Hello again, folks, and welcome to my latest story.

Again, I have to thank Madi for encouraging me to write it. I must also mention the meme that inspired my interpretation of Mike and Big Red against a Porsche driver who refuses to get out of her way. If you've seen it, you'll know what I mean!

If you've read Riders On The Storm, you'll know how this story fits into it. Madi and I just couldn't get that thought of Cap finding Mike asleep on Big Red's hosebed out of our minds. So for all those who love our favourite engineer as much as we do, here's a bit of fun with the gorgeous Mr Stoker, the love of his life... and just waaaay too much wax!

Enjoy!

Home And Hosed

Running his hand over the gleaming rail in front of him, Hank smiled. Every engine was special, of course, but when you were blessed with a new one like this - yes, you were that ten year old kid again, eagerly testing your new ladder to see how high it would go. If you were lucky enough to live your childhood dream into adulthood, that thrill of excitement never went away.

All those years later, Hank felt it as much now as he had then. Yes, after months of waiting, here she was. His new engine. The pride of the fleet, the envy of every other crew in the county, and - damn, she was beautiful. As Beth had teased him, she was the best kind of mistress that a man could have. Loved and lavished on, yes, but no threat to their marriage.

For her engineer, of course, there was no wife to consider at all. At least, not yet. But then, Mike Stoker's heart already belonged to this gorgeous lady in red. Any other contender for his attention had to take a back seat to her. Literally.

Not that Hank blamed him. From his own engineering days, his soul had been claimed too, by this perfect symmetry of beauty and power. And what use was a captain's privilege, if you couldn't use it to try her driver's seat out for size?

Just that one time, though. When he'd jumped down from the cab and found Mike watching him, all such seniority had flown out the window. Under that quizzical stare, those extra inches in height hadn't helped him either. Hell, he'd felt like a teenager, facing his date's father after bringing her home late from their prom.

Glancing around him, Hank almost expected to see him standing there now. If he ever gave up his career as a firefighter, he'd give James Bond a run for his shaken not stirred martini. A master of stealth and quiet, he could creep up on you like a damn ninja.

But - no, there'd be none of that tonight. After returning from that last callout, all his crew had cared about were hot showers, a change of clothes, and an uninterrupted meal.

For once, the gods of Station 51 had looked kindly upon them, and left them undisturbed. So far, just the squad had been needed for an asthma victim, a rather unfortunate pole vaulter, and a supply run over to Rampart.

For Chet and Marco, it had been 'help' for Mike to get his lady washed down before their next run. That they'd set to work beside him without any kind of prompting spoke volumes for how they, too, had fallen under her spell.

There'd been no complaints. No objections, not even from Chet. Just three, thoroughly smitten firefighters. And, if just as an excuse to inspect their efforts, her equally smitten captain.

By the time they'd finished, she'd shone more brightly than when she'd rolled off the assembly line. Under Mike's watchful eye, she'd been washed, waxed, and buffed to within inches of her chassis.

There wasn't a mark on her. Any speck of dust that may have dared to come near her had wisely settled out of his sight, and - uh oh.

Grabbing an ever present cloth, Hank wiped off the thumbprint that he'd left on her gauge panel. He knew his engineer would never get riled enough to actually run him up their flag-pole, but from that gleam in Mike's eyes each time he said it... hell, he wasn't taking any chances.

As he started to return to his office, though, he then frowned at the sleeve that had dropped down in front of him. He wasn't a tyrant, but his crew still knew they had to keep their discipline, however tired they were. As his own mother had taught him, clothes belonged on a closet rail. Not strewn over your bedroom floor.

Firehouse captains lived by the same rule. Fun and games were all well and good, but orders of cleanliness and tidiness were still there to be followed. Maybe bent a bit, occasionally, if it couldn't be avoided - but not broken without a damn good reason.

In surprise and disappointment, the frown deepened. Against her freshly waxed shine, a discarded coat did NOT belong on top of her hosebed, and... what the hell?!

Climbing up to identify the culprit, Hank froze on the tailboard, and just... stared. Rubbed at his eyes, and - nope, they were working fine. He wasn't seeing things. Those refinery gases hadn't made him go any more ga-ga than he was already. Because hallucinations didn't lie there, living and breathing in front of you.

And they sure as hell didn't snore.

"...snogroornnnmmmmrrr..."

Like a damn sailor too. Much more of this, and he's start registering on the Richter Scale.

Richter snores aside, it was a transfixing sight. On a bed of canvas hoses, his engineer and second in command was blissfully lost to the world. Knocked out, no doubt, by the wax fumes that enveloped him like his very own blankie.

Damn, he'd gone through six tins of the stuff. Full size too, and five cloths, and... ahh, yes. Through a broadening smile, it all made sense to him now.

With or without Chet and Marco's help, their unflappable engineer had needed to... well, vent a bit. Let off some engineery steam. And returning from that last callout - oh yeah, that proverbial steam had damn near exploded out of his ears.

Of course, he couldn't do anything about the weather. He couldn't tell the pouring rain to defy gravity, and rise back into its clouds. Nor could he stop the idiots who saw such awful conditions as their cue to drive even faster.

One idiot in particular had taken his life in his hands - and not just from speeding through such dangerous conditions.

That trucker, who clearly knew nothing about firehouse engineers and their engines. Soaking the pride of Mike Stoker's life through that mudpuddle, he'd never know how lucky he'd been to survive.

Hank knew, though. The last time he'd heard Mike growl like that was when some drunk with a death wish had refused to move his Porsche off their driveway. Horns and flashing red lights had meant nothing to him. The sight of Big Red rolling towards him had magically changed his mind.

Nobody, but nobody, played chicken with Mike Stoker's baby. Neither did king of the road truck drivers, who thought dousing fire engines in mud and spray was hysterically funny.

If not for taking their turn-off, the idiot would have had a taste of his own stupidity. For several '...please, Michael, just think of the paperwork...' moments, an unscheduled test of their new water gun had looked imminent. Oblivious to his captain's plea for restraint, Mike's hand had hovered over its switch for a dangerously long time.

Right now, though, there wasn't a hint of menace about him. Curled up under his coat, his waxing rag tucked under his cheek, he was everything a firehouse engineer was meant to be. Dedicated to his job, as he'd always been. The complete, if now insanely obsessed professional - committed wholeheartedly to the new love of his life.

Sleeping like a baby, he was also too damn cute for words. Too adorable for his captain to stand it any longer.

Fighting against it - hell, he'd not reached the rank of captain for nothing - Hank crept off Big Red with all the stealth of a sleep deprived father, returning to bed after the 2am feed. Buffed out any giveaway smudges from her still gleaming rail. Used the other hand to stifle a helpless snort of laughter.

Then he strode outside, until he was safely out of earshot. Wrapping his arms around his sides, Station 51's fearless captain leant against the wall behind him - and simply howled.