath him, he knows it's too much.
But Fate is a cruel mistress, and Choice is nothing more than Illusion.
It's a stupid, reckless gamble, with no real chance of winning.
But there's a vic on the other side, and no way in hell that Ladder 118 will be in position fast enough.
He braces, steadies, moves, and-
A shove.
A whirlwind.
A tackle that sends him off-balance, and it's a miracle that he manages to brace himself against the supporting wall, a miracle when an arm is wrapped around him, balancing against the same wall.
"What the Hell are ya doing!" is what he knows is being shouted at him; it's distant, buzzing quietly, layered with his Team's refrain.
He can't tear his attention from the chasm that has been ripped open, the steel beams left exposed, teeth waiting to bite, to tear through habiliment and flesh, to-
"Bobby!"
Chim's grip is strong enough to reach through layers of gear, and he can feel the ghost of it, the worry in it.
He covers the hand with his own, a reassurance.
An apology.
A thank you.
He can't make out the distinct shift of Chim's expression through the helmet, but he knows, he knows- that they'll be discussing this later.
"Later" comes in the sanctuary of cotton sheets, calloused fingers trailing gently over the fresh bruises they'd molded only moments before, and he shivers at the contact.
The fingers still; they're replaced with the firm pressure of a palm.
"You scared the shit outta me."
He doesn't respond, knows too well that a reply would distract, would lead to later deflection, and distance and-
Frankly, he's tired of that old song and dance.
Letting Chim work out his issues, the brushing pressure of his hands tracing over his scars and blemishes and aching muscles-
It's healing in its own way, the man simply incapable of doing anything less.
Less than pouring his heart and soul into everything he touches.
Everyone he cares for.
"You remember Kevin?"
It's rhetorical, likely, but Bobby offers a soft hum of affirmation, encouragement.
Chim's thumb drifts, teases a divet in Bobby's waist, and he feels his toes clench in the reflexive effort of not reacting.
Chim hums, lightens the touch- featherlight, with intent- but Bobby refuses to respond.
Can't risk the man getting distracted again.
Chim hovers for a few moments- torturous and far too tempting- before he sighs, falls back to his side of the bed (and it's surreal, Bobby thinks, that they've done this so often that Chim has a side now. As he has his own toothbrush, and whatever menagerie of hair care products he uses to get that rakishly windswept look.)
Bobby turns on his side, takes in Chim's profile, admires again the ridges and curves, the lines of his tattoos, the-
"Did I ever tell you how I lost him?"
Bobby thinks back- sifting through those late night conversations that bled into late night trysts, the hours spent together during slow spells at the House.
It aches, how far he feels away right now, so Bobby rises, hovers, takes his turn to study Chim's eyes, thumb settling among the crow's feet that have started settling in.
"You haven't."
Dark eyes- half-lidded- flicker over Bobby's features, but there's an absence, a yearning.
It's the same distant stare of a memory, and Bobby lets gravity hold out, tugs Chim back into his side, siphons and shares in their warmth.
Still sticky-slick with sweat, but Chim shivers at the change; Bobby mentally tries to calculate how far away the comforter landed this time.
"Our stations were both paged to the same fire and-"
Chim trails off, but Bobby keeps trailing his fingers across his shoulder, his neck, his arm.
Slowly the rest tumbles out, as if the simple repetition of motion is enough to tug it from those dark places Chim keeps hidden away.
Places he's only shared with Bobby, just as Bobby's only shared his with Chim.
It all parallels too easily: the vic. The flames. The rapidly crumbling structural integrity.
Bobby feels the breath sucked away when he hears just how close Chim came to saving his family.
He tries to ignore the scent of burning plastic, the ghost of a doorknob scalding its impression forever into his palms.
Chim sighs, turns, ear resting against Bobby's chest, and he trails a hand loosely in the hair there, fingers settling, tapping, matching the rhythm of Bobby's heartbeat.
"I almost lost you tonight."
"I'm sorry." He repeats; the words feel useless, taste like ash, sound empty, but he has to say it.
Atonement is something to be earned, even now.
Especially now.
"Don't you dare pull that kind of shit again, you got that?"
Bobby chuckles at the command in Chim's voice, finds it hard to tamp the amusement down when greeted with an irritated pout.
"I mean it. It's bad enough the kid acts like an idiot 99% of the time. Don't need you being a reckless dumbass, too."
Bobby lets the smile fall, traces the small plateau of scarring on the back of Chim's head.
It's sensitive, he knows, hidden under shaggier hair, purposely concealed so as to put the team at ease.
The scar on his forehead has mostly faded now, and Bobby can't help pressing kisses there every morning, thinking how close he came to losing another love.
To being the one who inadvertently killed them.
"I promise."
Chim's melted into his touch- that spot always made him do so, not that Bobby abuses this too much- and he slowly opens his eyes, focus coming back, lips gently closing as be appraises Bobby carefully.
It will take time, proving it to him- Bobby does have a long-standing tradition of throwing himself headlong into danger (makes his lectures to Buck taste damn hypocritical sometimes).
But for now-
For now, it must be enough, because Chim is shifting up, dragging kisses as he goes.
When he finally kisses his lips, it tastes almost like absolution.
*