Pairing: non, gen, friendship fic

Rating: PG

Words:  16,000+ words, complete

Summary: The county drops into a blackout but when needed, Station 51 can still find each other.

Author's Note: Back in October 2012, I had four days of blackout in the middle of one of the biggest storms I'd ever experienced. And I was one of the lucky ones. During this, our beloved FDNY patrolled our streets every night, filling them with lights and letting us know someone is out there watching out for us.

 

And of course, with no computer, just a notebook and pen, now, my muse wanted to write! (groan) 

 

 

 

Lights Out

 

 by Yum@

(yumafanfic@aol.com)

 

 

 

 

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He was burning alive.

 

There was a fire deep in his gut, simmering, roiling, like ripples of heat that churned before licking a trail along his right side, clinging stubbornly to his side like an oil slick. An ignited oil slick.

 

It was hard to breathe. Why was it hard to breathe? Was there smoke? His paralyzed lungs seem to agree yet his nose did not.

 

With a groan (whimper), John Gage lifted his head. Or tried. As soon as he attempted to move his head, a warm hand slipped over his forehead, weighing him down. Just as well. When he'd tried to move, the fire wrapped around his lower abdomen flared up as sudden as a flash. And there was a real scary moment when he couldn't breathe.

 

"Ouch." John wanted to throw up.

 

"Easy. Keep still while I check you out."

 

There was something soothing and familiar about the calm words that accompanied the hand's sure touches as it swept to the back of his head, down his neck and over his shoulders.

 

It wasn't soothing anymore when they reached his ribcage.

 

John screamed. Maybe. His head throbbed. Blood pounded in his ears. But he was pretty sure he must have shouted because the hand jerked back and then returned to settle on his chest to rub small circles. The vise around his lungs eased and the white out in his vision receded.

 

A name feebly attached to the face stooped over him, pasty white under the glare of a flashlight.

 

"…'oy?"

 

"Yeah. You back with me?"

 

John grimaced when he realized his face was wet not with blood but something else. But he couldn't bring his hands up to wipe his face dry. Roy's hand was light on his chest but it might as well be a four by four. It felt like he'd need the power lift to get out from under it.

 

"Easy. Slow breaths. Try not to move so much."

 

It wasn't clear if the darkness around the edges of his sight was real or just a concussion creeping up on him. He could feel swelling at the back of his head. It throbbed every time he rolled his head and the tender skull touched something. When he swallowed though, there was no nausea, no double vision. Oh good. No concussion. Small favors.

 

John blinked once. Twice. And tried to remember how to get his mouth moving again. Oops. Maybe a mild concussion. Just a little one. "How long was I out?" he rasped.

 

"…Not sure." Roy looked like one of those late, late show monsters: hair in crazy directions, frowning, unblinking eyes, tight-lipped under a beam of light and stooped over him. Hold on.

 

John tentatively stretched towards the dashboard where the flashlight was propped haphazardly with his left arm. It hurt too much to move his right.

 

The flashlight was lying on its side, butted up against a helmet that was jammed in tight between the dashboard and the cracked windshield.

 

Everything was lopsided, even Roy, whom he now realized stood half hunched, scrunched up in-between his knees, one leg bent and braced on the seat against John's left hip, one hand gripping his right shoulder to keep him from leaning into the inferno still licking flames on his side.

 

John blinked hard.

 

"Hey, Roy?"

 

"Yeah?"

 

"Are we upside down?"

 

"Not quite." Roy patted around John's shoulders, inspecting the raised arm before he pulled John's hand down, pinning it between one hand and two fingers. "The squad must have rolled over and landed kind of on your side." He paused.

 

"What do you remember?"

 

John furrowed his brow but the answer came pretty quick after a glance around them revealed nothing but dark.

 

"The blackout." John scowled. "Three houses using candles in their windows." Boy, it took forever to explain to those folks why it was dangerous to do that. Doors slammed shut in their faces during their patrol, driving around all night along with the police to provide the streets light from their sirens.

 

"And?" Roy prompted. "How did we get here?"

 

John's frown deepened. "We just finished going through Willow Lane. Thought we'd better go up Glen Canyon first."

 

There had been a flash of red and blue out of the corner of his eye, a pair of deep throated engine roars, before two cars zipped past their squad.

 

"Cars. Mustangs I think."

 

Roy had wrenched the wheel to the right, John's stomach dropped when he felt the tire underneath him slip off the embankment they knew was there but couldn't see. John threw out his left arm across Roy's chest when the squad lurched and Roy nearly hit the roof despite his seat belt.

 

And then John felt the squad began to roll.

 

"Drag racers cut us off." What a stupid thing to do. LA County was choking in the longest blackout in history. There weren't even any traffic lights. John rested his head back against the rear glass window; it felt cool. John wished he could press his cheek against it. His face felt sticky with sweat.

 

Roy lowered John's arm after he finished checking his pulse. "That sounds about right. Can you move your legs?"

 

"Uh uh. I'm stuck." John could feel the running board on his door, driven in like a nail and denting the door inward. The warped metal clamped down on his right thigh. He didn't feel any breaks when he flexed his knee. His foot was falling asleep though. Shoot.

 

John squinted at Roy; his partner leaned just outside of the flashlight's field. When he squinted, he could sort of make out Roy, his face cloaked with the flashlight shining partially on his back.

 

"You okay?"

 

"I'm not the one with broken ribs."

 

John blinked. Broken ribs? Huh. "Right side?"

 

Roy looked pinched under the weak light. "Can't you tell?"

 

"Sort of," John admitted. "Kinda feels like it's all over." He tentatively looked down where Roy had drawn up his shirt. Sure enough, there was a purple-red splotch the size of Roy's hand spanning his seventh to tenth rib. John made a face at the minor swelling. Ugh. Not again. At least he didn't look and—more importantly—feel like he was getting cyanotic. Maybe just cracked ribs? Boy, he sure hoped so.

 

A palm settled flat on his diaphragm. John vaguely made out Roy, still staring at a point past his head, mouth moving as he counted to himself. John tried to follow but he lost count after twenty three.

 

"Breathing okay?"

 

John inhaled cautiously. He winced. "If I keep it shallow."

 

"How's your vision?" A fuzzy mass that was probably Roy's finger floated off to the side of him. "Can you see that?"

 

"Not really."
 

"What?"

 

John's mouth quirked. "It is kinda dark here. And you cheated. You didn't put that finger in front of me." He relaxed when he heard Roy's huff.

 

"I can see you if that's what you mean." John scoffed—it's not fair how that hurts, too—and gestured behind Roy, at the cracked windshield. "Can't see much of anything else either." It was getting harder and harder to keep his arm up. "Maybe if I turn that floodlight towards—Oh." John sagged.

 

"What?"

 

It hurt to make a face but John made it anyway. "Lamp's busted." Actually, it was crushed, mangled with the side mirror. It was creepy how dark everything was, even with their meager flashlight; a whole lot of black swirling and spreading…

 

"Johnny? Johnny!"

 

With a jerk—big mistake, Gage—John nearly knocked heads with Roy, who was nose to nose with him, gripping him by the shoulders but not quite shaking him.

 

"Huh? Wha'?" Why was Roy yelling at him? John could feel his eyelids dragging down and he tensed. Oh no, not good.

 

"I think you drifted off for a moment there." Roy didn't let go of his shoulders.

 

"Sorry," managed John, "was thinking."

 

"Well, think out loud, all right?" Roy didn't quite snap but it was a near thing, enough so John stared.

 

"Yeah, s-sure. Sorry." John tried to continue but a wire-thin feeling in his chest rattled and he coughed to get it out and suddenly, he could feel that cough tearing its way up his esophageal airway.

 

John cried out. Then he knew nothing more. 

 

 

 

"LA, Engine 51. We're running low on diesel. Request refill to continue patrol. We're currently located on Utica and Monroe."

 

"Be advised there is a refill tanker on 4336 Grand. Cross street Chess Lane."

 

"10-4, LA."

 

"Hit the horn again, Mike."

 

Hank grimaced as Big Red bellowed at the pair of tiny red taillights that abruptly veered in front of them. He could hear the squeak of leather from behind where Chet clawed his seat when the car fishtailed briefly before it meekly moved aside. The engine roared as it lumbered past.

 

Mike was starting to get heavy-handed with the horn.

 

"Where did that guy think he was going?" Chet complained. "There hasn't been anything open in the entire county all week!"

 

Marco grumbled wordlessly in agreement.

 

"Station 27, Eng—gine 5…ouse…house…'ire. 23—Coul…on Road. Two three one seven Coulson Road. Cross street Mason. Time ou…"

 

There was a crackle and a long pause, long enough Hank could feel the others behind him twisting around and poking out heads through the open partition.

 

"LA, Engine 49. Request refill for Station 49 and Squad 8. Current location Mulholland and Sepulveda."

 

"En—Squad 8…tanker located at…"

 

"LA, Engine 49. Please repeat."

 

"Think Dispatch's running low too, Cap?" Marco inquired. Tonight's shift has been a long and hot one and Marco wasn't able (or too tired to bother) to hide the nervousness in his voice.

 

"Dispatcher is running on several generators," Hank assured them. Still, he shone his flashlight towards the radio, his mouth pressed thin. All shifts were pulling double, their engines' lights the only light the city has until the grids were restored. LA County dispatch was their only link to their fellow firemen and police. His shoulders relaxed when LA finally responded.

 

"Chet, open a window, will ya?"

 

"Marco, they're all open."

 

After hours in the cramped cabin, everyone gave up protocol and shed their turnout gear, took down the glass that usually stood between the cab and the bucket seats. In unspoken agreement, everybody opted to sit in just their suspendered pants and white undershirts. It didn't help.

 

Big Red sputtered. Hank shot Mike a raised eyebrow.

 

The engineer didn't look back, his eyes fixed on the road (or what he could see of it). He patted the dashboard like it was a great big friendly dog.

 

"She'll make it." Mike nodded to himself. "Just another mile more." He didn't check the gauges, not that they were visible even under Hank's yellowing flashlight. But Mike often seemed in sync with their Big Red.

 

"Two days," moaned Chet. "I'm starting to feel like a bat in a cave." He gestured wildly, his shadow writhing under their combined flashlights.

 

"You would think everybody would have listened to all those warnings about conserving power." A canteen sloshed when Marco tipped it back. He tried to pass the canteen over to Hank. Hank made a face. The water, cooked by the summer heat, lost its appeal.

 

Hank harrumphed. "In this heat? Everybody probably had their fans on all day, all night."

 

"But the whole county, Cap? Jeez. Power plants shouldn't go that easy." 

 

"Kablooey!" Chet summarized the explosion in one of the power plants. "I think even Pasadena saw that fire."

 

"Watch it," Mike grumbled as one of Chet's hands brushed up against the back of his helmet and knocked it askew. The engineer was the only one wearing it. He wiped perspiration off his chin every so often.

 

Marco reached past Hank and nudged Mike to take a sip from the canteen. "What a time to get a four alarm," he griped.

 

Silently, Hank agreed. At the time, three men had collapsed and it wasn't clear if it was from the fire or the August heat pulsating against their backs. John had threatened to sit on Roy when it looked like his partner was going to buckle under the heat as well. 

 

"You know what I'm going to do when we get our lights back?" Chet announced. "I'm gonna take a cold shower."

 

"I thought you do that already," snickered Marco. His yelp covered up Mike's chortle.

 

"I want the power back on so we don't have to stop in front of one more candle in a house," Mike muttered.

 

Hank's mouth twitched at the corners when he heard the pair of groans in the back.

 

"I'll just be happy to sit in my yard and have an ice cold glass of lemonade," Hank muttered. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. He tried to find a cooler spot in his seat. There wasn't any.

 

"Power means I don't have to hear Gage complaining about missing his show again," Chet added.

 

"Which one?" Marco wanted to know.

 

"All of them."

 

Hank bit back a smile. "I think Roy and John are too busy like us to want to watch television right now."

 

"Aw, right now Gage's probably thinking up more ghost stories," Chet complained. "He was telling his dumb stories last night with our flashlights like it was summer camp."

 

"Didn't one of Johnny's stories scare you?" Marco wanted to know.

 

"I wasn't scared of his goofy stories!"

 

Mike snickered. "You dropped your flashlight."

 

"My hands were sweaty!"

 

Hank bit his lower lip; he opted to be the better man and not remind Chet he'd also screamed like a little girl. 

 

"With the blackout and all," Marco said far too cheerfully in the heat, "guess we can't do hose duty tomorrow, huh, Cap?"

 

"Nice try," chuckled Hank. "Hose duty is done in the mornings and last I checked, you don't need electricity for the sun."

 

Hank almost felt sorry for the groans around him. Almost.

 

"You know, Cap. It was Gage's turn to cook lunch today," Chet mused. He turned around and rested his folded forearms on the window between them. "But I don't think ham sandwiches count as cooking."

 

"Who wants a hot meal in this heat?" Marco pointed out. "If he just served us ice cubes, I would have eaten that."

 

"Now why would you want to do a dumb thing like that, Marco? I just think—"

 

Just then, another car zipped out from a pitch dark driveway and nearly sideswiped them as it tried to get in the same lane.

 

"Get off the road!" Chet bellowed out the window.

 

"Kelly."

 

"Sorry, Cap."

 

Hank sighed. It seemed like he was doing that a lot. Mike uttered a sound when up ahead, orange red flares twinkled on the road, highlighting a border around a dark gas station and an oil tanker.

 

"Good girl," Mike murmured as he stroked the steering wheel.

 

Hank tipped his head back and closed his eyes. When he felt them rolling to a stop by the tanker, he opened his eyes. He tugged the radio back to his mouth.

 

"LA. Engine 51, stopping for fuel. Time out, fifteen minutes."

 

"Engine 51."

 

 

 

When the darkness peeled back, John opened his eyes and found it was still dark.

Sort of.

John blinked blearily. He could feel someone's turnout jacket draped over him, pulled high to his chin. He knew it had to be Roy's because his was still bunched uncomfortably against his lower back. A blue uniform shirt was rolled up and jammed between the door and above his broken (cracked) ribs, easing the slide his body kept going into, sitting in the slanted squad. But John knew eventually, gravity and his weight would compress it into nothing. He also knew the ice rippling up and down his spine, in spite of the coat and a heatwave, was bad.

The flashlight propped lopsided on the dash had slid down to huddle at the corner the windshield and the dashboard formed. It shone only on the right half of John's face. The other half, Roy cloaked it as he muttered under his breath, his back turned towards him, swaying as he fought to stay upright in the tight confines of the squad. John could see his partner reaching over him, feeling carefully around John's legs, stopping when his hand couldn't get past above his right patella, his thigh sandwiched between a fold of the buckled door and his seat.

Abruptly, Roy's feet skidded and his shoulder knocked into John. He jerked back, slamming into the dash and swore. John groaned when the push pressed him into the door.

"Johnny?"

Two fingers slipped up to check his carotid. They pulled away and spread out into a hand that slipped under the turnout gear and settled carefully on his belly, thankfully away from where the heated squeeze and release sensation reside.

John counted his respiration along with Roy. His partner said nothing but Roy betrayed himself when he wiped a hand across his face and sighed.

"It's only shallow because I'm trying not to breathe too deeply," John offered. He grimaced at the breathless quality his words finished off with.

Roy managed a weak smile, unconvinced. "Sure."

"How long was I out this time?"

"Long," Roy said succinctly as he reached behind him like he was doing those morning calisthenics Chet once did during the time he took Morton's advise a little too much at heart. Shoot, all those jumping jacks and twists. John and Marco had finally retaliated by emptying the ice cube tray into Chet's socks.

"How long is long?" John pressed.

"Long enough." Roy didn't look back at him, his focus on whatever was on the seat. "A second is already too long. You know that, Johnny."

That was helpful. John couldn't help but glower at the back of Roy's head. Usually, Roy would have it down to the second.

His irritation, however, faded when Roy twisted back around, both hands gripping the canteen John had tossed in at the last moment before they headed out for their patrol. Roy's black and silver wrist watch, the one Roy once proudly displayed because his kids picked it out for him, was cracked. A purpling bruise shadowed the watch.

"Think you can get some of this down?" The canteen sloshed loudly in a direction just off his chin. John could barely see it out of the corner of his eye.

Listening to the water splashing in the canteen, John suddenly realized how thirsty he was. Mindful of his ribs, John bobbed his head once. "Yea," he croaked.

"Just a little though," cautioned Roy. The canteen approached slowly. Before John could pull it towards him, Roy curled a hand to the back of John's neck, keeping him still.

"Hold on," Roy advised. "Don't move so much."

The canteen mouth clacked painfully with John's front teeth. Roy mumbled an apology before moving the canteen closer to the center of his mouth.

The trickle of warm, flat water tasted like the back of a metal spoon, but John still wanted more of it when Roy capped it. He huffed when Roy moved his hand to the forehead now.

Roy sat back and exhaled loudly.

"You're a bit warm."

"You sure?" John muttered. He hooked the turnout coat and tugged it higher. His voice, muffled behind it, rasped and cracked.

"Cold?" Roy guessed. He set aside the canteen, his brow lined as he swept a palm across the space between them and then the car well. "I couldn't find your coat."

"Here." John screwed up his face after he nodded towards his back.

"Where?"

"Behind me. It's right be—never mind, I'll get it—"

"Johnny, wait—"

The cry sounded loud inside the squad. John gritted his teeth, his left hand already letting go of the coat when his whole body spasmed.

"I would have gotten it." The coat was pried easily out of John's nerveless grip. Roy draped it over John. "You could have told me."

Roy's hand was warm and heavy over his shoulder as John panted. He hunched over John, his leg once more planted firmly on the seat by John's hip to stay somewhat upright and not crushing him. Roy's other hand splayed flat on the window behind John.

 

When it felt like the giant hand squeezing him loosened, John dropped his head back.

"Ouch."

"You could say that again." Roy said hoarsely like he'd been the one shouting.

"Fractured, you think?"

Roy pursed his lips. "Felt like it. I didn't want to take the chance of pressing harder. Didn't feel like they were moving…except for one."

Shoot. John cautiously gave his own ribs a prod then thought against doing anything more.

 

"You think…maybe a displaced fracture?"

"Let's hope not."

John made a face.  His Adam's apple worked. He glanced over to the dashboard. Even with the flashlight's feeble light, he could still make out the mess.

"Radio?"

It was no surprise when Roy shook his head. Still, John's stomach flip-flopped. He sat there, trying to keep his breathing nice and steady.

 

John rolled his gaze towards the ceiling. "Sirens?"

 

"Tried them before. They work. Barely. The fuses must have been knocked out of alignment." Roy pursed his mouth. "Worth a shot when we hear someone drive by."

 

If anyone does. It was why they chose to go up Glen Canyon first; because no one dared to go up or down that road even when there was power.

"Handie talkies?" John asked. He closed his eyes. Almost immediately, they flew open again. No. He needed to stay awake.

"Checked everywhere." Roy stooped down and checked again."They're not in here. Must have fallen out when we rolled."

"They're probably all squashed underneath us."

"Better the handie talkies than us."

"Man," John half-heartedly whined. "We're gonna have to rewire that radio all over again." He sobered and glanced sideways to Roy.

"You know what this means?" John said as casually as he could but he saw Roy tense anyway.

Roy's chin jutted out. "No."

"Roy."

"I'm not leaving you here with a lower rib displaced fracture."

John chuckled weakly. "Thought you didn't think so?"

"No, I said I hoped it wasn't." Roy folded his arms, his signal that the discussion was over. Normally, John would respect that. Sometimes.

But these weren't normal times. The darkness around them reminded John.

"You're the only one who could get help. Flashlight's probably got a few good hours left. Take it and head up the road. I know there were a couple call boxes we'd passed."

"Forget it, Johnny."

Even away from the flashlight's glare, John knew there must be a scowl on Roy's face.

"Roy, I'm stuck here. I'm not going anywhere. You're the only one who can get out of here and see if you can find help."

"That's just it, Johnny." Roy sounded defeated. Good, maybe Roy was seeing sense.

"What?"

Roy gestured toward nothing in particular. He laughed strangely.

"Roy?"

"I can't find help." Roy's shoulders slumped. He turned towards John, his face pale, his eyes unblinking.

"I can't see."

 

 

 

"Squad 51. Engine 51. Engine 10. Truck 3. Unknown type rescue. Corner of Port and Mott. Time out 323."

"Truck 3."

"Engine 51."

"Engine 10."

Hank gripped the brim of his helmet against his hip to stop from throwing it. With a heavy hand, he raised his radio to his mouth.

"LA, Engine 51. Be advised this is now a Recovery. Cancel Engine 10. Respond a patrol and coroner to this location. Out twenty minutes."

"Engine 51," LA acknowledged. Promptly, the tones rang out among the handie talkies scattered among the firemen, still lingering by the wreckage even though there was nothing left they could do.

The stench of burning oil, scorched metal and burnt flesh hung above everyone like a rare storm cloud. It felt like a weight on their backs.

So when Chet threw down his axe as soon as he ducked behind their engine, Hank said nothing about protocol or respect for their gear. Mike wordlessly picked up Chet's axe and tucked it back in its brackets. He ducked his head next to Chet, who nodded jerkily before pounding Mike on the back with a wan smile.

"Damn it," Hank muttered as he slowly eased the helmet back on his head, ever mindful of the bystanders Truck 3's captain couldn't completely corral back. His nostrils flared when he could hear someone throwing up in the back of the crowd. The guy must have been here the same time Engine 51 arrived; in time to see both red and blue cars burst into flames just as one lanky teenager feebly tried to claw his way out through a broken windshield. Marco and a fireman from Truck 3 jumped out of their engines before they completely stopped but it did no good.

Marco still stood there, pike in hand, staring at the now only smoldering ruin of the two cars. His turnout coat gleamed eerily, slick from the fire hoses' spray and glowing from the fluorescent stripes on his back.

No one seemed bothered by the heat anymore.

"Come on, Marco," Chet murmured, clasping his shoulder and steering him away. Two men from Truck 3 remained, spraying the asphalt with their inch-and-a-halves to try cool down the tar. Hank remembered how soft the ground felt under his boots as he kept steady palms against Chet and Marco as they fought forward against the fire. But neither man nor fireman could do combat against a blaze violently borne of two gas tanks.

"Ow."

Rousing from his thoughts, Hank narrowed his eyes at the pair. Marco was scowling down at his hand. Chet shook his head and was now prodding him towards Hank instead.

"What is it?" Hank frowned.

Marco raised his hand; the thick glove looked oddly lopsided, like it fitted wrong.

"Think I burnt it on the handle." Marco gave his fingers an experimental wiggle. He made a face. "Nothing too serious, Cap."

"Here's another one."

Hank glanced over his shoulder at Truck 3's captain. The burly man with his reddish bangs slick with sweat was steering his youngest hose jockey towards their direction with an iron grip on the kid's shoulder.

"Captain Lee," Hank greeted as he stepped back so the scrawny fireman plopped down on the bumper of their engine.

"Captain Stanley." Lee was never one for small talk but today, the top heavy fireman appeared to relish the break as he took off his helmet and mopped his brow. "Hot enough for you fellows yet?"

"We got some extra canteens in our engine," Hank nodded towards Big Red. "Refilled when we refueled."

Lee shook his head, his mustache twitching to a smile before he nodded to his fireman. It reminded Hank of burnished copper.

 

"We're good. Thanks. Just get Jackson patched up here." Lee folded thick arms across his chest. "I need him alert while I remind him fireman doesn't mean fireproof."

"I kind of slipped too close to the fire." Jackson grinned, all bright teeth and sheepish eyes, as he shrugged. He lifted up a sunburned looking forearm. He sat there, glumly looking at his hand with an expression that reminded Hank of another young fireman. He caught himself smiling half-exasperated over the bowed tousled dark head.

"Oil probably," Hank guessed. He tossed Chet a nod. It was all he needed to do; his shift worked together long enough, words were rarely necessary. In fact, another look got Marco to stay put instead of jogging up to help as Chet washed the roads clean of flammable oil.

"When's your squad getting here?"

Hank froze. He could feel Marco's eyes on him as he turned back to Lee.

"Thought they were called to this location." Lee scratched his mustache with his thumb as he kept an eye on his men, still dousing the smoking ruin.

Hank's brow knitted. He tugged up his sleeve and squinted at his watch under the engine's headlights.

"I think they got called to another run," Marco said but Hank caught his eyes flicking to him, the questioning lilt at the end of his words.

Calmly, Hank pulled his handie talkie towards him. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Marco waving Chet and Mike over.

"LA, Engine 51. Locate Squad 51."

The eyes on him seemed to have multiplied as they waited for a response.

With a sharp burst of static, LA returned.

"Engine...1. Squa'...51 is assigned to...location."

Hank exchanged a look with Lee. It wasn't clear if Truck 3's captain was frowning because of LA's stuttering transmission or because of Squad 51. Checking with his men, it was clearer what they were mulling over.

"Negative, LA. Squad 51 is not on scene."

Mike leaned forward, eyes on Hank. Chet's brow furrowed.

"Cap?"

Hand up to still the questions Hank could feel coming, he returned to his handie talkie.

"Squad 51. Engine 51. Please advise your location."

There was a crackle. Beyond the cluster around the engine's headlights, one of the wreck's trunk hood popped, warped from the fire.

"Maybe they had to refuel?" Marco suggested tentatively.

Hank's thumb ached vaguely when he jammed it over the call button again.

"Squad 51. Engine 51. Please advise your location."

The silence was surprisingly deafening.

 

 

 

John couldn't figure what Roy thought was so funny until he realized the stuff he was telling (yelling) at Roy were pretty much what the rest of the station usually told John.

Mouth snapped shut, John sat there, his left arm cupped under the right side of his ribcage, his fingers meeting halfway to Roy's, which had at some point, slipped behind John to brace his ribs from the back.

Roy pulled back his hand, leaving behind a chilled, numbing spot where it had been before. John wanted to shiver but with the extra support gone, it was hard to talk again. He blinked and glared at Roy. Damn it.

"Damn it." Oh heck with it, John was just going to say it out loud anyway.
 
The small smile Roy wore twitched.

"You finished?"

"No," John bit out as he glowered at Roy. It wasn't fair Roy couldn't see it. He lifted a hand. He swallowed when he realized he couldn't keep it up.

The flashlight was getting weaker and everything was starting to get blurry. He wasn't going to think about that or how fast the temperatures were dropping. At least it meant the heatwave was over.

"Get over here," John rasped. "My turn to check your vitals." He should have done it before.

Roy scoffed.

"Roy."

John could imagine Roy rolling his eyes at him. But Roy reached out a hand to figure out where John was before obediently leaning closer without them crashing heads together like cymbals.

His fingertips on his right hand felt numb as John prodded the back of Roy's head. There was no discerning lump, no bruising in the front where it could have affected the optic nerve. But even in the dim light, John could see Roy's pupils were slightly uneven. He wished he have his small penlight to check the pupil reactions but his utility belt was pinned between his right hip and the crumpled door. Instead, he made do with feeling around Roy's head.

Lips pressed, John prodded carefully around the skull. "I don't see where—"

Roy yelped when John found the knot high into Roy's hairline.

"Found it." John knew his partner could hear the grin his voice. It faded though as he eyed Roy.

"You probably hit the roof when we rolled."

"Probably."

It was hard to assess Roy's injury one handed, but John couldn't lift his right arm without his side knotting up in agony again. He tried before, but Roy snapped at him not to in a tone that brooked no argument, a tone John never heard before. So he didn't try again.

"Do you feel nauseous?"

 

"A little before," admitted Roy.

 

"Any vomiting?" John squinted at Roy's fingernail beds. He relaxed when they flushed back pink after he applied pressure to them.

 

"No, otherwise it would have really been uncomfortable here."

 

John ignored the lousy joke. Didn't know why Roy was thinking this was so funny. "How's your balance?"

 

Roy's response was as dry as John's throat felt. "Good considering the squad is upside down, Johnny."

 

"Not quite upside down," John barked. He sighed.

 

"Well, pulse is a little fast. Not surprising. Respirations sounded okay. Wish I could get a BP though."

 

Roy's smile dropped. "Same here."

 

John mentally ran down the list as he palpitate the surrounding areas on Roy's skull again. "Skin's intact. Doesn't feel like you're bleeding." Although that didn't say anything for inside. John gulped.

 

"Did you lose consciousness?"

Silence.

Goosebumps went up John's arms even two coats couldn't contain.

"Roy," John said slowly. "When I asked how long I was out the first time, you said you weren't sure. How long was I out?"

Roy sighed.

"It wasn't because you couldn't see, was it?" John ground his teeth. "How long were you unconscious?" When Roy didn't answer, John sucked in a shuddering breath. "Roy."

"I came to pretty much before you did."

Loss of consciousness. Nausea. John's hand curled and he lowered it before his fingers accidentally dug into the injured scalp.

"Damn it, Roy—"

"Look," Roy set a palm on John's sternum as if he feared John was going to get up. "I woke up, disoriented, nauseous, vision compromised. But after a while, I felt more lucid, my motor skills unaffected—"

It took every effort not to take a deep breath so John could yell. "That doesn't mean—"

"Look, there's nothing we could do about it right now!" Roy barked.

John gaped at Roy, mouth dropping open. "Wh...why are you sore at me?"

"I'm not—"

"You're yelling," John pointed out. Mood swings. To himself, he checked off another symptom in his list. John's mouth was dry as he tallied it up. Definitely a concussion then. Or worse.

"I'm not yell—" Roy finally heard himself. His shoulders slumped. He wiped a hand down his face.

"Will you stop worrying about my vision?" Roy checked John's carotid again. When he pulled his hand away, John caught a glimpse of white knuckles before he wiggled around to grope around the bottom of the squad again.
 
John watched Roy for a bit. His white undershirt was damp with sweat, but it was all Roy had.

"Want your coat back?"

Roy muttered a negative, never bothering to look up. Not that he could see anything; blind and all.

John's throat worked.

"Think it's just a cracked rib."

"Maybe."

John thought Roy was being awfully calm about his eyesight. He told him just that as he tracked Roy feeling his way around the squad floor again. Roy muttered something about more important things. John supposed that was why he was crawling around the bottom of the squad even though they were tilted up.

"What are you looking for?"

Roy made a sound that reminded John of the time Roy was trying to do maintenance under the squad when the bolt head snapped off on him.

"Looking for our handie talkies." Roy's hand banged against John's left ankle. John groaned. "Sorry. Thought maybe I missed them the first time but nope, nothing."

"You shouldn't be hanging upside down on a head injury anyway," John warned.

Roy huffed, but his words were patient. "I'm not upside down."

"But your head is." John stared at the hunched shoulders. He bit his lower lip.

"Roy, I think you should stop doing that," John hedged. "You don't want to make it worse. What if..." The words died bitter in his mouth.

Roy stopped moving but didn't sit up.

"Remember that guy in Laurel Canyon?" Roy finally said.

"The one who fell off his horse?" John brightened as the details trickled in. "He couldn't see too when we got there!"

"Brackett mentioned it cleared up pretty much a few days later. Swelling around the optic nerve induced by the concussion." John could hear the shrug in Roy's voice. A hand came up and gripped his left knee briefly. "I'm going to be okay. I'm hopeful."

"I still have plenty to say about not telling your partner you're blind," John told Roy.

After a fruitless search, Roy straightened. He tapped John's left ankle with a finger.

 

"Now you know how we felt when you didn't tell us about your knee."

"That was different," John protested. His breath caught, rattling in his chest as his voice rose in defense. "It was an accident. I didn't see that hole in all that smoke. And I sort of forgot but I told you later."

Roy harrumphed. "You did? Was that before I dropped you off at your apartment because you supposedly lost your car keys and couldn't drive?" He snapped his fingers. "No, I think it was after you called me at home because you couldn't get off your couch."

"At least I wasn't blind," John griped, not quite willing to let it go.

"If it makes you feel any better," offered Roy, "I'm not completely blind. I do see blurry shadows, double vision."

John stared up at Roy, who was looking somewhere past his ear.

"That doesn't make me feel better. Roy, I—"

John forgot and took a deeper breath than he should have. Ice lanced up his side and it felt like thin fingers dug deep into his ribs and dragged nails around his side, raking, pulling muscles and nerves with them.

A reed thin sound escaped John's clenched teeth. That sound couldn't have been from him. But it hurt as it clawed up his throat.

"Easy there." Roy's voice dropped to a low, soothing tone as he gripped John by the shoulders, stopping him before he could arch his back or curl around the endless stabbing sensation in his ribs. Bracing John's head when it fell forward, butting Roy on the shoulder.

"Slow down your breathing, Johnny. Through the mouth."

"I'm still...mad at you..." John gasped. He shut his eyes as the muscles wrapped around his chest squeezed.

"Okay...shh...okay..."

"I'm...gonna t-tell..." John choked back what he thought could be a sob and something burned in his lungs from the effort.

"Gonna tell...Jo...nne...so she be mad..."

"Yup, she'll be mad at me all right. Slow your breathing down, partner..."

John couldn't finish and at this point he forgot what he was so mad about, what he was going to rat Roy out to and get everybody mad too. There was a reason. There was. But it became as elusive as a scent of smoke, flimsy yet right there. It was just so hard to breathe. And it tore something inside trying.

"Shhhh...quiet." Roy's voice was steady even if John could feel a tremor in Roy's hand as it brushed over what felt like flesh engulfed in flames. John tried to tell him to stop, but he could only sob out a plea. Roy's hand shook for some reason as he wrapped it over the back of his neck.

Breathe. Breathe. John heard Roy tell him over and over, his voice cracking only after John coughed and something wet and bile tasting splashed onto Roy's shirt. It smelled sour in the cab now. But despite it or the foul smell now filling the squad, John did what he was told.

He just breathed.

 

 

 

"All units be on the lookout for Squad 51. If sighted, contact LA County or Engine 51. Time out 402."

"Engine 42."

"Ladder 13."

"Engine 51."

"Truck 3."
It was a smell, Hank had decided, of failure.

The area smelled vaguely of smoke and burning fuel, taunting the remaining firemen and scattering the bystanders who fled as soon as the smoke from the wreckage shrank to resentful embers. Those surviving glows were drowned out quickly enough with a spray from an inch-and-a-half and a stiff jawed Marco.

A black and white arrived with a coroner's wagon, releasing his men from the scene. Hank could tell his men were waiting for the order, the one Hank wanted to give, not the one to head back to their assigned sector.

There were times, he hated being captain.

It felt worse when his men hadn't argued, wordlessly climbing their rig, all still smelling like charred, wasted life. As Mike drove them away and Hank informed County, he caught Chet and Marco looking back at the cars. Mike didn't turn his head, but Hank caught him looking at his side mirror just like Hank had.

One life lost here meant ten saved elsewhere. It wasn't a matter of odds. It simply was a promise.

Chet was periodically checking his handie talkie as they pulled away, calling for Squad 51. He had to stop when his temper snapped out a, "Gage, get off your lazy tail and answer the damn—" Marco scrambled over the metal locker between them and confiscated the radio before Chet broadcasted something the entire shift would regret. Thank God, LA County made no comment. But there was a quiet beep later from Ladder 13, who had past through 51's grid and casually reported they didn't see anything. Another beat later, Truck 3 remarked the same, chatting like they were commenting on the weather.

Hank stopped squinting at the map when he felt the engine's rumbles smooth out underneath him. He looked up to find Mike staring hard down Hector Lane, his face screwed up, eyes narrowed as if he could see in the dark.

"This is the start of their grid, Cap," Mike reported, not turning around but most likely hearing Hank's unspoken question all the same. He curled and uncurled his hands on the large steering wheel.

Hank took a gander down the street as well. He could barely discern the short split level houses all lined up, spiny, drought-dried trees marking the edge of every property like ghosts.

Behind him, Chet and Marco were twisted around in their seats and Hank knew they were looking at him hopefully. The weight of his badge pinned on his chest, however, forced him to shake his head.

"You know we need to get back to our section, boys."

"But, Cap. John and Roy—" Marco protested. There was a soft oof when Chet reached over and swatted him.

"Aw, they're probably rescuing a cat in a tree right now and can't get to their radios."

Hank wanted that to be the case. He wanted to find those two, all embarrassed and apologetic, but all right, just before Hank gave those two twits latrine and hose duty for a month.

"We each have a thirty mile section of the district to cover," Hank murmured. He wondered though who he was trying to convince when he caught himself looking down the street again. "Hundreds of homes completely in the dark without us. If there's a fire, no one is able to get there fast enough without traffic lights."

Chet and Marco both sank back into their seats. They both murmured dejected "Yes sirs".

Mike silently adjusted a gauge. Big Red huffed, its muffler puffing out a low sound.

The map felt flimsy in Hank's grip, wrinkled and damp in some spots, slick from sweat and water spray. He shone his flashlight on the blue border hastily scrawled around one spot off the edge of his map then he glided the beam to their designated sector marked in green, more towards the center of the map, a stretch of land development between them. He tugged his glove off with his teeth so he could track the yellow line that cuts across both.

Hank sighed to himself.

"Mike, take..." It would be more practical anyway. "...take Pearson Boulevard. Go up Mott then into Willow for Pearson. It'll cut across dead center into our section and wide enough to fit us."

Mike's brow wrinkled. "Uh, okay? I'll have to take Hector Lane tho—Oh. Oh." Hank ignored the glee in the engineer's normally placid voice as he piped out a "Sure thing, Cap."

Behind him, Hank could sense Chet and Marco stirring as Big Red turned into Hector Lane slowly like a hulking beast. He didn't turn around. He didn't have to.

"Sharp eyes, boys," Hank murmured, knowing full well two new beams of flashlight shot out of the bucket seats like oars.

 

 

 

"Ladder 13. Engine 51, in place of Squad 51. House fire. 110 Willow Lane. One one zero Willow Lane. Time out 411."

"Ladder 13."

"Engine 51."

"LA, Engine 51. We are on scene. Cancel all other units. Time out twenty minutes."

"Engine 51."

"...you firemen just hurry up and fix the blackout, this wouldn't have happened."

"Yes, ma'am," Hank said for what felt like the hundredth time to the woman in the pink rollers and white bathrobe. She only had on one white fuzzy slipper, reeked of cigarette smoke and looked like she was halfway through putting on her makeup. But the key thing was that she was alive. And no longer hysterical. She had come hopping out on one foot, shrieking about her mother's curtains when they arrived.

"All year! Took me all year to convince her not to give them to Bridgette—that's my sister. She lives in Sacramento—What would she need French hand-stitched curtains for? She lives in a studio! That's not even a real apart..."

Her husband sat on the curb, dazed, his muddy brown eyebrows singed, his ruddy face and white undershirt smudged with smoke. The fool had tried to put out the flames with the half finished beer in his hand.

Mike was taking an extraordinary long time checking the lines' couplings and gauges.

"It's out, Cap," Marco reported breathlessly. He hefted the discharged hose over his shoulder. Chet jogged up from behind to gather up the rest.

"My violets!" she screeched.

Chet awkwardly leaped off the lawn. His arms waved wildly when he tripped over the lines.

"What's it look like?" Hank asked loudly, mostly to drown out the woman's increasingly shrilled "Al, Al, they're killing my violets!"

Chet coughed out the last of the smoke. As he wiped a hand across his brow, he tossed a misshaped lump of wax and pewter over to Hank.

Despite its warped shape, Hank identified it immediately. He had to swallow back a sigh he could feel nudging up his throat.

"No structural damage. We had to break two of the windows to vent though," Chet explained. Marco stepped closer to him when the lady behind him was getting louder, no doubt overhearing.

"The armchair's a goner," Marco reported, "And the little side tabl—"

"That's an etergie! From France! Albert!"

"Yea, so the ant-er-egg...thing," Chet continued with a wince, "had to be chopped up and the curtains..." Outraged squawking drowned Chet out. Hoo boy.

Hank tested the weight of the lump of wax melted around what once was a fancy candlestick holder. "This where it started?" he guessed.

Both Chet and Marco nodded. Mike mumbled something behind Hank. He chose to ignore it otherwise he'd be obliged to reprimand him. Instead, he handed the former candle to Albert, who was looking less dazed and more irritated at his wife now. He shook it at her.

"I told you! You and your mother's candles! But no, you have to go all fancy!"

"And how were we supposed to see? We have no flashlights because you couldn't be bothered to get batteries!"

"I work every—"

Hank grimaced. The notice of violation he wrote was snatched unnoticed and now clenched in Albert's other fist. He hoped they didn't ignore the ticket Vince promised to write later.

"You can't expect me to do everything for you! I'm your wife, not your maid!"

"A maid would have—"

"Think we should call a patrol over now?" Marco asked out of the side of his mouth. Chet stared at the pair with fascination.

"No, no. I think this is..." Hank raised an eyebrow when the wife's voice rose. "...normal for them. If you're done checking for hot spots, we should get going."

"...beer can to put out a fire?"

"...those two firemen already told you to put out that candle! But did you listen? It goes in one ear and out—"

Hank whipped back to the couple. At over six feet, he knew he made an imposing figure standing over the pair at full height. Sure enough, the bickering stopped and they stared up at him, wide-eyed.

"You said two firemen were here before?" Hank rumbled. "How long ago?"

When Hank got his answer, he strode straight for the engine.

His men were already seated. Waiting.

 

 

 

"...ounty. May have possible location to...Request permi...to...51..."

"Engine...1..."

"...51 calling Squad..."

 

"Slow breaths, Johnny. That's it..."

Beneath Roy's voice rolling over him, familiar and as reassuring as a lifebelt strapped around him, John thought he could sense something else. He didn't know what. But there was something.

"Try to relax. Breathe through the mouth. Lean back if you can..."

"...51...Engine...1—oceeding...Willow Lane..."

John blinked. His eyes felt like they had been glued shut. Roy kept one hand splayed on his chest, his voice low and coaxing. It felt natural to follow his order to breathe.

But there was still something...

"Eng—51...Patrol reported no...Squad..."

"Johnny?" Roy's hand flexed when John shifted.

"Engine 51."

"Sh," John groaned.

"What?" Roy leaned closer, brow knitted. "What's wrong?"

"Roy," John pleaded weakly. "Stop talking, will ya?" He batted Roy back but his partner only huffed.

"Are you still mad? Look—"

"I'm not mad. Not any more," John wheezed. He strained to listen. Maybe he was imagin—No, there!

"LA, Truck 10. Be advised Key Road has been blocked due to..."

"Can't you hear that?" John narrowed his eyes on Roy. This time, the blank look in his eyes wasn't because of the concussion. His jaw tensed. "You can't, can you?"

Roy had the nerve to shrug casually and cup his right ear. "There's still some residual tinnitus."

Residual? "I changed my mind." John wished his glower wasn't wasted in the dark. "I'm mad again. Roy, for crying out loud! Of all—" He hissed. His chest pulled when his voice rose.

A hand clasped his shoulder, weighing him down before pain brought him surging back up again.

"All right. You're mad. It's minor ringing, probably secondary from the concussion. Johnny, you need to stay calm." Roy held up a hand even though there was no way he could see John opening his mouth to argue. "Now what's got you all excited? Hear what?"

"Listen." John kept his breathing slow, low and quiet. Roy followed. He tilted his head to the side; it kinda reminded John of Boot when than darn mutt would come whenever anyone called. Anyone but him, that is.

"LA, Engine...request refill at...Road..."

"Engine 23 repeat..."

John could tell when Roy got it. His eyes widened which was a bit weird since Roy couldn't see right now.

"Hear it now?"

Roy nodded, smiling. He clasped John on his good shoulder. "The handie talkies. Sounds pretty close, in fact. If we could—where do you think you're going?" Now Roy pressed both hands on John's shoulders when John leaned as far to the left as he could bear, which wasn't much.

John slumped back. "Nowhere, I guess," John groaned. "I'm pretty much stuck here. Door's got a grip on my right thigh." His head tapped the back window lightly. "Thought maybe I could get loose now. You know, once the swelling subsides if there was any."

A deft hand slipped under the two turnout coats and traced the door John was entangled with. He followed its surface to the fold of metal wrapped nearly halfway around his leg.

"That running board rammed up the bottom of the door." John went on as he tried not to wince at the sight of Roy's unfocused gaze, turned inward as Roy dug fingers into quadriceps and massaged down to his knee, skilled fingers probing the swollen area around his patella.

"Roy." The sharp bite surprised John and he jerked and he shouldn't have done that either. Lightheaded, John laid there, gasping as Roy checked his trapped leg.

"I don't feel any bleeding," Roy announced. "And before, it didn't feel like any breaks. But it doesn't look like you can get out of here without the K-12 either, partner." He dropped his hands on John's shoulders again.

"And with those ribs, you're not up to anything more strenuous than breathing anyway. So don't move, okay?"

John looked at his leg. "But the handie talkies."

Roy pursed his lips, his head canted as if he was still listening for it. He nodded, more to himself.

"What?" It looked like Roy came to some sort of decision.

"I'll get them."

Johnny goggled at him long enough, Roy's eyebrows arched.

"You heard what I said?"

"I heard it," John managed, "But I don't think I'm really hearing it." He tried to move only his left arm and shoulder to tap knuckles under Roy's chin. He scrutinized the gaze he turned his way. "Are you feeling sick again? Dizzy?"

"No, no, I'm better." Roy brushed John's hand away, careful not to jar him. "So I should go get them."

John moved his hand back to tilt Roy's head towards the flashlight. "How's your memory?"

Roy leaned away from John's grip, out of reach. He captured John's hand to get his pulse. Cheater.

"My memory?" Roy sounded amused but John couldn't figure why. "I remember who you are, how we got here. I think my memory's fine."

"You sure?" John couldn't stop his voice from rising. Not that he bothered trying. "Because apparently you forgot you can't see, Roy!"

"We need those handie talkies—"

"It's almost daybreak," reasoned John. Actually, he wasn't sure but the last time he checked before the accident it was pretty late. "It'll be easier to get someone to spot us down here. We could wait."

"No, you can't, Johnny," Roy grit out with sudden ferocity.

John fell silent for a moment. He cautiously took as deep of a breath as he dared and felt the beginnings of a razor thin twinge sawing his side.

"That bad, huh?" John exhaled at the same time.

Roy gripped John's left knee. "Not yet, but I would rather have you en route to Rampart by now, hooked up to some O2 and a nice bag of D5Ws, maybe some morphine."

The morphine sounded good right about now. John tried another breath and screwed up his face. For once, he was glad Roy couldn't see.

"Roy, I don't know how far down the embankment we are. Those handie talkies could be just outside the squad or—" John wanted to hit something when he caught the set jaw. No one could budge Roy DeSoto when he looked that way, not even if a fire was going to flash, not even when John shouted across a firey pit that the floor was going, don't risk it Roy, I'll find a way out on my own, don't try to jump it—

No. When Roy looked this way, a fleet of engines couldn't move him.

John tried anyway.

"Besides, even if you find them, how are you going to get back here?" John swallowed. It felt like he held his breath too long the whole time he was talking. His entire chest burned with the effort. He set his hand under his diaphragm and tried to get the fluttering he could hear rattling to quit it and go back to a more manageable pace.

"The lifelines." Roy patted the dash, as if testing its stability. "The extra ones were stored on my side of the squad. I climb out of the squad, grab the lifelines and the belts, hook myself up to them and have you running the line." When Roy shrugged again, John clenched his teeth.

"It'll be just like in a fire, Johnny. We used the lifelines and we couldn't always see straight then."

John really wanted to yell, throw up his arms and start hollering. "Roy, are you listening to yourself? Climb out of the squad? You can't se—"

"I know I can't see, damn it!"

Roy's sharp voice stunned them both. John could see Roy's mouth opened expression.

Roy sucked in a harsh sound, like he was reining in something worse. "Johnny. I—"

"Mood swings, affected vision." John felt strange, displaced when he found himself copying Roy's usual tone. "Roy, this is definitely sounding more and more like a concussion, maybe even something worse. That means your balance is most likely no good. You can't take the chance. You might get disoriented or we're in a steeper incline than we thought or—"

John's breath caught, somewhere between his sternum and his trachea. It came out painful sounding to his ears. His right side burned and the entire time, he had been trying not to lean all his body weight on that door, on his torso. Now, he couldn't stop himself from sliding a bit more into his side of the tilted squad and it felt like someone swung a plank hard into his ribs.

Dimly, he grew aware of the fact he was gasping, Roy's hand cupped against his ribs above the pain, a voice telling him something over and over.

 

At last, the event past. It left John shaking, dizzy and desperately wanting to throw up again.

"Johnny..." Roy was quiet but resolute. He rolled up one of the turnout coats and added it to the shirt cushion between John and the door, taking some of the weight off. His hand rubbed a spot just under his right arm when John couldn't stop the whimper from getting away.

"I don't think we can risk not taking that chance."

John closed his eyes and swallowed. His left hand cramped. It must have left imprints on Roy's knee where he had gripped, trying to find an anchor as he fought not to get swept away in the pain.

"Johnny?" Roy's hand moved up to his jugular, but not quite pressing down for a heart rate. "Johnny, we need to do this. I'm the only one who can—"

"Yeah." John's eyes pricked hot at the corners.

"I know."

 

 

 

"Engine 51, in place of Squad 51. House fire. 417 Westwood Road. Four one seven Westwood. Cross street Hector. Time out 427."

"Engine 51."

It was yet another candle on a window, quickly put out with a douse of CO2 and some reassurances to a distraught Mrs. Johnson. The woman was grateful enough to offer lemonade, somehow chilled with bits of ice she had obtained from somewhere. So Hank found himself holding a lukewarm, sweating paper cup of lemonade, squinting down at his marked up map, under Marco's flashlight.

Hector Lane and some of its cross streets were blacked out by the pencil stub he had found in his pockets. It looked like a tree made entirely of ash, stretching out across the area that was Squad 51's grid. There wasn't much left.

Mike's head leaned out of the opened door, his voice hushed and smelling vaguely like lemons when he whispered in the vicinity of his ear. "Cap. Truck 3 just reported they saw no sign in Reger Street."

Hank tapped Reger Street on the map with an arched eyebrow. "Thought their grid starts on Pike."

Climbing down Big Red, Mike offered a shrug. "It was next to it. They figured since they need to pass Reger to get into Pike, thought they might as well have a look see."

"Uh huh." Hank exhaled slowly.  His men gathered around him, their faces expectant.

The lemonade seemed to have soured in his mouth. "Dispatch is dividing up the grids among ourselves," Hank held up a hand halting the outrage he could see gathering on his men's faces. "We can't leave their grid unprotected."

"So we're going to stop looking?" Marco blurted out before he could reel in his reaction like he normally would.

"Now, I didn't say that either." Hank met each gaze squarely. "We'll be looking. Just while doing patrol. These houses still need us watching out." When he met silence, his voice hardened. "Am I clear?"

The collected "Yes sirs" weren't assuring, but Hank wasn't surprised either. He softened his stance, whatever ire he felt evaporated like smoke as soon as it came.

"Look, we're not giving up. County split up John and Roy's area among two other engines besides us. One of us is bound to find them." Hank mustered up a smile he wished he could feel. "Most likely with one of them up a tree or putting out a candle."

"Yeah," piped Chet. "You know how Gage gets. He's probably talking to some chick about fire safety and Roy's helping some lady cross the street." He shifted from foot to foot. "Boy, they're gonna get it when we find them."

"You should put them on hose duty for a week, Cap," Mike suggested.

Marco scoffed. "A week? I say a month."

Hank's mouth crooked faintly. It faded though when their handie talkies crackled to life.

"Engine 51. Engine 42. Crossing Lear Road. No sign of Squad 51."

The paper cup crumpled in his fist. Hank absently felt Mike prying the damp lump out of his hand as he hefted his radio with the other. He fought the urge to throw it.

"Engine 51," Hank answered in a heavy voice. He raised his eyes to his men. Even the painful grimaces his men tried to pretend were really grins were absent from their faces.

With a clap on Chet's stiff shoulder, Hank's lips contorted to what he hoped was an encouraging smile. It hung uncomfortably on his face, like a fire door put in all wrong. He nudged Chet towards the engine. He nodded to Marco, who was prodding Mike up the cab.

"Let's go find them."

 

 

 

If they get out of this alive, John was gonna kill Roy.

To be fair, maybe John was sore at Roy because it was better than thinking about how much it hurt to breathe the more he sat still. Or maybe John was more upset with the fact he was pinned to his seat, tighter than a seat belt, unable to do anything more than watch Roy scramble out of the squad with an inappropriately chipper "See, Johnny? I can do this with my eyes closed, haha!"

Or could be because Roy had dropped the rope right on top of his head.

.....

Nah.

All the IV cases, Biophone and drug boxes were stored in the cabinets on John's side of the squad. All that were left available to them were the masks, lifelines and spare belts on Roy's side. John knew they were the best things to get in order for Roy to retrieve the handie talkies. John knew Roy was the only one able-bodied enough to get out there. John knew the climb out of the squad—while not straightforward—was simple enough.

John knew.

He just didn't like it!

A pain stabbed in his chest that wasn't from possible (maybe) broken ribs when John watched Roy's foot skid on the dash, nearly missed the seat edge and slipped on the window frame. He choked back a "Watch it!" when he witnessed Roy's hand flounder to find the broken driver's window. He bit his lip when he felt a warm droplet splash onto his forehead when Roy braced the shattered opening and hauled himself up and out.

What felt like hours later, John yipped when Roy unceremoniously dumped the coil of rope on top of him like spaghetti. Truthfully though, he was just glad to see Roy wiggle back into the squad.

His relief was short-lived, however, when Roy immediately fumbled to strap on his lifebelt. It took two tries.

"Roy..."

Roy's chin dipped as if he was staring at his shoes. "You're better at knots than me, Johnny." Roy dangled one end at a spot near John's ear. "You mind?"

"You and Marco," grumbled John, "you're all thumbs. Roy, are you sure about this? I'm pretty sure it's gonna be daylight soon. We could..." He bit the inside of his cheek because that stubborn tick in Roy's jaw was back. There was no point arguing with his partner.

John mumbled, "Fine." He didn't think about how his fingers shook, especially when he lifted his right hand, slowly, to not jar anything he didn't want to jar.

One over, one under. John ran the steps through his mind. He squinted; the flashlight was definitely getting weaker.

"Really?" Roy mused when John commented on it, "I haven't noticed."

"Wasn't funny, Roy." One last loop and John was done.

"I wasn't trying to be funny." Still, Roy's mouth quirked upwards at the corners. "That's your job, partner."

John grumbled. "I don't find anything funny about this."

"Me neither."

John blinked. He looked up. Now he wished Roy didn't look so serious, especially after he leaned forward and slipped fingers to John's jugular again. And then after Roy splayed a palm on his belly, John was trying real hard to think of something funny to say; anything to stop Roy from looking like, well, like that.

"I'll be right back." A hand curled around the back of his neck, thumb rubbing the base of his skull like it was searching for a pulse. Roy let go and tugged the turnout coat higher to John's chin. "Don't go anywhere, okay?"

"Ha ha," John griped.

"I mean it, Johnny." Roy's eyes, as cloudy and blank as they were, stared hard right at John's forehead.

John sobered. "I'm staying put."

With an almost audible snap, Roy's face cleared. "There you go. Once I'm ready, I'll give the line a tug and you reel me back in, okay?"

"Just like fishing," John quipped as he tracked Roy climbing his way out of the squad once more.

"I hope not," Roy shot back. He grunted as he heaved and perched precariously on the window. "With your luck in fishing..."

"Hey," John protested half-heartedly. He took a breath, sip thin, and added, "Take it easy, okay?"

Roy rapped the driver's door once; his expression was shrouded in the dark, no longer smiling and without warning, he was gone.

There was a brief jolt of panic cinched rigid across his chest, burned straight down to his belly, but then John heard a faint, "More slack". It actually hurt how fast his body sagged in relief.

Blinking rapidly burning eyes, John gritted his teeth and cradled the lifeline with both hands. He maneuvered his right arm as far out as he dared, stopping only when his deltoids and his traps burned from an unnatural stretched feeling across his ribs. It was like his skin was pulled on too thin and he could feel the heat of a throbbing he was hoping would stay vague and distant even after the adrenaline he could feel draining away like a cut artery.

Another tinny "More slack" and the line slithered sluggishly through his cupped hands. John winced as rough twine scrapped across numb palms. He wished he really had his gloves like he'd told Roy. But they only found one pair and John didn't need them with him cooped up in the squad.

There was plenty of line but John eyed the large coil on his lap all the same. Unless they were on a mountainside—they weren't, John knew his maps—Roy would have to be halfway climbing El Capitan before they ran out of line.

If only it weren't so dark. If only his flood lamp wasn't crushed. If only their flashlight would stop flickering, down to its last bit of po—

With a jerk, the rope sliced across his palms before John could clench around it. A foot, maybe two, of rope slipped past him, scorching over his hands, hot and sharp like a blade, up through the broken driver's window and out into the dark.

With another violent twitch, the line stilled like a dying snake.

John could hear his ragged breathing in the cab.

"Roy?" he rasped. He stared at the rope.

The lifeline lay limp in his grasp.

"Roy?" God, it hurt to yell. John didn't care though. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears. Maybe he missed Roy's reply. John clenched his teeth, took another breath that tore tears out of him and called out, louder.

"Roy!"

Boy, if the guys could hear him right now, he would never hear the end of it. John caught the almost shrill syllable in his ears, so high, it cracked at the end.

"Stop shouting! I'm okay! I'm all right!" Roy sounded breathless.

"What happened?" John was getting dizzy with each word.

"I tripped."

"Bad idea, Roy!" John gasped. He clamped down on the cry as it felt like molten fingers clawed his insides. He suddenly felt very hot. Then, very, very cold.

"No kidding!" Roy hollered back. "But it's not too steep. I'm okay!" He paused. "Johnny?"

The wheezing hurt: pulling and yanking from the pit of his gut, trying to turn itself inside out while lurching up John's body.

John pressed his face to the passenger window, rasping and ragged sounds tearing out of his throat. He heard Roy call again, loudly. He gulped, nearly gagging when he did. He bit his lower lip, wrapped trembling fingers around the line and gave it a sharp tug. Once. Twice.

"You okay?" Roy hesitated. "Wait. Don't call it out."

John smacked his lips together. They felt swollen. He yanked at the rope twice.

"Was that supposed to be a yes or no?" Roy hollered. "Never mind. More slack! I can hear it!"

Sure enough, John could hear the far away buzzing of a handie talkie. He could hear Roy, tromping through what sounded like tall grass, as he walked, stopped, walked some more.

Finally, John felt the rope in his aching grasp stirred.

Hand over hand, his breathing whistling between his teeth, John pulled at the lifeline, pausing when he felt the rope go taut, reeling in more line when he felt it go slack.

John couldn't hold the rope anymore but luckily, he heard something bang on the underside of the squad and Roy's boots squeaked for purchase on the hood. The line fluttered to the car floor, pooled against his left ankle. But John couldn't muster up the energy to care. The pressure on his right ribs doubled in weight. It felt like the squad door was pushing back against him. The crushing weight had butted up on his side when he first called out for Roy. It hasn't left since.

"Found one of the handie talkies," Roy reported, "And one of the cervical collars. Must have fallen out when we rolled. Cap's always getting on us about locking those doors. I…"

When Roy's one-sided conversation trailed off, John was painfully aware of how loud his breathing sounded in the squad. It sounded asthmatic. It sounded harsh. It sounded exactly like how it hurt.

"Johnny?" Roy settled in front of John, his back braced up against the dash so he wouldn't fall on John. He pulled down the turnout coat and dropped a hand on John's heaving belly.

"Easy," murmured Roy. "Not too deep. Slow down your breathing again. Come on, Johnny." With his other hand, Roy felt about him. "You always take your stethoscope with you. Do you see it around?"

"N...no," John panted.

Roy shushed him. "Okay. I gotta take a listen to your chest. Make sure my head doesn't hit you too hard." His brow furrowed. The hand he left on John's stomach curled slightly. "I think..."

"Yeah..." John couldn't finish. But then they never needed to finish what they said to each other. He knew what Roy needed to listen for. John also knew Roy didn't want to find it.

It was awkward. Roy kept pausing, worried he was going to headbutt John but after a few fidgets, a hand clasped on John's right shoulder to gauge the distance, Roy pressed an ear to John's chest.

For a few seconds, all John could hear was Roy's measured breaths, slow and steady so he wouldn't be distracted by his own respiration in order to hear John's. It was hard to tell from the angle, but John caught Roy's frown carved deeper into his face before he pulled away with a sigh.

"Doesn't sound diminished on the right," Roy reported.

Yet. John swallowed. He watched Roy flatten out the cervical collar. "Rales?"

Roy paused. Something flickered across his face. "No." He didn't look too happy though. He felt the inflated collar and grunted. "See if this helps."

There was a brief moment when John wanted to tell Roy to forget it; he didn't want to move. It felt like if he did, he would rip into pieces. But he bit his lower lip hard to try and slow his respirations; Roy swapped out the rolled up turnout coat and shirt for the collar. He tucked it gently against John's side, cushioning his ribs from his own body weight crushing him to the door.

"Better?"

John nodded, then remembering, managed a "Y-yea."

Roy gripped John's upper arm. He tucked the bundled shirt behind John's lower back and unfurled the second coat over his torso. "That should keep until we get out of here." He lifted up the handie talkie with both hands.

"LA, Squad 51. Do you copy?"

"...Truck 8. Off Tremont Ramp. Time out 439."

"...LA. Repeat...verify location..."

"LA, Squad 51. Squad 51, all channels. Does anyone copy?"

"...51...Notify Sheriff looters spotted on..."

"LA..."

John's throat worked. "Roy..."

"Squad 51, in need of assistance." Roy was shouting into the handie talkie now, as if he thought he could make himself be heard.

"...Car accident. Ambulance in route. 2...78 Hector..."

"Does anyone copy?"

"Roy," John whispered. "I don't think it's working."

Roy lowered his arm, the handie talkie banging against his hip, all scratched up, one of the dial covers missing.

"LA...respond an ambulance to..."

"Damn it!"

John flinched when Roy thumped a fist on the dash. It looked like Roy was going to hit the dash with the handie talkie but at the last minute, he jerked the radio back and punched with a fist instead.

John swallowed hard but said nothing. 

 

 

 

"LA. Engine 51. This fire is contained. Cancel all other units. Out fifteen minutes."
"Cap?" Chet approached him with all the caution of walking on a fire-scarred floor.

From the rear view mirror, Hank saw two pairs of eyes.

Chet and Marco were completely twisted around in their seats, faces streaked with soot and sweat as they stared at the back of Hank's head. They didn't bother taking off their turnout coats since the MVA. It was as if they wanted to be ready for the next run. Hell, Hank could feel his undershirt sticking uncomfortably to his back, his hair plastered to his skull, but he couldn't bring himself to remedy the situation by shucking off his gear either. And his right knee bounced, ever ready to haul him out of the engine and straight into the devil's mouth if needed.

No one wanted to be too late for anything again.

Hank stared hard at the map in his hands. That smudged tree with its penciled limbs spread to every line on the county map, save for the last three roads.

Without looking, Hank knew the engine was at a crossroads. Bank Street to the right, delving deeper into suburbia or Glen Canyon Road that climbed high between the San Fernando Valley floor and its crown of houses on stilts.

"We looked at everything else." Mike spoke to his steering wheel, but Hank knew there was a question in there for him to answer. He wasn't that much older than all of them, but right now, right here, he felt so damn old.

"None of the other guys found anything," Chet spoke up, stating the obvious. It sounded like he wanted to be corrected though.

Hank raised his gaze and peered through the white glare of headlights. The blaze of light picked out the signs, both pointing to directions that would take them too far away if they needed to turn back.

"That lady did say they went this way," Marco said helpfully.

"That's not all she said," Chet griped. He was still sore about the woman's complaints about the notice of violations she got for the candles (plural, God Almighty she practically had a birthday cake in there when it lit up her dining tablecloth).

"Well, I'm sure she learned her lesson now," Hank murmured. "That tablecloth looked expensive and so did her rug." He idly tapped the map with a finger. However her complaining, it did tell him they were heading in the right direction. Roy and John left a breadcrumb trail of house calls, false alarms and violation notices.

"There are a lot of houses on Bank Street," Marco noted. "They could have gone there first."

"They could have taken Glen Canyon," Mike spoke up for the first time after a long time. The engineer had been silent, driving slowly yet white-knuckled for the last three stops. He took it personally each time the engine's headlights picked out something which eventually turned out to be nothing.

Chet leaned out his seat, practically spilling through the partition and into Hank's lap as he peered to their left.

"Nah. There's nothing up there for at least two miles."

"Oakland Drive," Marco reminded him, referring to the line of houses that hung precariously on the crest at the end of the road. Hank didn't care what people said: looking at them gave him the willies. It was a fireman's nightmare festering to happen.

"Boys," Hank announced, stilling the argument he could hear happening. He pursed his lips, thinking.

"Which road would be the easiest to take first?"

"Bank," chorused Chet and Marco.

Hank grunted.

Mike took Glen Canyon.

 

 

 

"...be advised victim has refused trans..."

"LA, respond a patrol to this location..."

"Truck 8."

"LA, Engine 23. Possible looters spotted on Wilshire..."

"Maybe we should turn it off."

John turned his head. Roy, still braced up against the dash, one foot planted on the seat for balance, was fiddling with the handie talkie, hefting it from left hand to right hand.

"What?" John was startled to hear how hoarse he sounded. Roy's face flinched. It smoothed out as he fumbled around for the canteen. He kept missing it on the dashboard though.

"No, Roy, it's to your right. The other r—"

"I know!" The words lashed out like a snapped line.

Stunned silence hung between them. Roy's fingers finally brushed against the canteen and he snatched it up with one hand. It sloshed loudly.

"...respond another alarm. Victims have been extricated..."

"...18. Ambulance in route. ETA ten minutes..."

"LA, cancel ambulance. Victim's doctor is on scene."

Roy leaned forward carefully, the canteen uncapped and unsteady in his hold.

"Think you can keep it down?"

John's Adam's apple worked. Even though he knew Roy couldn't see him, John's eyes slid away.

"Sure." John's gut tightened as the canteen approached. His left hand cradled the canteen with Roy's right and together, they tipped lukewarm water into his mouth.

"Truck 10, Station 9. Traffic accident. Intersection of Grove and Pace. Time out 454."

"...10."

"LA, Station 9. Be advised we are refueling. ETA fifteen minutes."

Roy's other hand cupped John's head at the base of his skull, cradling it so John didn't have to strain his shoulders and back trying to lean forward. He kept the hand there, even when John tried to pull away from the canteen.

"Just a little bit more, Johnny," coaxed Roy. He didn't remove his hand and the canteen nudged back against his mouth.

"I can't." John winced at the unsteady whine.

"Sure you can." Roy didn't wait for another protest. He tipped the container again. He canted his head, listening to John dutifully take a few more swallows.

Roy cleared his throat.

"Sorry about that. You know...before. I didn't mean to bite your head off."

John snorted and nearly got water up his nose. Ugh. "If there was ever doubt about that concussion, Roy..."

"Uh huh. Stop talking and keep drinking." Roy was smiling though.

John took another sip. He pressed down on Roy's hand on the canteen. All was forgiven. Everything always was. Roy murmured thanks and rubbed the back of John's head before straightening to the awkward slouch of before.

"I probably...shouldn't be drinking." John's throat did feel better though; it no longer felt like it was all closed up, gummy and tight. He could breathe easier. Or it could be wishful thinking.

"Probably," Roy agreed. He slung the canteen across his shoulders. "But you were able to keep it down before and you need to stay hydrated until we can get an IV in you."

That tight feeling in his throat was back. John closed his eyes. "...Yea." He opened them in a flash when he heard the rattle of the lifebelt's buckles.

"What are you doing?"

"That cervical collar was stored with the drug box. I found it out there. Maybe the biophone and our stuff is out there too." Roy kept dropping the lifeline though.

"You mean go back out there?" There was a weight bearing down on his chest, but John plowed through it. "You found the handie talkie before because we heard it."

"I'll just do a grid by grid search," Roy insisted. He held out the lifeline towards John. John ignored it.

"I'll find them." The blunt end of the lifeline, unbeknownst to Roy, was just out of reach. Not that John would have taken it.

"Johnny."

John didn't bother covering up the tremor this time.

"Can't...c-can't you just stay here, Roy?"

The lifeline in Roy's grip dipped.

John swallowed. "Please, Roy. I...I...don't want—can't you just stay here?"

Roy's shoulders slumped and the rope dropped from nerveless fingers.

The chuckle John forced out sent tiny, painful vibrations down his side. "My turn to say s-sorry. Guess I'm kinda afraid of the dark."

Roy scoffed, playing along. "You? Who crawled into that hole last week and stayed with the victim for hours?"

"...Um...Marco?"

Roy choked out what John supposed to be a laugh. He sobered when he heard John trying to tug the turnout coats higher.

"Still cold?"

"Uh huh." It was hard to say anything more when his teeth began to chatter.

Roy's mouth pressed thin. After a moment's thought, Roy cautiously made his way to sit down next to John, his right arm shot out behind his shoulders to tuck John against his side.

"Better?"

Not really. Roy's body heat seemed to only seep into his left side, his right side numbing to a crushing lump.

"Sure," John lied. At the very least, Roy was helping him keep most of his body weight off his ribs. "Thanks..."

Roy hugged him closer.

"...reports of..."

"LA, there are no...sightings on...Notify Engine...1..."

"Engine 9."

John struggled to keep his eyes open. He could feel Roy breathing against him, slow and measured, his arm a warm anchor around his shoulders. But he could feel the cold fire, burning in his right side, creeping its way up, deadening nerves, stealing his breath.

"Engine 42. House... 200 Briars. Two zero...Briars. Cross street Ridgemont. Time out 510."

"Engine 42."

"Sun rise's at six...six thirteen." John wanted to see it. For once, a sunrise untainted by LA's city lights.

"Six ten," Roy corrected.

"Once the sun's up, they're bound to see you." John forced his eyes open wider. "You know the guys are looking. Minute the sun's up..."

Roy was quiet for a beat.

"Us, Johnny. Us."

John bit his lower lip. He wanted to close his eyes yet feared to as well. But he was so tired. So cold. He dropped his head back against the window. He looked out the windshield. He stared at the darkness until he found he couldn't look at it anymore. His eyes slid away and landed on Roy's stiff jawed profile.

"I'm fading, Roy."

The arm around his shoulders pulled him in closer, disagreeing.

John swallowed. He was glad Roy couldn't see him right now with the way his eyes pricked and burned.

"You tried."

Out of the corner of his eyes, John could see Roy's jaw clenched further, red-rimmed eyes staring unfocused out their cracked windshield.

 

"You did everything you could."

"Sun's up soon," Roy said, as if John hadn't said anything. "We're almost there. The guys will find us."

"Roy..."

"They'll find us. They've never let us down before." The hand around his shoulder briefly squeezed. "Neither have you."

There was a squirmy feeling in his chest at the sound of Roy's certainty. John nodded wordlessly.

Roy cleared his throat.

 

"You do know it was your turn to wax the squad, too."

John hiccuped a laugh. He wearily dropped his head back against Roy's shoulder.

"Trade ya...for kitchen duty," John wheezed. "Promise...no more h-hot dogs."

Roy's head rested briefly on his temple. His arm pulled John in and this time, John could feel himself thawing.

"You got yourself a deal, partner."

 

 

 

John didn't know when his eyes had closed. He remembered vaguely Roy calling his name, far away like in a tunnel, but as much as he wanted to respond, he couldn't. It felt too hard to.


But there was a thrumming off to his left, so familiar yet its name was at the tip of his tongue. It was tinny, as distant as Roy had been but it was there. Right there and something told John he needed to wake up. Wake up right now.

 

With a soundless moan, John pried open eyelids that felt stuck to his eyeballs. Absently, he wondered why but when he heard the rumbling again, all other thoughts vanished.

 

"'oy," John croaked. "Can you 'ear that? Ro—"

Under the weak flashlight beam, Roy sat slumped against John, his head drooped low to his chin, a thin trickle of blood glistening under his ear.

"You i'iot," John breathed. Roy shouldn't have been climbing. Roy should have stayed put and—

The deep throated vibrations to John's left chided him.

John groaned as he reached with his left towards the small toggle switch in the middle of the dash. It had always been within reach for both of them, but John was currently pinned all the way back to the passenger door. It was miles away now.

 

His middle finger scrapped uselessly against the round tip of the switch. It was the closest he could get.

Outside, the engine growled but it was growing fainter.

"Wait..." John sucked in a breath and tried to force it out into one loud, "Here!" Halfway through, he choked, unable to get enough air out to make a sound.

Something in his chest jolted. Bones ground together. Everything went dark for a second. No! John jerked himself alert. He stared blurrily at the toggle with tearing eyes.

By his left hand, sandwiched between him and Roy, the broken handie talkie buzzed.

John grabbed it, yanked the telescoping antenna with his teeth and reached.

The antenna was flimsy, wobbly as its tip poked the toggle without any success. The flexible piece bent like a bow. Its tip abruptly slid off the switch. John almost dropped the radio. When the engine's deep grumble outside paused, John choked out a shout and lashed out on the dash with it like a whip. Beyond the broken window, a faraway engine purred again, growing quieter by the second.  He took a deep breath, tensed his left arm and tried again.

 

It felt like a muscle hissed and snapped. It released whatever air remained in his lungs. John's mouth opened to cry out, but nothing came out. It felt like he was swimming, lungs burning as he fought to reach the surface.

 

John ignored the agony and reached.

The toggle flipped.

Above, the sirens burbled once, twice, then died.

"No," John pleaded airlessly. "Come on."

The siren whined once more, lights flickering feebly then went quiet.

John closed his burning eyes, breathing hard. He clutched the handie talkie. Damn it. So close. That was it. It was all he had and he could feel himself succumbing to the gut twisting sensation of the collapsed lung they both feared would happen but wouldn't say out loud. He was going to drown in his own—

"Over here!"

With effort, John lifted his head, opening swollen eyes. Three beams of light blinded him as they darted across his vision. When the white spots cleared, John saw Chet, furiously peeling back the windshield with his pry bar.

Dry heat wafted in as the windshield was pried off. Chet stuck his head in. He looked about ready to vault into the squad in fact, before he froze. He stared.

"…Hey, Johnny," Chet rasped.

John smiled weakly. "'ey Chet."

Chet's mustache wiggled, unsure if it was going up or down. He reached in and gripped Roy's wrist. Satisfied, he grunted then pulled back. He looked at John. Finally, he gave John a lopsided grin, his eyes red-rimmed.

"Man, didn't you two wash the squad just yesterday?" 

John coughed a laugh.

The handie talkie next to him crackled back to life.

"LA, Engine 51. Squad 51 has been located. Respond an engine, a squad and an ambulance to our location."

"Engine 51."

 

 

 

"...and then Marco shouts 'You see that?' and he jumped out of the engine before Mike could put on the brakes. I'm hollering 'Slow down!' but he heads for whatever he saw then abracadabra!" Everyone leaned back to avoid Chet's waving showman's arms. "He vanished like Houdini because the dummy forgot about the embankment!"

Hank chuckled as he sat back on the only lawn chair left on Roy's backyard. Being Captain had its privileges, after all.

The DeSotos' backyard was filled with Engine 118's C shift and Squad 9's paramedics. With the heatwave gone and the power back on, there was a relaxed air Hank could feel draped comfortably on his shoulders like a reliable asbestos blanket.

The off-duty shifts were gathered around Chet like he was pitching to home plate. Chet waited until 118's collective laughter settled before he continued, reveling in his audience and Marco's ignored protests.

"...I'm like yelling 'Marco! Marco!' and he pops out shouting 'Polo!'"

 

"I didn't say that!" Marco protested, trying to be heard above the laughter.

 

Chet gestures to his head. "The guy has half of LA's twigs and grass sticking out all over. Mike thought he was a talking tumbleweed!"

Squad 9's Carter slapped his knee and laughed. Barrel chested and built like a Big Red, Hank thought he could hear the vibrations all the way from where he sat. It reminded him of how Carter used his bulk to help the others right the squad, yet he was gentle when he freed John.

"Good thing there wasn't a brush fire," Carter's partner, Johnson, guffawed. He has a surprisingly loud laugh for such a skinny fellow. "You would have lit up. Dispatch would have a time responding to that run!"

"Each time you tell it, Chet, I have more stuff stuck to me," Marco griped without any heat in it. He punched Chet lightly on his arm. 118's Henderson smacked Marco on the back.

"I don't know how you saw it," marveled 118's Lewis. "Heard old Charlie said the squad's sirens were a goner. Roy and John were lucky to squeeze that last bit of juice out of it!"

A shadow flickered across Marco's face.

Marco shrugged. "I was looking for it."

"We're gonna have to call you Eagle Eye Lopez from now on, Marco!" Henderson declared.

"And get him some lawn trimmers," Chet added.

The howling from the others drowned out whatever Marco had to say about that.

"...Mike looked like he was going to bust Marco in the mouth for making him slam on the brakes like that, but Marco was still pointing at a whole lot of nothing, saying he saw a siren..." Chet gestured wildly as if he was the boogie man. "There he was, grass all over his head, half a tree sticking out of his collar..."

"How many times is he going to tell that story?" Joanne DeSoto chuckled as she set down a new tray of burgers for Roy.

Sweating over two grills, Roy rolled his eyes and pointed towards Chet with the flipper.

"Until they stop laughing," Roy guessed, a smile crooking his lips. Hank noted he looked much better without the bandage wrapped around his head. Then again, Hank thought he looked much better the moment they removed John's chest tube.

"Want another chili burger, Cap?"

Hank groaned and patted his stomach. "Oh no, three was enough for me, Roy." He nodded appreciatively as he considered the backyard: all of the personnel who responded to get his squad out, the other captains and wives enjoying tall glasses of cold lemonade and some of the firemen's children screeching and clamoring around Mike and John and the largest bundle of balloons he'd ever seen.

"Nice of you to throw this barbecue," Hank told Roy and Joanne.

"Least we could do." Roy's wife tilted her head towards Roy. The soft look on her face reassured Hank that the dark days at Rampart were truly behind the couple. It was a fireman's nightmare: not succumbing to fire, but what fire leaves behind.

"Hey Roy," John hollered across the yard. He pointed to something on the ground. "Watch out for that garden hose!"

"I see it!" Roy shot an exasperated look towards Hank. "And stop shouting! I see just fine now!" He proved his point by a perfectly aimed hamburger bun smacked into John's face. John did a dramatic arm flail and pretended to collapse onto the grass, Roy and Carter's giggling kids tackling him.

Hank chuckled at Joanne's groan as she watched Roy trot over to John, stethoscope out of his pocket. Again.

"Two weeks of John warning Roy to look out for every doorway, step and toy on the floor and Roy reminding John not to strain his lungs." Joanne folded her arms, but she was smiling as she watched John flap a hand at Roy and his stethoscope before finally attacking with a bunch of balloons. Both fireman and firemen's children gave chase. 

"I have a funny feeling it's going to be more of the same when they come back to work tomorrow," Hank commented. He studied Joanne. She seemed to be focusing extra hard on the burgers Roy left behind.

"How are you feeling about Roy going back to work?" Hank asked gently. He had heard things; a still blind Roy and Joanne rotating vigils in a hospital room where John laid comatose, Mike looking shifty-eyed and unsettled after he had accidentally walked in on one heated discussion.

Joanne didn't meet his gaze immediately. She idly scraped the grill before stopping with a sigh. The smile she offered Hank was weary but reassuring.

"I feel better knowing they're both going back to work." Joanne cast her eyes, landing on Chet and Marco, her smile widening. "And I feel much better knowing they're both going back to work with you guys."

"Chet!" John hollered. He ignored Roy telling him to stop yelling. "What's the big idea?"

Hank's eyes widened when he located the two. He slapped a hand over his face at the sight of John dripping wet, Roy still trying to set his stethoscope on John and Chet cackling like a hyena.

"Figured you'll want an early start washing your repaired squad when you two—Roy!"

Hank peeked between fingers to see Roy fleeing with John into the house, a dripping Chet trying to find his footing with a bucket over his head, Mike and Marco providing him incorrect directions towards the house.

There was an urge to laugh; to throw back his head and release that full belly laugh that was a mixture of relief and joy, but he was a Captain after all. So instead, he gave Joanne a long-suffering look.

"Sure you can't keep those two with you a week more?"

Joanne chuckled as she handed him a fourth burger—all right, maybe one more. "Sorry, Hank. They're all yours."

Hank grumbled as he bit into his food. "Fine." Inside though, he savored the spices and the tomato sweetness of the burger, listened as the television turned on inside with the game, his men, all five of them kidding with the others as if that dark night weeks ago had never occurred.

All his, huh?

Hank leaned into the lawn chair, shook his head at his men and grinned behind a slurp of ice cold lemonade.

Guess he could live with that.

 

 

 

The End

 

---------------------------------------------

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This is for our bravest, for my darling beta Rnee and for all you E! readers out there. Much love and gratitude to Rnee! She's always ready to help me through my mistakes. I asked; she didn't hesitate. These E! fics wouldn't ever get finished without her. Her red pen is my lifeline!

 

 

 

 

       

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