Author: Yuma (yumafanfic@aol.com)

Pairing: non, gen, team, angst, hurt-comfort, action, friendship fic

Rating: PG

Words: 37K+ words, complete

Summary: No rescue is ever simple, especially with a killer on the loose out to kill DeSoto. Now one of their own needs rescuing.

Disclaimer: Emergency! is owned by Universal, MCA and its affiliates. This story is parody and for entertainment purposes only.

Author's Note: Okay, this gets a bit more Adam-12 than Emergency! I fear but gonna give it a try anyway because I was watching Fifth season's 'Tycoons' and there is a scene at the end which WOULDN'T LEAVE ME ALONE. For crying out loud, do ya know how annoying that is? LOL.

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

Misfire

by Yum@

(yumafanfic@aol.com)

"Station 108, Station 51, Ladder 17. Structure fire. 215 Grand Boulevard. Two one five Grand. Cross street Coulson. Time out 634."

"Station 108."

"Station 51, KMG 365."

"Ladder 17, KMG 563."

Roy pulled the squad up across from the scene, making a face as he squinted through the haze of gray smoke that hung around the streets and the wide-eyed, pointing bystanders.

Chet already had his arms shoved through thick loops of inch-and-a-halves. The stocky fireman lumbered determinedly away from their engine, unraveling lines of flat hose. Within minutes, with Engine 108's firemen doing the same, a scurry of tan turnout coats and black helmets, the ground looked like a giant bowl of Marco's spaghetti had spilled out onto the streets.

"Roy, I think I see people." John pointed to a third floor window with a frown. He hopped out of the squad, yanking the bay door open from his side.

By the time Roy got the squad into park, John was already pulling on a face mask and shouldering his yellow tank.

"Station 51, Engine 108. Come around to the south side of the building. Ladder 17, vent the roof."

"Engine 108."

"Ladder 17."

Cap's orders rang out of their handie talkies as Roy shrugged on his own gear. He jogged alongside John towards the agitated bald man in a soot-streaked green suit, gesturing and pointing as he spoke with Cap.

"John. Roy." Cap flicked a dark look towards him but Roy knew it wasn't for them. "Building manager here thinks some of the people on the third and fourth floor can't get out."

Unbidden, Roy's eyes traveled up the building to the flames shooting from the second floor. Fire licked higher, stretched hungrily for the third floor. He bit back a grimace.

"I saw some people on three," John volunteered. He turned to Roy.

Cap waved down the other squad, holding up three fingers. "Squad 108 can get three."

Roy nodded as he pulled on his gloves. "We'll get four."

Cap gave them an aborted nod and a hand gesturing towards the building. It was all he could spare, already turning around to direct Marco and Chet to another hot spot. But Roy and John didn't need further instructions.

As soon as Cap moved, Roy and John ran towards the fire, their strides matching and quickening as they crossed the burning threshold.

 

"Engine 51, HT 51. Squad 108 reports third floor has been cleared."

"10-4, 51."

By the time they reached the fourth floor, John and Roy were drenched in sweat. Even with the spray from the hoses, the vapor from quickly evaporating water on the second floor was hot enough that John found himself blinking hard to keep the sweat from dripping into his eyes. There was a brief moment where he was sorely tempted to pull his mask up, wipe his face dry and clean the condensation off the face shield. But it was only a brief moment. Eating smoke didn't have any appeal.

Roy was banging with a gloved fist on the door in the middle of the hallway. "Fire department!"

John did the same with his end of the hallway. He hammered 410 with a fist over and over until it ached. "Fire department! Anyone in here?"

Even though there was no answer, John broke the door down with his pry bar. He could hear Roy mimicking him, breaking in with a few sure strokes of his ax.

Roy stuck his head out into the hallway. "Nothing!"

"Same here!" John reported. He coughed, heard Roy do the same. Then they moved to the next doors.

"Fire department!"

"Anyone in here! Fire department!"

"Fire depart—Johnny! Got a live one here!"

Despite the thick smoke, John knew exactly where Roy was; he'd been placing his partner in the map he drew in his head each step of the way. He was certain Roy did the same.

Still, it came as a shock when his hands, waving out in front of him in a search pattern, bumped into Roy sooner than he expected.

"You got him?" John had to shout to be heard behind his mask. He gripped Roy's coat by the shoulder, ready to transfer the body from across Roy's shoulders.

"Yea." Roy gave John a short wave. "Rest of the floor clear?"

"No one else I saw." John gave an uneasy glance over his shoulder. The urge to check again never really went away.

"HT 51, HT 108. Request assistance on three. Man trapped."

John caught Roy's eyes widening behind his mask. He gestured downstairs with his handie talkie. "Go. I got this."

"You sure?"

"Yea, I'll be all right."

With a grunt, Roy hefted his charge higher on his shoulders. John followed closely behind, eyes glued to Roy's footsteps each rickety wooden step down.

 

"Engine 51, HT 51. We got a man trapped on third. I need the K-12."

"HT 51. Marco's on the way, John."

"10-4."

Roy kept one ear on his handie talkie as he laid his patient on the yellow tarp Squad 108 had already laid out by their squad. Before he could do anything more than take off his air mask, his patient began to flail his arms, coughing, choking.

"Easy! Take it easy! You're okay! I'm going to give you some oxygen, all right?" Roy snagged the O2 tank with one hand. He could barely make out the beard and panicked hazel eyes from all the soot. The man's mouth kept opening and closing, gaping like a caught trout.

Roy was jerked down when the man grabbed him by the collar, mouth still moving without a sound.

"Relax." Roy pulled the fingers away. "You're out. You're safe now. Try to relax."

It was still early but Roy could feel the sun beating down his back. He was cooking inside his turnout coat but all thoughts about his discomfort vanished as soon as he saw what was underneath the shirt he cut away. He reached for the Biophone, slotting in the antenna at the same time as he pulled the handset to his ear.

Roy absently wiped the sweat off his chin with a thick sleeve. He spared the building behind him a look, before he checked his handie talkie again. It was buzzing with updates but nothing from 51. Roy told himself that was good; no news was good news. he gathered his focus for the task at hand.

"Rampart, this is Squad 51. How do you read?"



 

"HT 51, Engine 51. Be advised third floor is now fully involved. Get out of there."

"10-4."

In truth, John wasn't sure what happened. He was watching Marco and the K-12 sparking and whining as it devoured enough floor to get 108's Carter's legs out. He heard Chet one floor below with someone from Ladder 17, hosing Carter's trapped legs where they dangled in the engulfed second floor.

Marco looked intent, focused, his usual smirk missing as he guided the circular saw around for the final cut. "Almost there."

John tensed. He clasped Carter's right forearm. Carter's partner grabbed the back of his pants. Knees bent, they braced and waited.

"Okay!"

"Heave!" John gritted his teeth, lifted and that's when he heard the unmistakable snap of wood and paint hissing, cracking...

"Watch it!"

"John!"

John felt a hard thump land square across his back. He smelled wood. He staggered forward but held onto Carter's arm.

Another thump knocked him down to one knee.

"Drop, Johnny! Drop!" Chet was screaming somewhere below him.

Turnout coats were thick, heavy, but John felt the heat rippling on him. He threw himself down to the ground. He felt hands pounding on him, so hard it left him breathless. He felt the force of a hose's full intensity slamming across his back. And that's when John realized.

He was on fire.

As quickly as he realized it, as fast as it took him to frantically rock left and right before the heat he felt could creep up his exposed neck, the fire was out. He was drenched, shaking uncontrollably, but it was out.

"You all right?" Marco's mask banged into his as he grabbed John by the shoulders. "John, you okay?"

"Is he all right?" Carter had somehow made it out of the hole. He gripped John's right arm hard enough to hurt.

"Yeah. Yea," John managed. "I'm all right." He blinked a few times before he realized the reason he couldn't see was because his mask was all fogged up.

"Let's get out of here." For some reason, John couldn't remember what Carter's partner's name was. He nodded anyway. He willed his knees to stop shaking (he was freezing). With Marco's hand on one arm, Chet's hand grabbed him by the other when they reached the second floor, John found himself being half hauled out of the building. He couldn't bring himself to protest though when he heard part of the third floor roaring to a crash above them, bellowing all the way down to the basement.


 

"...transport immediately."

"10-4, Rampart."

Roy's head snapped up when the building groaned and finally gave up sections of its upper floors to the fire. The collapse threw up a cloud of ash and smoke that swept over the streets like smog. He heard everyone shouting: Cap telling everyone to get back, Vince and his men ordering bystanders to move back and Chet hollering his name at the top of his lungs.

"Roy!"

Even though from a distance, Roy could tell John was walking under his own power, Carter and Benning bringing up the rear, he felt a knot in his stomach. It could be because he caught John misstep before Marco steadied him. It could be because bracketed between Chet and Marco, John was being steered towards him.

It could be because he could smell it: the acrid stench of burnt rubber.

"DeSoto!" one of police officers shouted from across the street. "Ambulances here!"

Roy waved in response towards the direction of bystanders still staring and pointing at the tableau. He squashed down his irritation as he shouted, louder, "Yeah! Over here!" But he kept his eyes on John as he stumbled under Chet and Marco's guidance to the borders of the yellow tarp.

"Wall," Chet said tersely as he guided John to sit down by Roy's patient.

"Did it burn through?" Roy demanded, talking over John's breathless "I'm okay. I'm okay" and Carter offering to get Roy's patient onto the gurney as the first ambulance rolled up in front of the squad. "How long before it was put out?"

"One, maybe two minutes," Marco reported. "Hey, we gotta get back. Take it easy, Johnny." Readjusting his helmet, Marco headed back towards what was left of the still burning building.

"Later, Gage," rasped Chet. After a moment of hesitation, he jogged after Marco.

"I'm fine. I'm all right. It didn't burn through." Despite his assurances, John dropped his head wearily against Roy's hip when Roy reached him.

"That's good," Roy said hoarsely. He swallowed as charred flakes of coat fluttered off John's back when he brushed a glove over the bowed posture. The reflective strips were peeling at the ends, the stencils 'LA County' and 'Gage' were lost under the ugly black scorched marks. His partner was right: it didn't burn through even the top layer, but it was close. John's neck had a faint pink strip starting where his stiff collar ended.

"He's in," Carter reported. "Benning is riding with your patient and one of ours because they're both a rush. Cap's got someone bringing our squad back to the barn. Want me to bring your squad in?"

John's head jerked up at the wail of the ambulance peeling away from them. "What? No. I can..."

"Can ride in the other ambulance with me," Roy cut in firmly. "You okay?" He scanned Carter quickly.

Carter grinned, his teeth startling white on a face smeared with soot, blackening even his bushy red mustache.

"Not a scratch."

"Some guys have all the luck," John mumbled. He groaned as Roy hauled him to his feet.

"You lead a charmed life as well," Roy told him as he helped him up the runner into the second ambulance. He ducked in after John in time to see him shiver. "Cold?"

John mumbled under his breath before shaking his head.

Right. Roy shrugged out of his coat. "Here, take mine." He didn't want to see that blackened coat on John for too long anyway.  

"Thanks." John's teeth were chattering but Roy was relieved to note his fingertips were fairly pink when he reached for the coat.

"Brr." It took John two tries before he could slip his arms through the sleeves. "Think Chet forgot where the real fire was and used all the water on me."

I would, Roy thought fiercely. Out loud, he scoffed. "I doubt the department will send you a bill."

"Not with what they pay me." John huddled into Roy's coat. He blinked owlishly up at him.

"Why you still got your helmet on, Roy?"

Oops. Roy snorted. "Things were happening pretty quickly." He pulled his helmet off. Whew. Too bad Chet couldn't hose him down.

"You're t-telling me. One minute, I was helping C-carter. The next, I was almost a Roman candle." John shrank deeper into Roy's coat.

Roy wished he had another coat. He reached over and lifted off John's helmet. Just to be sure, he ran a hand through the dark locks plastered to John's head. He ignored the dirty look his partner gave him as he felt the back of his skull then checked his pupils.

"No sign of head trauma," Roy announced.

"Aw, I could have told you that," grumbled John.

"You would have told me that even if you did have a head injury," Roy pointed out as he rolled up John's destroyed coat and stuffed it under the stretcher with a look of distaste. "At least you didn't lose your helmet this time, partner," Roy said in a false, light voice.

"Hooray." John didn't look too thrilled though.

A rap on the doors drew both their attention.

"You boys, okay?" Cap's shrewd gaze whipped towards John. "John?"

John wearily raised a hand.

Apparently, that was enough for Cap. He grunted. "All right. Carter's behind you with the squad. Fire's contained."

Roy glanced to the front where he could see the driver and his partner fidgeting behind the partition. "What's the hold up?"

"A couple of looky loos blocking the road." Cap screwed up his face in disgust.

John blinked, his red-rimmed eyes peeked out from where he was burrowed deep inside Roy's coat. "Our patient got out okay though, right?" He gave Roy a puzzled frown. "Should have gone with them."

There was a twinge in Roy's chest. John was right; he should have gone with his patient. It was a TKO, after all. He wordlessly passed over the spare blanket from the empty stretcher and watched John try to swathe himself in furls of coat and scratchy tan wool. When John tried to suppress another shiver, the twinge in his chest subsided.

Cap checked the fire over his shoulder. "Ambulance went out fine. Heard ETA was three minutes."

John nodded, his shoulders slumping forward. He blinked slowly. Roy was tempted to tell John to lie down on the stretcher but knew his partner would never go for it.

"Once Vince clears those twits gawking over there, he'll meet you at Rampart, Roy." Cap tapped knuckles on the doors. "Got no more passengers for you boys. Everyone else checked out fine."

"Thanks, Cap," Roy said. He rapped the partition behind the driver as soon as the doors closed. "Let's go."

With a wail of sirens, the ambulance inched through the crowds, trying to get through, to be on its way to Rampart.

"Roy?" John still sat on the floor of the ambulance, the collar drawn up to his ears, blanket wrapped around him like a poncho. "Why is Vince meeting us there?"

Roy took a deep breath. That's right; John didn't know.

"Because," Roy told him, "my patient? The guy we found on Four?"

"Yeah?"

"He was shot."

 

"Squad 51. Man down. 23 Venture Drive. Two three Venture. Cross streets Wilson and Mark. Time out 1113."

"Squad 51."

Roy's eyes slid over to his temporary partner, Sid Vance. Vance, a paramedic over at 45, slouched forward, his narrow shoulders hunched as he scribbled down the address of the run into his notepad balanced on a bony knee. Sid hesitated, hazel eyes darting from spot to spot, torn off slip in hand.

"Up there." Roy kept his eyes on the road but nodded towards the sun visor above them. "Joh—We usually keep them up there."

"Thanks." Sid dutifully stuffed the slip in with the others.

There had already been three more runs since the early morning fire. Roy checked in on John whenever he was back in Rampart. He had just enough time to poke his head in, greet the dark tousled head huddled under a cooling blanket and the sleepy brown eyes before the tones rang out in his handie talkie again.

"He doing all right?"

Roy knew who Sid was referring to. He allowed himself a relieved sigh. "Yeah. the Docs just wanted to keep him on fluids for a little while longer. I'll be picking him up tonight once my shift is over."

"He wasn't too badly burned, was he?" Sid asked because it was the one question always on a fireman's mind.

"He's had worse sunburns," Roy joked, but his insides churned. He could still smell the burnt rubber. "Gear did its job."

"Amen to that." Sid rapped lightly on the helmet on his head.

"Yea." Roy swallowed the lump in his throat and made the right turn into Wilson. He concentrated on the road and not on that fact Johnny's turnout coat was rolled up and stuffed in a garbage bag, stored in the back, still reeking of smoke.

 

By the time Roy's shift was over, the sweltering heat had dropped into a chilly night. Hence why he frowned when he drove up to Rampart and found John hunched in his borrowed turnout coat, sitting outside on a guardrail that lined the parking lot.

"What are you doing out here?" chided Roy as he gripped John by the elbow. His partner looked steady enough on his feet, but the weight of John's arm reassured him.

"I didn't want them to get any bright ideas about keeping me in there longer. Morton was making noises about draining my blood. I know he was." John stared at Roy's car. "You didn't bring my jeep?"

"No, Johnny. It's been a long shift. I didn't feel like driving two cars today," Roy teased. He let go of John's elbow to observe him as he shuffled to the car. John was walking straight, albeit slowly.

Roy's brow furrowed.

"You sure you don't want to stay here over—"

"No!"

"All right, just asking!" Roy chuckled as John practically fell into the car to buckle his seat belt lest Roy change his mind.

Roy went around and climbed into the driver's seat. "You're gonna break Dix's heart, you know. She missed you on her day off."

"With all the police and stuff going on in there, I doubt she's gonna miss me when she gets in tonight."

Roy paused, his hand still holding onto to his own seatbelt buckle. "Police?" Then he remembered. "The gunshot victim. Heard anything more about him?"

John's voice lowered despite the fact there was no one else around. "Second degree burns over forty percent of his body. That bullet missed his heart by that much." He pinched the air half an inch with his fingers. "He's hanging in there, though. I heard the guy's even got a guard by his door. No one knows who he is yet but a Detective Barton took his fingerprints."

Roy gave him an arched eyebrow. "You were asleep each time I saw you. Where did you get the time to find all this out?"

"I have my sources." At Roy's higher eyebrow, John huffed. "Oh, all right. It was Morton."

Chuckling, Roy finished buckling in. "Sure you don't want to stay overnight, Columbo? Maybe you can find out something more?"

"Roy, I just want to go home and sleep and go back to work Thursd—Aw man." John's head drooped.

Roy's amusement evaporated. He twisted towards the passenger's side. "Johnny? What is it? You feeling all right?" He slipped a hand back to John's elbow.

"I'm fine. I'm—Roy, cut it out, I'm fine! I just thought of something!"

There were times Roy could throttle Johnny, maybe shake loose something that would click back into position; maybe something that would tell John to stop giving his partner a cardiac event. But looking at John managing to appear like his boy caught wearing his turnout coat, Roy gave him a pass.

"All right," Roy said calmly, "What did you just think of and do I need to call Dispatch?"

The scowl John shot him was more comical than intimidating. "You're not the comedian you think you are, Roy."

"You sure?" mused Roy as he turned the ignition. The engine rolled into a purr. "A guy has to have a pretty good sense of humor to put up with you, partner."

"Har har." John was smiling though. He started to sink into his seat. He flinched, sighed and sat up.

"Back bothering you?" Doctor Bracket had assured Roy the last time he was there that the burns weren't serious enough to give John any trouble. But by the way John was fidgeting, Roy was tempted to turn his car around.

"Itchy. Sore," John grumbled. "I've had worse sunburns."

Roy snorted.

"What?"

"That's exactly what I told Sid Vance."

"Oh ho, you got Sid Vance from 45?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Roy spied John smirking, back now forgotten. He pretended to sigh heavily. "Yeah."

"Sid still does that thing with a pen?" John made the notion like he was gnawing on a carrot.

This time, the sigh was for real. "Yeah. All shift." At John's snicker, Roy added, "On your pen."

"What?" John glowered at Roy's snicker. "Not funny, Roy."

Roy shook his head, his mouth still stretched in a grin. "So what was your thought?"

"Huh?"

"You said you just thought of something." Roy turned onto the correct overpass before he looked over. "Don't tell me you forgot."

"What—Oh, no. Shoot, I didn't forget." John's mouth twisted unhappily. "Just remembered I gotta get my gear replaced."

Roy's smile faded. "Your coat."

"Yup. Unless you think it's still goo—"

"No." Roy's mouth soured. "It's pretty much gone, Johnny." Or at least it will be once he tosses out the charred reminder. He frowned, changed lanes when a station wagon in front of him appeared to be undecided whether it wanted the upcoming exit or not. "Hey, you just replaced your gloves, didn't you?"

"Some shirts too. Last month was a messy month."

Roy didn't know if being trapped in three burning buildings and a mudslide counted as messy, but he let it go. "Look, why don't you put the order in for it tomorrow? It'll take a day to fit and fill the order anyway. I'll spot you until payday."

"You sure?"

Roy shrugged. "Can't go out to a call without your gear. You should pick up a spare too, you know."

"That was my spare," mourned John. He stared out the windshield gloomily.

Roy winced.



 

"LA, Engine 51, this building is fully involved. Respond a second alarm."

"HT 51, Engine 51. Clear out the structure. Repeat. Clear out!"

He could feel the heat licking at his heels. He shouldn't be feeling it. His gear was thick enough to ward off the flames for a few precious minutes.

When he looked down at himself, he discovered he was just in his dark blue uniform, his head bare, his hands exposed and pink. When he looked up, the ceiling was a rolling sea of fire.

And then he heard the sizzle and crackle before it all came tumbling down...

With a yelp muffled by his pillow, John jolted awake. Breathing heavily, he laid there, blinking as he tried to figure out why he was facedown on the bed. When he pushed up on his elbows, his back twinged, stretched more than usual. There was an odd medicinal smell that irritated his nose.

Oh.

John groaned. He continued to sit up, using his elbows, awkwardly making his way to the edge of the bed. He rubbed his eyes clear of sleep. Shoot, it would be just his luck if he had trouble sleeping again. The last thing he needed was to find another Stokes hanging over his bed like a crib. That darn mobile of butterflies disappeared after the guys shared their great idea. John suspected Chet was probably saving it for the perfect opportunity.

Squinting blearily in the dark, John wondered what woke him. His back wasn't hurting enough to disrupt his sleep. John wasn't lying when he told Roy he'd had worse sunburns.

Scratching the back of his head, John squinted around his dark bedroom. He yawned, shook his head and took a deep breath as he carefully leaned back into his bed.

John froze.

Faint, at first he thought he imagined it. Sitting up again, John took another deep breath.

There was a vague smell that didn't belong in the air.

John staggered up, shoved his bare feet into the hiking boots he never got around to putting away and grabbed Roy's turnout coat he'd hung on his bedroom door's hook.

By the time John shrugged into the coat, grabbed his fire extinguisher and reached his front door, the smell was stronger. Not strong enough to wake a building full of sleeping residents, but strong enough for a fireman to recognize it.

"Fire! Fire! Everyone out!" John shouted, banging on every door as he went. The smell was still faint. Not this floor then.

John suddenly found himself surrounded.

"What's going on?"

"Is it a fire?"

"Oh my God, is the building on fire?"

"We have to get out of here!"

Faces John recognized and some he didn't clamored around him.

"I called 911!" Mrs. Evans from down the hall volunteered in a shaky voice.

John picked out the tallest person of the group. He gave him a nudge towards the end of the hallway. "Fire exit is down there. Everybody follow him. Don't use the elevator! Wait across the street!"

John didn't wait anymore. He heard someone cry out in surprise from below.

By the time John got into the stairwell, it was filling up with people who were starting to panic as the smell thickened in the air. Someone moaned in fright.

"Where's the smoke coming from?"

"Get out of my way!"

"Gina! Stay with me!"

"Let me through! Let me through!"

"Don't push!" John hollered as he helped Mrs. Kind from 4A back up to her feet. She gave him a tearful smile before her husband hurried her away. John grabbed the railing and shouted down the stairwell. "You're all doing fine! Don't stop."

Someone grabbed John by the shoulder, nearly jerking him off the steps.

"Sir!" John caught a glimpse of a stark white face, a close-shaven head. John stumbled, crashing into him as the man's hand curled around his arm and began dragging him in the other direction.

"Calm down!" People rushed by, voices babbling even as John tried to shake off the frightened grip on his arm to herd the evacuation to a more manageable surge. "Sir, you need to let go. You're going the wrong way. Just follow that guy out. You'll be fine!"

John wrenched away from the grip when another person elbowed past them in terror.

"Keep moving. Stay calm," John called out, wiggling away before whoever it was could panic again and grab hold of him.

"Head outside. Fire department's on their way." John steadied some as they staggered by, shrugged off hands trying to grab on for dear life.

"Keep moving," John coaxed. "You're all doing fine." He knew where the fire must be when the trickle of smell massed into a thick stench of burning wood by the time he reached the second floor landing. John thought he could hear sirens in the distance. But he paused when he realized no one was coming out of the second floor.

The second floor door was cool to his touch. John took a deep breath and pushed his way in.

"...DeSoto residence."

"Ma'am, I'm sorry to be calling so late. I was wondering if I could speak to Fireman Roy DeSoto, please?"

"...Uh...h-hold on, I'll get him."

"This is Fireman Roy DeSoto. Who is this?"

"Sir, this is Captain Ted Anders from Station 127...DeSoto, I think you should come down to Rampart General."

It was three in the morning. It was probably why Roy suddenly needed to rest his forehead briefly on top of his steering wheel when he pulled the key out of the ignition. He was tired, that was all. It wasn't because of a call from a different Cap, sounding sober and—

He's all right. He's okay.

Roy inhaled sharply. The sound was startling despite the background sirens of Rampart General. As he levered out of the car, the cool air revived him. He found his steps quickening as he drew closer to the Emergency's Visitors entrance. By the time the doors opened on cue, Roy was running through them.

When Roy came to a stop in the main corridor, he exhaled, forcing out the hard knot that sat in his chest since Captain Anders had called. He vaguely remembered kissing Joanne goodbye, remembered wishing his kids weren't with his mother-in-law and drove to Rampart in a daze. Did he lock the door? No, but Joanne probably did. Was he speeding? Hopefully not.

"He's in the staff lounge, Roy."

Blinking, Roy turned to his left. Dix smiled gently at him, her usual calm expression held a tinge of amusement. He felt himself relaxing.

"Johnny's okay then?" Roy propped himself against the wall. Boy, he needed some sleep.

"Well, okay enough he's hiding from Doctor Morton." Dix smirked. Nothing seemed to surprise her. "He's fine. A little cold I think. We gave him some O2. Squad 127 brought him in with the others—"

"Others?" Roy grimaced. "Right, Captain Anders said there was a fire. How bad?"

"Eight were admitted. Two were already discharged. No fatalities." Dix kept one eye on the hallways for any walk-ins. "It could have been a lot worse."

Roy nodded. He'd seen how much worse it could get. He considered the doorway all the way at the end of the hall. "So he can go home now?"

Dix scoffed. "Would it matter if we said no?"

Roy chuckled wearily. He scrubbed his face with a hand. It took him a second to remember why he was out of uniform. "I better go get him, Dix. Thanks." He gave her a wave as he steered for the lounge.

"Tell Johnny if he shows up again, Morton said he was going to charge him extra."



 

The lights in the lounge were dimmed but, with the lighting from the corridor, Roy spotted John lying face down, stretched out on the only couch in the space. A coffee mug and what looked like a tiny pleated paper cup from the pill dispensary sat on the floor, within reach of his dangling left hand.

From the doorway, Roy could detect the fresh stench of smoke, wet wood and the chemical bite of a fire extinguisher. A green canister of O2 was propped by his head, breathing mask hanging off his loosely curled fingers. And John had Roy's coat on again, collar  pulled up. Hiking boots were set on the floor, in a ready position as if they were poised in the fire station.

Roy crouched by John's head. Closer, he could see a new patch of gauze on the back of John's right hand. He must have tried to clean the soot off his face but from this angle, Roy could see he missed a spot along his hairline. The reddened strip of skin on the back of his neck gleamed with newly applied ointment.

Mindful of John's back, Roy patted him on the shoulder. "Hey."

John snuffled, squirmed on the couch and continued to snore.

"Johnny," Roy said louder by his ear.

"Stupid butterflies," John mumbled.

Butterflies? Roy frowned. He rested a palm on the back of John's head. Carefully, he swatted the dark head.

John jerked.

"Chet, will you lay off with the butterfl—Roy?"

"Butterflies?" Roy repeated archly.

John blinked at Roy. "Hey."

"Hey, yourself. You know I was only kidding about Dix missing out."

"Very funny," yawned John as he sat up. "I told Captain Anders I could call a cab and go home but darn Morton said it was either you or Rampart."

"Hate to tell you this, partner, but from what Captain Anders said, it's going to be another day or two before they'll let anyone back in."

"Oh no." John knuckled an eye as he groaned. "How bad is it?"

"Well, from what he said, the fire was contained to the second floor so water damage was localized to only the first and second floors. You slowed it down enough so it didn't go to the third but there was still a lot of smoke damage to the upper floors, including yours." Roy paused. When Anders told him, it felt like he was listening from a deep tunnel. It was like he wasn't hearing it, not really.

"Roy?" John studied him before he nudged him with a shoulder. "I'm okay."

The smile he offered John felt odd on his face. "Sure you are. Now get up, Joanne's waiting for us. You got a nice room reserved at Hotel DeSoto's."

John yawned again. He grimaced as he tiredly shoved his bare feet into his boots. He absently tugged at his pajamas.

"Too bad Debbie from Obstetrics isn't here to be impressed by your great fashion sense." Roy cast his eyes about. He snagged the blanket John had rolled up to use as a makeshift pillow.

John made a face when he peered down at himself. "I didn't really have a chance to change, Roy."

"Yet you managed to save my coat. Appreciate that." Roy flipped the blanket over John's shoulders. He bit back a smirk at the look it made with John's dark hair in wild tuffs, turnout coat big and loose over striped pajamas, wrapped in the gray blanket like one of Marco's enchiladas. Hopefully, Joanne would resist ruffling his hair.

"Wish I saved some socks too," grumbled John as he clopped loudly besides Roy in untied hiking boots. He stilled in the middle of the hallway.

"Hey, Roy?"

Brow furrowed, Roy checked over his shoulder. John stood a few feet back with a baffled expression. "What?"

John looked to his left then to his right.

"Didn't we just do this?"

Roy rolled his eyes. He backtracked, grabbed the blanket draped over John and used it to pull his partner along.

"Come on, before I let Morton know where you are."

"You're all heart, Roy. All heart."



 

John wondered if Roy was speeding because he could have sworn he only just climbed into Roy's car. John remembered staring sleepily at the stray cars left on the parking lot, at the fellow in one car staring back because they were probably a sight: John's boots stomping hollowly behind Roy, Roy fussing with getting another blanket from the trunk. He remembered trying to buckle his seatbelt but it was busted, he couldn't get the halves to lock. Roy leaned over to his side, did whatever he did and snapped it in place before he did his own.

No, John swore that had only happened but when he opened his eyes again (when had they closed?), Joanne was peering through the window at him with the kind of expression women get when they come across a box of puppies.

"Aw, honey, can we keep him?" teased Joanne. She stepped back to let John climb (fall) out of Roy's car.

"He'll eat us out of house and home," Roy quipped. "Johnny, will you wait for me to—don't get out of the car yet. Hold up."

Too late, John stood swaying, blinking at Roy's house and trying to remember why it was so dark right now. He shuffled (Roy was dragging him) into the house. The lights were too bright and when John tried to pull his hiking boots off, they thumped heavily against one of the end tables.

John flinched.

"Sorry," John mumbled. He eyed the hallway he knew led to the bedrooms.

"They're at my mother's," explained Joanne. She made a face at John's feet.

Automatically, John tucked his bare feet in, under the couch. Not that they smelled or anything, but he could only imagine what they look like now after hours in his boots with no socks.

Speaking of socks, a rolled up wad of thick white sport socks bounced off his arm. John gratefully slipped them on, wiggled his toes in them. He sighed.

"Thanks." Or at least he tried to say that around his mouth gaping wide to a yawn.

"I'll get you a spare toothbrush too," Joanne decided, wrinkling her nose.

John snapped his mouth shut. Shoot. He glowered at Roy as he was hauled up to his feet.

"What?" Roy tugged John's right arm over his shoulders. John tried to help, but his stupid feet couldn't make up their mind where they wanted to go.

"No, Johnny, this way."

"I know. I know."

For some reason, Roy sounded like he was laughing. "You sure? Because that's the bathroom." His voice got quieter. "Just let me. I got you."

John nodded, throat working as he trusted Roy not to walk him to a wall. No, Roy would never do that. And it was strange before to turn around back at the fire, to realize his partner wasn't with him and that he was alone on that second floor.

"Here we are."

The bed underneath him gave a little bounce when he landed. John turned around and practically hugged the pillow over his face.

"Wait. Let me get that coat off."

"In a minute," John mumbled into the pillow. It smelled like soap. Better than smoke. He pressed his cheek harder into it. "Just..." He yawned again, hard enough his eyes burned, "one minute, 'oy..."

There was a snort above him. A hand rested on the back of his head and gave it a little scratch.

"Alright, in a minute." The long exhale roused John a bit.

"I'm okay, 'oy." John felt something warm and heavy over his legs. "'ould have been worse..."

Roy's reply drew out long and low. "Yeah."

"Could..." John's throat felt sticky, gummy, stuck together. "Lot of people 'oulda died...like the first..."

"What are you talking about?" A hand slipped around his forehead. Roy grunted and the hand slipped away. "Good. No fever. Now what were you talking about? The first?"

John's head felt fuzzy, like he was standing in a room full of smoke, his outstretched hands unable to touch any walls. His hands curled and curled tighter. The skin across his right knuckles stretched uncomfortably.

"What is it?"

What was it Morton told him? Before he took enough blood from John to qualify being called Dracula from now on? Something about...why there was no longer any police hanging around. John furrowed his brow. Then his eyes flew open. Oh yeah. That's right.

"That first guy." John screwed up his face, trying to get his mouth to work properly. "Gun...gun guy..."

"Gunshot victim." Luckily, Roy always knew what John needed to say. "What about him?"

What about him? Shoot. John snorted against the pillow. Oh, wait.

"Morton told me..." John yawned. "He's dead."

If Roy had anything to say about that, John couldn't tell as he finally sank into what the warm bed and pillow promised him.  

"...Towers deemed structurally sound. Sources have confirmed the fire appeared to have originated in a maintenance closet on the second floor. Residents here said were it not for the quick thinking of Fireman DeSoto, they would not have escaped in time. This is Warren Perkins, reporting for KNBC news..."

Nothing surprised him anymore.

Or so Roy thought.

He'd been a fireman long enough to not be taken back by anything he came across. He's rescued a motorcyclist from a patch of cactus. He climbed down a hillside, only to find the patient stinking drunk and not a scratch on him. He rescued nine clowns jammed in a buggy in a failed stunt (Joanne still laughs about that one). Even Johnny stopped surprising him; Roy pretty much expected his partner would perplex and exasperate him from time to time hence he filed it away as one of those things that went hand in hand with being partners with John Gage.

So when Roy drove him and John to work, he expected the few distracted greetings, some quip from Chet and John steering for his Land Rover with all the fuss of a father separated from his toddler.

What he didn't expect, however, was the round of applause that attacked him the minute he stepped into the kitchen.

"There he is, man of the hour!" Chet whistled as he stood up from his chair, clapping. Marco and Mike followed, on their feet, striking palms together loudly.

"Uh..." Roy gave John a sideways glance. His partner had his hands up as well; about to clap too but Roy suspected, by the perplexed grin he wore, John had no clue why.

"What's all this?" Roy mused. He pushed John's hands down. "We've been off a day. You guys miss us already?"

"Just welcoming home our celebrated hero." Chet threw an arm around Roy's shoulders. "We're celebrating your selfless acts of heroism above and beyond the call of duty."

John snorted. "Aw come on, picking me up from Rampart isn't..." He blinked when Marco prodded him over to the cork board where some sort of clipping was tacked up.

"What the..." John squinted at the article. He pointed to it, gave Roy a baffled look and blinked at it again.

"What's it say?" Roy gave Chet's huge grin a wary look.

"Huh, it's about the fire over at my place." John muttered, reading it to himself, but Roy had a bad, bad feeling when John's voice rose as he read.

"...with many thanks to the quick thinking actions of Fireman John DeSoto?" John yelped in the end. He straightened as Chet howled. Marco snickered as he patted John consolingly on the shoulder. "Did you...Wha...did you know about this?" John stared at Roy, opened mouth, finger still pointing at the clipping.

Roy held up his hands. "Me? Nah." He turned to Chet.

"We only saw that when we came in. B Shift saw it in the paper yesterday." Chet snorted. "I would call and complain, Roy. That's not a flattering photo of you."

Puzzled, Roy shouldered past a sputtering John to see for himself. The article wasn't particularly large and was next to some local interest piece about a park that was getting new seesaws. But under the clipping, with the caption 'Fireman John DeSoto' was a black and white photo of John, in Roy's coat, glancing over his shoulder at someone as he was supported into an ambulance, his face smudged with soot.

Chet snorted as he tried to gulp back a laugh. He wrapped an arm around his middle, leaning on the kitchen table as he tried to catch his breath.

"Why the heck were you wearing Roy's gear?" chortled Chet.

"That's what I would like to know."

At Cap's stern voice, the laughter dissipated. Roy gave John an uneasy glance as Cap entered the kitchen, his arms folded in front of him.

"John. Roy," Cap rumbled. "You two want to tell me anything?"

"Uh, Johnny's coat was ruined by Tuesday's fire, Cap." Roy nodded towards the article on the wall. "So I lent him mine."

"I forgot to give it back." John fidgeted where he stood. "But it's in the squad right now."

Cap hemmed. "And your gear?" At John's swallow, he sighed. "John, you know the rules. I can't let you go out on runs without your gear."

Suddenly, Roy could see no one was finding it funny anymore.

Chet cleared his throat. "Aw, Cap. He could use his sp—

"Um..." John rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes on his boots. "That was the spare."

Marco muttered something under his breath.

Cap ignored him. He sighed. "And when's your replacements getting here?"

Roy could see when John remembered he'd never called and he cut in before the panic fully came to the surface. "Yesterday, Cap. I called it in yesterday." John had been too out of it yesterday. He'd barely stirred when Roy coaxed him awake to reapply the ointment and take his pills. Joanne wanted to take a photo of John falling asleep at the dinner table, two head bobs away from drowning in his potato chowder.

"Then he can report back to his shift when it gets here." Cap sighed at John's expression.

"But...I already missed most of the last shift," John protested weakly, his shoulders drooping. He straightened, his eyes hopeful. "Can't I just go out on non-fire..." At Cap's head shake, his face fell.

Cap didn't look too happy himself. "I'm sorry, John, but those are the rules. You know that. There's nothing I can do."

"Hey, Cap," Chet spoke up. "He's got Roy's coat and Roy has another."

"In my locker," Roy confirmed. He smiled sheepishly when Cap's eyebrow rose at him.

"Couldn't Johnny keep wearing Roy's coat? At least until his stuff gets here?" Chet suggested. His eyes darted over to John, his mustache twitching.

"It'll be here tomorrow," Mike added. He shifted closer to John. "We're off tomorrow."

"I'll drive over and pick it up soon as it's ready," John jumped in. "It's just one shift."

"What do you say, Cap?" Marco added.

Cap held up a hand before Chet or Roy could add their two cents. "Let me talk to the Chief." He wiggled a finger at John. "You. In my office. Now."

John visibly gulped but obediently followed. He didn't look at anyone as he trailed Cap to the office.

With a whoosh, Chet dropped backwards into a chair. "Aw man."

Marco grunted. He rubbed a finger under his nose. "What if the Chief says no?"

A cold lump sat heavy in Roy's gut. "You think he will?"

"And lose one of their best paramedic for a shift?" Chet blanched. "I didn't say that."

Roy smiled wearily. He glanced over to the door. His throat worked. "I'm going to get coffee. Anyone want some?" At the dishearted mumbles, Roy shrugged. "Okay."

The pot was half full, but Roy poured it down the drain anyway. He concentrated on measuring out the grounds then he filled the pot with water, fiddling until he got the flame just right. It was better than staring at the door like Chet and Marco were. Mike was suddenly busy cleaning the same corner of the chalkboard over and over.

As Roy stared at the tiny bubbles stuck at the bottom of the pot, Marco cleared his throat.

"Seems to be a while, huh?"

"Maybe the line's busy," Mike said before he returned to furiously scrubbing the corner.

"The Chief probably put them on hold," Chet muttered. "You know how busy those higher ups are." He walked from the couch to the fridge, opening it to look inside, closing it before drifting back to the couch. Then, he did it all over again.

"What are you doing?" Marco asked, exasperated.

"Nothing. Trying to figure out what we got to make for lunch today," muttered Chet.

"Isn't it my turn?" Marco pointed out.

"Yeah, but I wanna see what's for chow later, that's all."

"Why don't you let me figure that out, Chet."

"Don't be touchy, Marco. I was only—"

"Hey. Hey." Roy called out, sharper than he meant to. The room fell silent. He exhaled. "Look, I guess we're all just—"

A distant whoop interrupted.

Roy grinned. "Guess the Chief didn't put them on hold after all."

The door flew open, John came in, slipping a little on the linoleum. "The Chief said it was okay this once!" he blurted out breathlessly.

"We heard," Chet drawled. "Geez, Gage. Calm down, will ya? Wait, or should that be DeSoto?"

The good humor turned quickly to a scowl. "Chet, why don't you—"

John never finished as the tones blared loud and long.

"Station 51. Man trapped..."

Roy turned off the stove and dashed for the lockers to grab his spare coat. When he passed John by the wall map with Mike, he gave John a light slap on the shoulder. When John scrambled into the squad, he punched Roy back in the arm.

Roy grinned, turned on the ignition and drove out of the barn, the engine doggedly following in a wail of sirens.

 

"Engine 6. Squad 51. Man trapped. Pico Markets on 65 Willet Drive. Six five Willet Drive. Time out 931."

"Engine 6."

"Squad 51."

"It's not funny."

"Of course not," Roy agreed, sounding as reasonable as he always did, but John knew better.

John glowered at Roy as he drove down the freeway leading to the station. He slumped back into the seat. "I don't even know how they found out," John complained. His face still felt flushed as if he'd been in out in the sun too long.

"Joey at 6 wouldn't let up. 'Hiya DeSoto! See ya later, DeSoto!' By the time we got that guy out, he had everyone doing it!"

"You're right," Roy said seriously, "It's not funny at all." He wasn't fooling John though; the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Darn newspaper," grumbled John. "How did they get my name wrong? DeSoto?"

"What's wrong with a name like DeSoto?" Roy demanded all of a sudden. He frowned, but didn't look at John. His jaw set as he turned the squad, ready to back into the station once the door rolled completely up.

"I like the name DeSoto." Roy glowered at John out of the corner of his eye. "Joanne, too." He gestured with a hand towards himself. "Our kids are all right with the name DeSoto. I-I don't hear any complaints from them."

Oh boy. "Well, nothing...n-nothing's wrong with the name," John fumbled. "It's a fine name. Fine name. I mean...your parents thought it was all right. Look, I'm not saying..." John trailed off. Roy seemed to be concentrating really hard on his driving. "Aw, come on, Roy. You know I didn't mean...I just...it's just that the guys..." He narrowed his eyes as the squad rolled to a stop. He huffed and gave Roy a shove.

"Okay, you got me!" John snorted.

Roy released the chuckle he'd been holding in as he climbed out of the squad. "Look, the reporter probably got your name from your neighbors, saw the coat and put two and two together."

"You figure at least my neighbors would know my name," mourned John. "Guess they don't know me as well as you do, pally."

Roy scoffed. He rolled his eyes as he shut the door. "Does anybody, Junior?"

"Junior?"

John jumped at Chet's all too gleeful voice behind him. He groaned. Perfect.

Chet threw an arm over John's shoulders. "Welcome back...Junior." He guffawed. "Wait til the guys get a load of this."

"Chet!" John glared at Chet's retreating back. "Roy. You...Shoot. Chet, cut it out! Chet!" He scowled at Roy, before he went after Chet.

Roy's baffled, "What?" was drowned out when Mike and Marco's laughter shot out of the kitchen. Too late. John skidded the last foot into the room. He nearly crashed into the swinging door in his haste. He slapped a palm over it before it could smack Roy in the face.

"Che—"

"Hi, Junior," Chet, Marco and Mike chorused before they snickered.

John growled, "Chet" under his breath. It didn't help that Roy was chuckling, patting him on the back as he made his way around John to get to the coffee.

"Wait til the guys at 18 hear about this." Chet rubbed his hands together. It made him look like that Doctor Frankenstein man in the late, late show they watched last week. He never did see the ending.

"Hear about what?"

Behind John, Cap's voice entered before he did. John hastily stepped aside to let him enter.

"Hey, Cap. Wait til you—"

"Not now, Kelly." Cap cleared his throat. "DeSoto. Can you come to my office for a minute?"

John darted a look over to Roy, who leaned against the counter. He was still pouring his coffee, but his brow was furrowed together. He looked over to John. John shrugged.

"Uh, we'll be there in just a sec, Cap."

"No. No." Cap placed a hand on John's chest, stopping him in his tracks. "Just you, Roy. There are two detectives to see you."

Detectives? John stiffened. "Cap, whatever they said Roy did, he didn't do it. I was with him the whole time. Even yester—"

"Easy there, Gage." Detective Crockett appeared off Cap's shoulder. He nodded to Roy. "No one's accusing you two of anything."

The familiar face didn't do anything about the knots in his stomach. And Crockett's assurances didn't help either. John shrugged a shoulder and gulped the scowl he felt breaking through.

"Oh. Well...alright...don't mean to...you know." John rubbed a finger under his nose. He sniffed. "Just...the last time a detective wanted to talk to us, we were accused of sticky fingers."

"Sorry about that." Crockett drawled. He didn't look offended which was good. It never paid to be on the bad side of the law.

John lifted his shoulders once again. "S'alright. Don't bother me anymore. Roy might still be a bit sor—Oof." John couldn't dodge the elbow in time. He glowered at Roy as he followed Cap and Crockett out. 

"Wonder what that's all about?" Chet wondered out loud as soon as the door shut.

"I don't know, don't ask me." John shoved his hands in his pockets. He scoffed, made to turn away, but he didn't feel like coffee. Why had he come in here in the first place? Why were there two detectives who wanted to talk to Roy? "I wasn't invited to be part of the conversation," John mumbled.

John looked at Chet. Chet looked at Marco. Marco looked at Mike.

The door nearly smacked Chet in the rear as everyone scrambled outside.




 

Roy wasn't worried. No. He wasn't. Detective Crockett promised no one were accusing them of anything. And he knew he hadn't done anything wrong. Cap didn't look worried. And whatever it was, John said (very loudly) that he would vouch for Roy.

Besides, Crockett said they weren't being accused of anything.

"So what..." Roy cleared his throat when he heard it crack. "What can I do for you?"

There was another detective waiting in Cap's office, boldly helping himself to Cap's chair, scribbling furiously into a small flip notepad. He rose to his feet, like a huge oak tree rising towards the horizon. He wore sunglasses even though they were indoors, his bleached blonde hair was combed neatly and parted off the side. He reminded Roy of one of those movie posters of actors staring off into some unseen sunset and he suspected John would have immediately disliked him.

"You're DeSoto?" It was like a semi barreling through a tunnel; nothing but bellow.

"Fireman Roy DeSoto, one of our paramedics," Cap said before Roy could speak.

Roy started at Cap, but Cap was leaning against one of his file cabinets and staring unblinking at the detective.

"Roy, this is Detective Clay Barton," Crockett introduced after clearing his throat. "Thought it might help if I came by and introduced him."

"Is he the one?" Barton cut in impatiently. He looked over to Crockett. He was tapping his expensive looking shoes. He snorted, didn't bother waiting for a reply. He stuck a meaty hand out towards Cap. "Detective Barton, Captain. I'm here to ask your man some questions."

Cap didn't take the hand. He just looked at it, arched an eyebrow then nodded towards Roy. "Well. He's right here," he said mildly.

Barton's mouth thinned. "DeSoto," he said curtly. "I'm Detective Barton. Wanted to talk to you about Louie the Fish."

Roy raised an eyebrow. "Who?" He eyed the detective. Barton. Barton. Why did the name sound familiar? Oh. His eyes widened.

"The gunshot victim from Monday's fire." Roy glanced over to Cap, who shrugged one-shouldered. "He died, didn't he?"

Barton's eyes narrowed. "Who told you he died?"

Distracted, Roy muttered, "My partner mentioned it—"

"Partner?"

"John Gage," Crockett supplied.

Barton dragged his gaze from Crockett back to Roy. "Who is this John Gage? How did he hear about this?"

Roy shot him a frown. What's Barton's beef? "He heard about it when he was in Rampart. And what do you mean 'who is he'? I just said: he's my partner."

"That gunshot victim," Barton bit out, "is Louie the Fish, the Martel family's accountant. And we didn't exactly announce his death to the press." Barton blew out sharply through his nose. "How well do you know this John Gage?"

Something sharp shot up Roy's spine. Something flared from deep in his gut.

"What are you getting at?" Roy asked tightly.

Barton shrugged, not noticing Cap straightening away from the file cabinet or Crockett flicking him an uneasy look.

"I'm thinking this John Gage seems to know an awful lot about Louie, things even the police aren't sharing."

"And you're thinking my partner...what?" Roy's nostrils flared when Barton sneered and shrugged again. Roy's voice rose before he could think about it.

"Are you kidding? You think Johnny has something to do with—"

Barton's smirk deepened at the word 'Johnny'. "Mister Gag—"

"Fireman Gage," Cap said in a cold voice Roy hadn't heard before, "has been a fireman for years, a valued paramedic almost as long and Fireman DeSoto's partner for over three years. You can't get a better man than him. I would stake my career on that!"

Roy thought he heard a noise outside. When he checked the door, he saw nothing. He wouldn't look back at Barton. If he did, he might cut his knuckles on Barton's glass jaw.

Crockett sighed. "Told you we should have spoken with both Gage and DeSoto."

Barton grunted.

Cap took it as consent. He folded his arms. Out loud, he said, "Come on in, John." He leaned around Roy, looked pointedly at the door and cleared his throat.

There was the sound of a shoe scuffing the floor before the door cracked open.

By the time John and the others reached Cap's door, Roy was yelling at someone. Loudly.

John exchanged a look with Marco. It wasn't clear what was going on, but whatever it was: Cap's door closed, Roy yelling (yelling?) and now suddenly it was quiet, it couldn't be good.

"What are they saying?"

John nearly jabbed Chet in the gut and smacked his face on the brick wall when Chet's question sounded in his left ear.

"I don't know," hissed John. He pressed closer to the door. Marco's elbow was digging into his lower back as he leaned in as well.

"I can't hear what they're saying," Chet whispered.

"And you think I can?" John glowered at Marco and Mike. They took a step back before they finished squashing him to the wall and fractured a rib or something.

Chet shrugged and leaned away from the edge of the door. He slipped his hands in his pockets and rested his elbows on the squad's hood.

"Aw, it's probably nothing." Chet nodded to the door. "Doesn't have anything to do with us anyway. I don't care."

John snorted to himself. Uh huh. He smirked, ready to correct Chet when Cap's voice rang out loud and clear even through the door.

"Come on in, John."

John gulped. When he checked over his shoulder, everyone had skedaddled out of there. What pals. He cleared his throat, fingercombed his hair, checked his boots and entered.

Roy shot him an exasperated look but he didn't look surprised either. Cap wasn't in his chair for whatever reason. He stood by the file cabinet, arms folded in front of him, an eyebrow high into his hairline. He didn't appear surprised either. John figured he should feel insulted or something.

"I'm Detective Barton," a hulking tall movie star type figure spoke up. He stood with one hip against Cap's desk. He interrupted Crocket, who had opened his mouth to probably introduce him.

"How are you?" John returned with the broadest grin he could muster up. He extended his hand. When Barton didn't take it, John fought back the face he wanted to make, let his hand drop and glanced over to Roy. Roy, however, didn't look back; he was openly glowering at Barton. Yikes. Roy hadn't even looked this mad when John had blabbed to Joanne about him liking Mike's spaghetti better.

"Uh..." John wished someone would say something. "Anything I can do for you, detective?"

Barton studied him up and down like John was a trout and he was weighing whether he should keep him or throw him back. Roy stirred behind John.

For Pete's sake, this was getting ridiculous. John cleared his throat. "So," he said loudly. "Uh..."

Barton shoved a photograph inches from John's nose. "What do you know about him?"

"What?" Startled, John took a step back. Roy's hand steadied him from behind. John squinted at the photograph. He didn't try to take it. Barton didn't offer.

"Who's he supposed to be?" John asked, baffled. The picture was a fuzzy, blurry portrait of a tall, broad-shouldered man with receding brown hair, shaved close to his skull. His face was unclear, shadowed under the overhang of whatever storefront he stood under, but the sneer on his square face wasn't what John would call friendly.

"You tell me, Gage." Barton said tersely. "Friend of yours?"

"Now wait a minute!" Roy exploded from behind John. Whoa. Roy looked like he wanted to lunge forward to get to Barton. John stepped into Roy's path and sure enough, Roy stopped because he was not about to knock John aside to get at Barton.

It didn't stop Roy from raising his voice at Barton, though.

"How many times do I have to tell you, my partner had nothing to do with your Louie the Fish—"

"Who the heck is Louie the Fis—Oh, was he the gunshot victim?"

"You seem to know a lot, Gage. How the hell did you get your information? Who's lining your pockets? Was this man in Rampart—"

John stared at Barton, mouth open. This was worse than being accused of sticky fingers. "Wha—Wait, you think—"

"Carl," Crockett tried. His hand was angrily shrugged off.

Barton was turning so red, John was tempted to check his carotid. "Did you tell this to Campbell?"

"Who?" It felt like John was stuck on a carousel going round and round. It didn't help that Roy was growling, raising his voice like a man possessed. What the heck had gotten into him?

A sharp whistle killed all the voices. Cap lowered his hand. He was still slouched against the cabinet.

"I think," Cap said mildly, but John caught a muscle in his jaw twitch, "We should try this again."

Crockett shot Cap a grateful grimace. He took off his glasses, cleaned them carefully with a pocket handkerchief as he spoke. He adopted Cap's low and even voice.

"The fire on Monday, where Roy found the gunshot victim, his name was Louie the Fish—"

"Accountant for the Martel family. You said that already," Roy interrupted. "We didn't know who the patient was until just now."

"Roy," Cap muttered under his breath. Roy slumped back against the wall.

Barton sucked in his breath; he looked like he was reining in something louder when he bit out, "Louie the Fish died that night, but that's not public knowledge. How did you know, Gage?"

John shrugged. "Despite Rampart's reputation, it's a small hospital. Word gets around. Nurses, doctors, they talk."

Barton didn't appear too thrilled with that answer but Crockett cleared his throat. Another deep breath that seemed to lift up his entire chest, Barton released it between his lips. He lifted up the photo again, this time not right in front of John's nose.

"So you didn't pass that information on to Campbell here?"

"I don't even know who Campbell is," John burst out, frustrated.

"He doesn't even know who he is," argued Roy, at the same time.

John stood next to Roy, against the wall. He bumped shoulders with his partner, relieved when Roy deflated, calming down.

"Campbell's the Martel's enforcer." 

Enforcer? John exchanged a look with Roy. Enforcing wha—Oh.

"You mean like the mob?" John yelped. He caught Roy realizing it too.

Roy swallowed. "So when you said Martel family, you meant family as in—"

"One of the last few surviving Prohibition families since Chief Parker's war on organized crimes." Crockett pulled out a few more photographs which he passed to John.

"Louie the Fish called me, said he wanted to testify," Barton said reluctantly. "By the time I got to the address where he was hiding out, the place was up in flames."

John allowed himself to make a face now, although it was more towards the photos in his hand. He passed them to Roy.

Crockett nodded to those photos. "We had men tailing him as soon as he arrived in LA but they lost sight of him a day later. We suspect Campbell here might have had a talk with Louie, then started the fire to get rid of the evidence."

John stared at Crockett. His chest was in knots, weighing down heavy on his gut. "Six people died in that fire."

Crockett nodded grimly.

"Small potatoes," grunted Barton. He appeared unmoved. He started tapping his pen against his notebook. "He's on loan from the Irish Connors in Chicago. He specializes in large body counts."

John scowled at Barton. He was starting to see why Roy wasn't hospitable to him. The urge to bust his nose was overwhelming.

"Did you see him hanging around the fire or after?" Crockett asked.

John checked with Roy, who shook his head.

"Shoot, these photos could be anyone." John squinted at one. "I think I saw maybe five guys who look like him around the fire, around Rampart, heck, I think I have a neighbor who looks like him!" John crooked a smile as he handed back the photos. "Sorry."

Crockett sighed. "Don't be. It was a long shot. He's never been caught. This is the best photo we have of him and that was only by accident."

"What did Louie tell you?" Barton asked abruptly, his eyes narrowed and glued to Roy.

"Me?"

John glared at Barton. "Roy doesn't know him. First time he saw him was in that fire."

"Several witnesses stated they saw Louie speak with DeSoto after he was pulled out of the fire." Barton folded his thick arms, stretching out his sleeves.

"He didn't say anything," Roy said. He pursed his lips as he remembered. "I think maybe he was trying to tell me something but at the time, I thought he was just getting agitated."

Barton sighed loudly. "That's great. So you can't tell me anything?" He gave Crockett a frown. "Well, this was helpful."

John glowered at the detective. "Look, we're firemen, not the police. Our priority is getting them out of the fire. We didn't know this...Louie...Louie the what again?"

"The fish," Roy supplied with an eye roll.

"Thanks. Louie the Fish. We didn't know he had anything important to tell us," huffed John.

Barton's expression smoothed out. He appeared thoughtful.

"Campbell probably doesn't know that though." There was a gleam in Barton's eye John sure didn't like. "He's probably made DeSoto his next target. That's good."

"What?"

"Excuse me?"

"Are you nuts?"

It wasn't clear who shouted what. Cap, John, and Roy's voices all jumbled up in a mess of loud and louder. But John caught Cap standing away from the file cabinet, arms to his side, Roy staring at Barton like he was the dumbest fool on Earth.

"Joanne," Roy breathed.

John stiffened. "Roy?" He snapped his gaze to Crockett because looking at Barton right now was making him mad.

"We considered there might have been a possibility," Crockett soothed. He nodded towards Barton. "We have a black and white staked out at your house."

It didn't make John feel any better and by the looks of Roy, squinting like he needed glasses, jaw set, neck flushed, it didn't make Roy feel any better either.

"Let me get this straight," Roy said very slowly. John fidgeted. "There may be a man, who has no qualms killing innocent people, out to get me, possibly my family. You don't know who he is, you're not sure what he looks like and you don't know where he is."

Barton shrugged. "That about sums it up."

John gulped.



 

"I suppose I could stay with the kids over at my mother's," Joanne said slowly, giving Roy a chance to change his mind.

Roy, of course, wouldn't, but he tried to make it sound like he would. He was never a good liar though. Johnny once said he couldn't fib to a brick wall. And it was hard to keep his voice casual with John crammed up between the payphone and television set, making anxious "Well?" faces at him since he had called up Joanne.

"The station needs someone to work overtime." It was hard to concentrate with John nodding frantically, 'coaching' Roy.

"Thought we could use the extra money," Roy fumbled. John grinned toothily at him, giving him a thumbs up. Roy shoved at John's knee. "Johnny needs the overtime to replace his gear anyway." He smirked faintly at John's scowl.

 

"Aw, I thought your coat looked flattering on him," Joanne teased.

Roy chuckled. "He doesn't agree." He cleared his throat. "So you'll go to your mother's?"

"I don't know..." Joanne hedged. "I was thinking it was nice to have a break myself..."

Roy shot John a wide-eyed look. John perked up. He hopped off his ledge and grabbed the paper off the table. He nearly crashed into Roy's legs when he slid back to the payphone.

"Uh..." Roy's eyebrow rose as John attacked the paper with a flurry of folding and tearing that reminded him of old Boot. Bits of paper fluttered down to the floor. "Well..." He gave John a questioning frown when John waved the extended weather page towards him. Roy shrugged at him. What the heck was John getting at?

Roy's eyes widened.

"The weather is supposed to be good the next few days," Roy stammered. He dropped a hand on top of John's bobbing head. His frenzied nodding was making Roy dizzy. "You and the kids could go to the beach. Doesn't your mother live close to a beach?"

"Yes...It's a nice beach."

Roy grinned at John. "Well, there you go. Perfect. With me doing overtime, you'll be bored home alone anyway."

"It would be nice," Joanne agreed. She paused. "Everything okay?"

With a start, Roy exchanged a look with John. "Everything's all right. Why do you ask?"

Joanne sighed. "Nothing. I guess I'm a little on edge with that car circling around."

"Car? What car?" Roy asked, voice higher.

John stared at Roy, eyes wide.

"Oh, there's been a police car patrolling around the neighborhood all day." Joanne snorted. "Abby next door thinks it's because he's trying to catch Mr. Jones taking her trash bins again."

Roy laughed, strained. He grimaced at the sound in his ears. "I doubt that's something the police looks into, honey."

"Well, it makes me nervous to see it roaming around like that." Joanne sighed. "I think a few days on the beach sounds nicer and nicer now."

The tension across his shoulders and down his back washed away. Roy sagged against the wall, suddenly feeling weak-kneed.

"Okay," managed Roy. "You have fun then. Give the kids a kiss from me." He exchanged a few more words with Joanne before hanging up.

"What did she say? Is she going? Is she leaving?" John demanded. He was still holding onto the rumpled newspaper with both fists.

"Yeah," breathed Roy. "She's going to pack up and head over there now."

"Crockett said they'll follow, make sure she gets there okay." John slumped back into the space between the tv and phone. He exhaled in a whoosh. "She'll be all right."

Roy closed his eyes briefly. There was still a knot in his gut but it felt easier to breathe around it now that he knew Joanne was going to be safe with his kids.

"Roy?" John's tentative voice roused him from his thoughts. John crooked a grin at him. It looked shaky. It looked like John didn't feel it. Roy returned it though because John had tried.

"You okay?"

The wall seemed to be holding Roy up now. Roy's throat felt tight. He laughed, but it sounded weird in his ears.

"I don't know." Roy flapped a hand in the air. "This...the mob? Killing witnesses? It feels like an episode of Adam-12."

"You know," John murmured. His brow furrowed. "I think I remember seeing Reed and Malloy in just the same situation." He brightened. "It turned out okay in the end."

Roy gave him a dubious look. "You watch too much television. I don't think this is going to be resolved in thirty minutes."

"No," John murmured, crestfallen. "You're probably right." He patted Roy on the shoulder.

Roy thought about Joanne going away. He thought about Crockett's promise that a patrol car was showing up at every run. And he thought about Barton's barely suppressed glee at the thought that they might finally catch Campbell in the act.

"Roy?" John leaned in. He peered up at him. "What's the matter?"

Roy's throat worked. "It's going to be a long shift."

John opened his mouth to say something but then he slowly nodded. Shoulders slumped, hands in his pockets, John breathed out, "Yeah."

Part 2