Page 11 of Christmas with Three Firemen

Outside the little window, snow continues drifting down in lazy spirals. It’s barely stopped since this morning and yet has only managed to coat the city in a few inches at most. Manhattan absorbs winter the way it absorbs everything else. Without much fuss.

If I let myself keep going right now, I’m going to end up convincing myself that Spider-Man is real and he’s ready to help me solve these alleged crimes.

My stomach growls again.

Right. I went downstairs to forage and ended up having a sex dream instead.

I pause for a moment before opening the bedroom door yet again, but after confirming that the firehouse is still relatively quiet, I sneak all the way back down to the kitchen yet again.

I pass by a few crew members quietly tinkering away with some gear or tending to their chores, but nobody gives me much more than a passing glance. I wonder if Captain Hale told them to pretend I don’t exist.

In the kitchen, I open the fridge. There’s nothing but bottled water, a few electrolyte drinks, and labelled Tupperware containers. With a quiet sigh, I turn toward a bowl of fruit and try to determine in the dim light if the banana I’m reaching for is too green to eat.

And then I hear shuffling feet, so sudden and obvious that I wonder if it was on purpose. A gentle alarm before an introducing presence.

I turn to find Wes, no longer covered in grease, standing there. He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a matching hoodie with the FDNY logo on it.

The dull light from the bulb over the stove casts soft shadows across his features, just like earlier when I spotted him gazing at the snow down in the main area. His hair looks disheveled, as though he’d been asleep only minutes ago, but somehow I think not. It seems like he, much like me, has to deal with an unpredictable tangle of waves and curls that never quite does what you want it to.

He also doesn’t appear surprised to discover that I’m awake.

Then again, I have a feeling that it would take a lot to truly surprise this man.

“Uh, hi,” I say.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.

“Not really.”

He nods once, as if that useless answer tells him everything he needs to know.

I watch, banana still weirdly gripped in hand, as he crosses the kitchen and reaches for the coffee pot. I keep watching as he fills a mug.

“When do firefighters actually sleep?” I blurt, even though I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.

When they can, basically. Which isn’t often, if they’re on call.

A faint smile touches the corner of his mouth. “Sometimes.”

“Hm,” is all I manage.

He leans back against the counter, several feet between us. I feel antsy, but not in the sense that he’s making me uncomfortable. It’s the opposite, actually. There’s an odd sense of camaraderie between the two of us that makes absolutely no sense and is probably just a figment of my imagination, and yet I can’t shake the feeling that he would understand even my most insane thoughts if I dared to speak them aloud.

It’s just that he’s so… quiet. Most people fill silence because they fear it, but Wes seems perfectly content to let it exist.

“How’s the investigation going?” he asks.

“Fine,” I answer automatically.

Before Wes can reply, there’s another shuffle of footsteps.

“Well look who it is,” Mateo sing-songs, somehow still a chipper ray of sunshine in the dead of night.

He enters wearing cargo pants, a faded t-shirt, and the bright-eyed expression of someone who enjoys any and all opportunity to stumble across other people.

His gaze moves between us.

“Secret meeting?” he asks when neither one of us says anything.