SOMETHING DARK by BOOMERCAT RATED FRPT

A brother contemplates his life.

"Go get yourself cleaned up. The debriefing can wait."

He sighed. "Thanks, Dad."

Walking through the house, he came to his room. He shut the door, not wanting any stray brothers stopping in to talk. He knew better than to strip off the filthy uniform in his bedroom. The last time he had done that, the stench from the fire had seeped from his uniform into the carpeting. He swore he could smell it for a month, despite a vigorous scrubbing of the carpet.

He walked straight past the invitation of his bed to the bathroom beyond. Only there did he strip the uniform from his tired body. He left the discarded clothes in a heap and entered the shower. Hitting the keypad, he dialed up hot water in a pulsing spray.

As the water flowed, he placed his strong hands on the shower wall to either side of the nozzle and leaned into the water, face tilted up. He then dropped his head, allowing the water to run its course down his back. He stood that way for several minutes just letting the hot water sluice away his exhaustion.

Finally he turned and reached for the shampoo on a small shelf. He poured an overly generous amount onto his hand then reached up and started to lather his thick hair. He took his time, using his long fingers to massage the shampoo in. He ducked his head under the nozzle to rinse, the soapy water running in rivulets, outlining the hard planes of muscle in his neck and upper back. Long experience taught him to lather a second time, soaping and rubbing his temples up to his crown and back again. The second rinse left his body slick with soap residue.

With his eyes closed, he reached for the towel he knew was there. He cleared the soap from his eyes and opened them. Grabbing the soap from the dish, he rubbed it between his hands, working up a lather. Starting with his chest, he rubbed himself with the lather, pressing hard to get at the stink and grime. As he continued, he reflected that of all the rescues he participated in, the ones he hated the most were the ones involving fire. He hated the heat. He hated the smoke. And most of all, he hated the stench. He hated the smell of death, of fear, of burning meat.

It was fire scenes that most made him doubt his commitment to International Rescue. Each time a call involving fire came in, he felt his heart race. A hundred times he thought he would just refuse, and a hundred times he had bitten his tongue and done his duty to his brothers and father and gone. Most of those times, there had been success of varying degrees. Lives rescued, property saved. But sometimes it was like today. Lifeless bodies reached too late. Distraught survivors calling for greater efforts when there was nothing more to be done. And four exhausted brothers flying home in silence.

He let the hot water wash away the sadness. With the strong callused hands that had carried a dead child just hours ago, he took the washcloth to clean his nether regions before soaping up his legs and arms. He rinsed off quickly. He had to finish his shower and go out and face his family. He was his brothers' source of strength just as they were his.

Once again feeling clean, he shut off the water and pulled down a towel from the rack, breathing in its fresh clean scent as he dried his face and hair. Wrapping the towel around his flat waist, he moved out of the shower and looked at himself in the mirror. There were lines in his face that hadn't been there when International Rescue had started up a few years ago. His brothers had the same lines. Lines of hardness to cover the sadness. Lines of determination to disguise the moments of doubt.

After a moment he frowned in disgust at his thoughts. International Rescue was his life. It was a hard life, sure, but one he wouldn't give up for anything. He finished drying his body, and roughly finger-combed his hair. He left the bathroom without giving the soiled uniform bunched up in a corner a single thought.