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Crowley stormed wildly through the burning building he was tearing through, ducking around groaning, blazing support beams that were falling from the ceiling and holding his breath even despite the mask covering his face at the smoke billowing all around him, shrouding the path that was already well-worn by how many times he had pounded in and out. Three small, wheezing bodies were slung over his broad shoulders, little hands clinging to him desperately, and he blinked back the tears in his eyes, reminding himself, over and over, that this was the job.
They had gotten the call two hours ago, of a raging, fast-spreading fire in a school building, trapping several full classes inside that hadn’t been able to evacuate in time. It was bad, and even with all hands on deck, they were still evacuating; it was extremely difficult to fight through the flame and smoke and collapsing building to get to them, but they were doing it anyway, because there were so many lives on the line, and because this was the job.
He managed to fight back out to the axed-open entrance (it had taken him longer this time than it had the other ten times he had run in and out; it had been taking him longer each and every time, as more and more of the building began to collapse), dropping the three kids — two girls, one boy, that had been the last of a classroom of third-graders, and, fuck, they were so fucking young, shaking and terrified, covered in ash and smoke, it was fucking awful — off with the EMTs parked in the lot, and then racing back inside, lungs burning as he held his breath once more. There were barely any classrooms left to even evacuate — but he had to check, he had to be sure —
A high, shrill shriek of fear suddenly pierced through Crowley’s ears as the building’s foundations groaned and rumbled all around him, fire licking hungrily at his boots. He spun around and tore towards the sound, and it didn’t take long for him to find a trembling, sobbing little boy hiding underneath a water fountain, hands and neck burnt by the metal.
The firefighter scooped him up in his arms, still fighting desperately not to cry himself, and plowed back to the entrance, dropping him off with the EMTs just as he had with the others before turning around to do it all over again, but — but then the building, right before his very eyes, began to quite literally sag, and he stumbled, taking only a second to recover before running straight towards the collapsing, fire-eaten walls once more, but —
He felt a hand on his shoulder, squeezing down — holding him in place.
“Crowley, stop.”
It was Bealz, who — Crowley’s spinning, aching head deigned necessary to remind him — had just been named chief only a couple of months ago, and was his better, his superior; he should listen to them. He, in fact, did not, instead shaking his head and pulling away from them, coughing wheezily through his heavy mask and surging forward again. But Bealz grabbed him once more, firmer this time — they were a lot stronger than any of them, even the likes of firefighters like Dagon who were huge and burly, and their four-foot-nine wrath could wrangle anyone down, but that didn’t stop Crowley from trying.
“No,” he rasped out, barely audible through his mask, which he tugged at to make himself more audible, “no, Bealz. Let me go, let me —,”
“Crowley,” Bealz repeated, and pulled him back further, voice firm but not unkind, quite unlike them. They weren’t wearing their mask, and their face was covered in ash and soot, their expression grave and darkened. “Stop.”
“No, no —,” Crowley began to pull away in earnest, but Bealz just dragged him back, and he bucked in their grip. “Let me go!” He howled desperately, wriggling like a snake in their hands and nearly managing to duck away, before they kicked him roughly in the side; he gasped, air punched from his lungs, and half-collapsed to the ground with a groan. But even still, he tried to scrape his way back up and into the fire, to no avail as his limbs trembled and his lungs wheezed for breath.
“There’zz nothing more that you can do,” Bealz said from above him, still with that eerily kind tone to their broken-engine drawl — almost gentle. Crowley shook his head, even as his mind screamed that this was the job; this was what he had signed up for; this was what he had been through, and he needed to pull himself together, but he just — fucking — couldn’t.
“No, no, I can,” he insisted wildly, “I can — I can save them —,” Crowley’s words came out in punched wheezes. “I can —,”
“There’s nothing you can do.”
“It’s kids, Bea, it’s — I can’t just —,”
Crowley heaved himself up, panting, suit dragging him down heavily in the puddles of the spraying hose beneath him; but just as he got himself to his feet, staring up at the flaming building, it crumbled, all at once. It collapsed in its entirety, with a resounding boom that shook the ground. Bealz got them both on the ground, pinning him down as they shielded him with their body, both of them trembling.
“No,” Crowley rasped.
“I’m zzorry,” Bealz whispered in his ear, and Crowley shook with a dry sob.
“Fuck,” he mumbled. “Fuck.”
Crowley was entirely limp and pliant as Bealz heaved him up from the ground and half-supported, half-dragged him away from the collapsed building, a new wave of search-and-rescue first responders flooding in, last-ditch attempts to find any remaining survivors trapped under the rubble — or any bodies.
(Thankfully, the losses and casualties would be minimal; they had saved so, so many lives, between all of the firefighters that had been deployed. But the losses hit harder than the saves; they always did. Because they knew that each life they lost was someone who would never come back, and it always, always felt like that was on them.)
Bealz led him to sit down on the edge of an EMT’s truck, and Crowley remained boneless as the fire chief peeled his suit away and pulled off his mask fully, fixing the bun keeping his hair up and undoing the buckles of his boots, freeing his aching feet. Crowley just stared vacantly into the distance, barely even registering when a gentle-handed EMT pressed an oxygen mask carefully over his face; he hadn’t even realized he’d been wheezing for each breath.
“Breathe, my dear,” murmured the kind voice of the EMT, and Crowley heard himself mumble out a muffled thank you before the man hurried away; there were many others more injured than the firefighter was, and the thought made him feel vaguely sick. Bealz remained by his side, likely to ensure that he didn’t heave himself back up and stagger back into the collapsed building.
“Crowley.” Bealz spoke after a while, and their voice was grave; Crowley just turned his face away, squeezing his eyes shut. He had never had a loss like this, ever. Sure, people died on him all of the time; it was a part of the job. But it had never been — been a fucking school like this, where every single person he had saved had been a child.
Fuck, how many more had died? He didn’t even want to know.
His hands felt stained with blood, as he held the oxygen mask up to his grayed face.
“Crowley,” Bealz repeated, voice firmer, more aggravated; more familiar. He latched onto that, but recoiled at their next words. “There wazzz nothing you could’ve done. You know that.”
“You’re wrong,” Crowley spat out, tearing the oxygen mask away with a vengeance and glaring up at them with utter fury burning in his gaze. “You’re fuckin’ wrong, I could have!” His body shook with a sound that was almost a sob. “I could have, Bealz, if you had just fucking let me go —,”
“I wazzn’t about to let you kill yourzzelf, Crowley —,”
“This job isss killing yourself!” Crowley snapped, lisp dragging out the sibilants as he scrubbed angrily at his tearful face with a calloused hand; fuck, what was the matter with him? This was the job, he reminded himself; but this was also kids, and — and, fuck, he couldn’t tamper down the grief and guilt burning hotter than the fire itself in his chest. “It’s dangerous, Bealz, you know that, we risk killing ourselves every time we run head-on into fucking fire —,”
“Even if you had gotten in there on time, that building would have collapsed before you would have made it even a step towardzz the way back out,” Bealz barked angrily at him, their broken-glass rasp masking their real fear. “There was nothing you could have done.”
“Fuck you,” Crowley snarled, his voice pitching, then cracking. He felt himself choke on a sob, and then he bent over, digging his fists into the front of Bealz’s own suit. His breath hitched on a sob, and then another, and then he felt tears coursing down his face. He knew they were right, he knew they were; but that somehow made it worse. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you —,”
“I know,” Bealz rasped out quietly. They cupped the back of his neck in one hand, squeezing almost gently. “I know.”
Crowley sobbed into them for a long, long while, before his tears tapered off and he sagged, slumping into their loose hold and grounding himself through the sound of the barking of the search-and-rescue dogs, the shouting of people across the lot surrounding the crumpled building, the hissing of the oxygen tank beside him. His head was aching and throbbing, and his eyes burned alongside his lungs; but even still, he just sighed wearily, straightening up and lifting his chin, because this was the job. Shame threatened at the edges of his emotions, but he shoved it away; Bealz, as judgmental as they were, didn’t judge him for feeling.
“Thank you,” he croaked out.
“Anytime, you self-sacrificial dick,” Bealz grunted, and there was the arsehole Bealz he knew. They swatted the back of his head. “Now put that damn oxygen mask back on before we head out, alright? We’re done here.”
They went to stand, satisfied that he wouldn’t hurl himself back into the ashes and rubble, but then hesitated. Crowley glanced up at them with reddened eyes, oxygen mask in hand, and Bealz seemed to make up their mind, before speaking again.
“You saved eighteen kids.” Their voice was grave with the severity of the situation, but still soft in a way so unlike them, but so soothing nonetheless. “Eighteen. Alright? That’s — that’s a whole fuckin’ lot, that is. That’zz eighteen lives who’re gonna get to grow up, yeah? So — so how ‘bout you think about the fact that you gave eighteen families their kids back. You sent eighteen kids to middle school, to high school, to their weddings, to whatever the fuck. You gave eighteen kids the chance to grow up, to — to find fuckin’ love, to live.”
Bealz took in a big breath, crossing their arms and puffing out their chest, narrowing their eyes. “I know you,” they grunted, “and I know juzzt how much you’re probably beatin’ yourzzelf up right now. But I’ll say it again; there was nothing you could’ve done, and you saved eighteen fuckin’ lives, an’ that’zz not somethin’ to feel bad about, that’zz somethin’ to celebrate.”
Crowley exhaled, shuddering and hitching on a sob. He bowed his head, and pressed his hand over his mouth. “Eighteen?” He croaked out, his head spinning. “Eighteen kids?”
Bealz placed a hand on his shoulder, and squeezed lightly. “Eighteen,” they repeated, with that same unfamiliar softness that made him want to cry.
Crowley nodded, feeling dazed. He pressed the oxygen mask back over his face, squeezing his eyes shut tight, and he breathed; and he thought, through the grief and the guilt and the crushing weight of could’ve done more, should’ve done more, why didn’t you do more, of those eighteen lives.