Misfire - Part 3

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Roy was coming.

Fuzzily, John heard it in his head. First it was low and quiet, like how Roy gets when he tries to reassure the patient that he was here to help. Then it got loud and almost kind of bossy, drowning out the coughing tearing out of his throat.

John vaguely remembered clutching his air tank, grateful he hadn't let go of it. It would have killed someone below otherwise. No way.

The hissing started up as soon as John unraveled the knot. The trickle of air leaking out of the cut hose reminded him of the other reason why he was grateful he held onto the tank. The sensation of the thread of air blowing against his flushed face was a relief. It wasn't enough air, but it was something. John clutched the tank as he stayed low to the ground, below the window.

It was going to be enough, just enough for Roy to get here. Because he would.

"...in there?"

John blinked blearily towards where he thought the door was. He coughed as he tried to call out. He gagged. His chest was growing tighter. He could feel the drag of sleep pulling him closer to the edge of a hole he would never be able to climb out of if he succumbed. He hugged the tank tighter, head low as a coughing jag seized his entire body.

"...going....you out..."

The knocking on the wall sounded like death calling. John shuddered. He could hear Roy now, shouting even though John knew he must have his mask on. Pounding and pounding as if Roy could break down the wall between them with his bare hands.

John raised the tank with both hands. He could only lift it a few inches before letting it drop to the floor. Tears leaked out of his shut eyes as he tried again. It sounded hollow as the canister landed on the floor with a jarring thump. It always sounded like that, John told himself even as he feebly pressed the torn hose closer to his face. Of course it sounded empty. Oxygen was nothing more than air, gas and practically weighed—

The hose in his grasp twitched, sputtered then fell limp in his fingers.

Then again, maybe the tank sounded hollow for a reason.

John pressed his mouth shut, trying to trap good air in his lungs and wishing he had the foresight to take one last gulp of his tank's air before its supply bled dry. He sagged against the wall, let the tank roll away from him as he fought to keep his eyes open.

He's outside. Roy's just outside. John only needed to wait a bit more. Just a little bit more.

Beyond the room, John could hear what sounded like the roar of the K-12. He smiled wanly, his eyes drooping as he listened to the whine of the saw ripping through the wall.

Almost there...

John sucked in a breath before he realized he shouldn't have. It burned all the way down his throat, his nose. He doubled over, sliding off the wall and onto the floor. He lay there, curled up, his cheek on the scratchy floor, wheezing around the fire that seemed to have erupted inside him.

Was this what it's like to burn alive, John thought distantly. He'd wondered but never dwelled on it; no firefighter ever would. No one wanted to think too long about the possible one time the beast they fought against finally winning. But John had wondered, out loud even. Roy once told him that when John ate enough smoke, he would stop wondering like the rest of them. John had shot back he wasn't that much younger than them. Roy would get some weird sappy smile, cuff him on the head and say John was young enough.

That darn Roy...

A cough punched up his throat, lodged a lump of pain under his Adam's apple. John groaned. Tried. Couldn't. The second his throat worked to make a sound, another tearing cough took over. John's fingers curled against the floorboards. Roy hurry, he can't...he can't...

Hands curled around his neck, to push him towards the broken furnace pipe again. John jolted.

"Johnny! Johnny! It's okay!"

John heard Roy's voice but he felt a stranger's hand. He struggled as he was pulled upright). He kicked out a boot. He was rewarded with a grunt.

"Take it easy! You're all right!"

His head spun in the new position and there was a pounding behind his eyes as arms slipped around his middle. A hand grabbed the back of his pants. He felt himself being dragged back.

John whipped his head back. Maybe if he hit hard enough, he would knock that mask off, break free.

"Calm down! Calm—Roy, you okay?"

"...Yeah..."

Something was pressed over his face. John reared back. He could feel his heart slamming hard against his ribs, beating frantically, shouting to him to break free. His eyes widened but he couldn't see because everything burst into a screen of blinding white...

A hand tightened on his neck, the thing was pressed harder over his face and something cool and dry washed over his mouth and nose. Air! John gasped and felt it rushing in. The fire in his chest and gut quelled. The haze over his eyes cleared a bit.

Roy's green eyes were bright and glued to him. His face, empty of his mask, stared at him silently but John heard him all the same. He nodded. He felt his limbs relaxing and finally Mike's arm around his middle registered.

"Roy?" Mike sounded terse.

Roy nodded. He straightened to his feet and for some reason seemed content to let Mike do the heavy lifting.  Mike hefted John up to his feet with another grunt. Roy followed closely, taking back the mask to take a turn at the air before insistently putting it back over John's face.

Things blurred when they started to move.

John was aware of moments when the air felt good on his face then muggy and hot. He was aware of Mike's solid presence, shoring him up, keeping him upright (sort of) as they took the stairs.

Behind them, John thought he heard an explosion but his ears were doing a buzzing noise he vaguely knew was bad. He felt Roy's hand on his right shoulder, to remind John he was there and maybe to remind Roy John was, too.

They got to—John wasn't sure what floor and he couldn't remember what floor he was on before—where the heat was suffocating again. So much so, John's knees folded and suddenly he was blurrily making out Chet and Marco clustering close and now he was floating, not walking, as he was carried down the rest of the way. The mask was pressed back to his face and never left.

When sunlight hit his face, John flinched, his eyes screwing shut as his eyes burned after being in the dark for what felt like forever. Air, still muggy and hot but fresh, fresh air, flowed around him, against his skin, sinking deep into his bones.

His stomach lurched. His chest seemed to swell. Bile burned in the back of his mouth.

John gagged.

"Put him down. Get that off!" Roy was shouting. Why was he shouting?

The mask was ripped off. John automatically sucked in a breath and his body remembered the black gunk collected in his lungs.

Hands rolled him onto his side as John retched. His body spasmed as he vomited, limbs twitching with the violence of his body trying to exorcise the toxic fumes.

It felt like it went on forever. Tears and sweat ran down his face. His throat felt scoured and boiling with agony. John retched over and over, his stomach cramping each time.

Through it all, he heard Roy's raspy voice close to his ear, coaxing him to relax, calm down partner, you're okay, slow breaths, easy now.

His body slowly unclenched and the relief from it all made a tiny whimper escape before John could stop himself. 

"I could do it..." Roy was arguing with someone. His hand was on the back of John's neck which made John realize that somewhere from the building to here, someone had helped John take off his turnout coat and laid him on the tarp. When did that happen?

"I know you can." It sounded like Squad 42's Pratt. Funny, John didn't remember LA calling them to this run.

"Roy, let us handle it, okay?"

The hand over John's neck tightened. John wordlessly agreed and rolled on his side towards Roy. To his dismay, someone rolled him back, wiped his mouth clean then promptly fitted a mask over his mouth. John screwed up his face.

"We'll take good care of your partner." Pratt usually sounded like he was shouting through a mouthful of marbles. Right now though, he was quiet, like he was talking down a cornered animal. "He's going to be all right. Let Tom take a look at your shoulder, okay?"

What about Roy's shoulder? John tilted his head up but the sun overhead blinded him. He couldn't help it, he flinched.

"It's fine." Roy's voice was fading though.

"You and I both know it's not," Pratt said firmly. John could imagine that fuzzy blonde caterpillar of a mustache of his wiggling into a frown.

John feebly swatted a hand in Roy's direction. He ended up knocking the mask off his face instead. Roy bowed over him.

"Keep this on," Roy chided as he slid the mask over his face with his left hand. Ah ha. There was something wrong with Roy's shoulder.

John weakly poked Roy in the chest. Roy captured the hand to take his pulse. Cheater.

"All right." Luckily, they've been partners long enough that Roy could figure out what was bugging him. "I'll get checked out."

"Rampart, this is Squad 42, how do you read?"

Apparently Pratt and his partner were waiting for that.

Roy smiled ruefully down at John. He patted John on the shoulder, murmured he'd be right back. His fingers slipped off John's wrist...

And John started as memory slammed into him so hard, he couldn't breathe.

"...other fireman has a dislocat—Rampart, hold! What happened?"

Hands were on John, trying to get him to lie back, trying to drag him to the pipe and to his death. John arched his back, wheezing, gasping. He ripped the mask off. Roy, where was Roy?

"Easy, Gage! Slow your breathing down!"

"Rampart, patient is experiencing difficulty breathing. Pulse is..."

"What's going on? Johnny, what's wrong?"

John grabbed Roy's voice like a lifeline and let it lead him to his partner. He found Roy's turnout coat, his belt and he grabbed on, knuckles white tight.

"Johnny, shhh, calm down. Let them put the mask back on. You need the O2. Calm down. Easy..."

No. John shook off the mask he could feel hovering close. No. He needed to tell Roy. He opened his mouth but only a rasp came out. His eyes burned. Damn it. John coughed, tried again.

Roy settled a warm hand over his throat, massaging, pressing carefully, fingers circling and soothing the painful cords. John's voice couldn't form anything but a whine. He hissed as he inhaled, tried again, failed.

"Shhh...let them give you the O2. Whatever it is, you can tell me lat—Alright, alright! Calm down!"

"Roy."

"Johnny wants to tell me something. I think we better let him or he'll fight us all the way to Rampart."

There was a sigh before hands slipped behind his back, eased him up until he sat sagging against what turned out to be Chet. Huh?

"Geez, Gage," Chet groused. His words rumbled under John. "You really can't stop yapping, can ya?"

John could feel the buckles on Roy's coat. He curled his fingers until the metal latches dug painfully into his palm.

"Roy," he croaked. Thank God, his voice was back.

Roy leaned close, his hand still smoothing circles on Johnny's throat. He canted his head and offered an ear.

"Roy..." John wheezed. He tugged the coat. "I think someone..." He swallowed. Ouch. That hurt.

"Someone tried to...tried to kill you."

John caught Roy's profile paling under the smudges of soot, eyes wide. But John couldn't care anymore even if he wanted to. Relief unwound the tension all along his spine, his gut and his bones seemed to have vanished. He told Roy. The guys would watch out for Roy now.

Head dropping, John folded forward into the darkness.

"...cross match..."

"Need another line...

"...BP is 130 over..."

Things were fuzzy. Yea, that was the word for it. He could hear bits and pieces of conversation over his head, all soft and chopped up, floating above him. If his limbs weren't tied down, he could reach up and grab them, take a closer look and see what they were saying. Because he had a vague notion that the mushed up pieces of conversation hanging above him were about him.

Wait...

Why was he tied down?

"Easy, Gage...Call Doctor...help over here..."

He tried to raise a hand but it was heavy. No, not tied down. Weighed down. Pressing down. Held down, pinned, unable to move...

There was a flutter in his belly at the thought of someone or something confining him, preventing him from moving, maybe even dragging him over to certain death...

The vague sensation in his gut squirmed larger and larger now, until it felt like it was trying to force its way up from under his ribs. He could feel his heart hammering, banging to get out of his chest. Get out. He needed to get out...

"Doctor?"

 

"Get me a..."

He couldn't move and there was a frantic sound high and pinched that swirled around him. The floating snippets of words above him now swirled like a sudden summer storm. Voices, words, sensations crashed over him like a flash flood.

He couldn't breathe.

"He's cyanotic..."

"I'm going to have to..."

A hand slipped under his neck, tipping his head back. He jerked, knees stuttering but too weak to kick his attacker off as he was pulled, dragged back to the wall.

"Calm down! Relax! We—"

"Doctor, are you all right?"

"I need another...into his IV. Run another..."

His throat tightened as he tried to suck in air. His stomach hurt, rigid and hot as its muscles desperately tried to do what his lungs seemed to have forgot.

Get away. He needed to get away.

"BP's 140 over..."

He could feel hands on his arms now, hot breath over his face; the fire loomed even as the hands restrained. He couldn't pull away. His body tensed but he couldn't get up, twist away.

"Doctor!"

His head pounded as his lungs burned with the effort to breathe, breathe. But he needed to break free before he could breathe. Fire wasn't the only thing robbing him of oxygen. A man was; a man who thought he was killing Ro—Roy! He wanted to kill Roy!

"Damn it."

"Pulse is 110..."

"Get him in here!"

His arms finally listening, weakly whipped out. He lashed out. He arched up, his mouth opened to an angry, soundless scream.

A hand settled on the base of his throat.

"Easy there, partner. Morton's starting to take it personally, you know?"

He gulped, his paralyzed throat working, or tried to. Even his Adam's apple hurt when it bobbed, like he'd swallowed something he shouldn't have. He gulped, his mouth gaping open, trying to speak.

The hand on his throat curled briefly, not hurting, not restraining, but possessively. Fingers pressed gently, soothing around the bunched cords on his neck, coaxing them to relax.

 

"You're okay now, partner. Sh..."

Something hot and wet broke free from his eyes and trailed down his face. The fingers on his throat were gone, suddenly on top of his head, giving his scalp a scratch that felt chiding.

"You can breathe. You just gotta relax...Calm down...you're all right now."

The circles massaged into his skull were small, yet he felt the weight and strength of them gathering all his scattered thoughts, clumped it all together, melding them into something he could at last understand.

Words formed in his head. Words formed in a parched mouth. His lips stung when they cracked as he tested his voice.

"...'oy?"

The fingers paused. Before leaving, they pressed into his hair one more time.

John furrowed his brow. "Roy? Where...?"

There was a half-snort, half-sigh to his right.

"If you would open your eyes, Gage, you'd see."

Oh, no. Morton.

John groaned, but it came out as a cough instead.

"Hey now." Suddenly Morton no longer sounded annoyed. He dropped a hand on John's shoulder. "If you lay off the hysterics, I can fix that cough, okay?"

Another cough wanted to come out, but John's mouth snapped shut before it could escape. Despite how much his eyes felt like they were swollen shut, despite how the light burned his eyes, John opened them, zeroing in on Morton to give him a bloodshot glare.

"He's not hysterical," Roy objected for him.
 
"'no hee'steri'al," John croaked.

Morton's eyebrow told John he didn't buy one lick of it, but he mercifully said nothing. He grumbled to himself as he placed the bell of his stethoscope on John's upper chest.

Yikes!

"'old!" John hacked out. He batted the offending piece away.

"Sorry," quipped Morton. "Haven't had a chance to thaw it when I got it from the North Pole." He rubbed it briskly between his palms before trying again though. He nodded to himself as he listened, oblivious to John glowering at the top of his head.

"How's it look?" Roy asked. He settled a hand on John's shoulder. It was the only reason why John didn't sit up and scram. For crying out loud. Morton? Again?

"Lungs sound good," Morton told Roy as he busied himself pumping the balloon for the bp cuff. He squinted at the gauge. "BP's finally lowering, but still higher than I would like." He touched his chin, still ignoring John (damn it) as he considered John on the gurney.

"If his vitals check out okay every two hours, I could release him day after tomorrow."

"He'll miss a shift," Roy calculated.

"Two, actually. I don't like how red his throat looks. I'll probably get an ENT in here tonight to look at him, again tomorrow. Depending on what he decides, maybe even three—Whoa! Gage! It's only a maybe!"

Roy's hand moved away from his shoulder and dropped to the knee John managed to bend up in an effort to get up. John settled because, if he were to be honest to himself, he didn't have the strength to get up anyway. His arms and legs felt like spaghetti.

But three shifts?

John's reaction must have been visible on his face because Morton paused and offered a faint smile.

"I'm pretty sure it'll just be two." Morton tugged a breathing mask over his face. "Looks like you got out of there before any permanent damage was done. You're lucky, Johnny."

"Yea," Roy muttered, almost to himself, "Lucky."

John said nothing when Roy's hand tightened briefly over his knee.



 

"...sure you don't want me there?"

Roy was almost sorry he had called Joanne. Almost. He'd wanted to hear her voice since he was hustled into the ambulance, his arm still feeling like it belonged to someone else. The throbbing pain was a mixed blessing: pain meant hopefully no nerves were damaged but pain also meant, well, pain.

"I could be over there in a few hours if I start driving now."

The panic in John's eyes when he told Roy he thought someone had just tried to kill Roy stayed in Roy's mind like a film was drawn up over his vision. It drove him to drop a nickel into the payphone to call his wife. The reminder was now making him vehemently shake his head.

"No. No point. Visiting hours will be over by the time you get here. Look, the doctors say my shoulder's fine. I'll miss a shift. Johnny's staying here for observation. He'll probably miss two shifts. But they think they can release him day after tomorrow to recover at home."

"Oh, Roy," Joanne exclaimed. "Not back at his apartment. Not so soon after the fire! All that smoke and right after this one? No, set up the guest room. He's staying with us."

Roy smiled into the phone. He hoped Joanne could hear it when he murmured, "Okay. Thanks, honey."

"Besides," Joanne sweetly went on, "he could try out some of the new recipes Abby just taught me. l bet it'll beat Mike Stoker's spaghetti."

Roy's smile faded. Darn, his wife was still on about that. He'd hoped after a few weeks, especially after agreeing Mike's was better, she would move on.

"Uh..."

"Shame about the overtime though," Joanne sighed.

Roy blinked. "Huh? Oh, right. Yeah. The overtime." He wanted to rub the back of his neck but the sling left him without an extra hand. "Yeah, Johnny's real sore about that."

"If we adopt him, he could continue wearing the DeSoto coat," Joanne snickered.

Roy snorted. "Johnny wouldn't like that, hon."

"Why not? What's wrong with the name DeSoto? I like it. The children like it just fine."

Flowers. When it was safe for them to come back, he was going to buy Joanne the biggest bouquet of roses he could afford.

Roy knew he must be grinning goofy like into the phone judging from the smiles the nurses favored him with as they walked by. He ducked his head.

"Listen, I don't have any more change. I gotta go. Just stay there with the kids. I don't want to ruin your vacation."

"There's a few casseroles in the freezer you could reheat. And some more of the potato soup, too." Joanne paused. "We'll see you soon. The kids are out with my mother on the beach. Otherwise..."

"It's all right. Give them a kiss for me and an extra hug."

"Always. You two take care. Kiss from me. To Johnny, too."

"Uh..."

Joanne snickered. "Don't worry. I'll give him that one myself, honey."

Roy exchanged a few more words with his wife. Their teasing back and forth, even her reminder about repainting the lawn furniture, left him smiling when they finally said their goodbyes. He was still smiling until he reached the room he was sharing with Johnny, the police guard sitting in a chair outside.

He couldn't breathe.

A hand gripped the back of his neck, unmoving when he struggled, unyielding when he tried to draw back an elbow.

He struck nothing.

There was nothing behind him. Just smoke. Just the crackle of fire.

And the hand.

With a start, John woke, coughing even before his eyes opened. Instead, he closed them tighter as he rolled onto his side.

John felt the warmth of an approaching hand coming at him and John threw out a fist. The grunt he heard was familiar enough that everything halted.

"...Roy?"

"If I say yes, will you stop trying to punch me?"

Roy's wry question settled over John's skin. He sagged and that's when he realized he was on the floor. And it was cold.

John blearily blinked up at Roy. "I'm on the floor," he croaked. Or at least that's what he was trying to say; his words jumbled together.

"I know," Roy said, easily understanding John. "I've been trying to get you up off it for the past five minutes. I was about to page a nurse." He smirked. "Or Morton."

Scowling now, John squinted up at his partner, oh great pal of his. "Funny, Roy."

"Thought you said I wasn't a comedian." Roy sobered. He offered a hand. "Think you can get up now?"

John glanced down at himself and the thin hospital gown he really couldn't stand. "It's cold."

"Uh huh."

"We're in Rampart."

"Doctors will be glad to hear there's no brain damage."

John sighed. He looked up mournfully at Roy. "But I just got out of Rampart."

Roy's mouth tilted downward. "Yea. Sorry about that."

Huh?

"Wasn't your fault," John said automatically. His brow furrowed as he fought to remember. The fire. The smoke. The...the hand.

"Whoever that was, saw your coat, thought it was me," Roy whispered. His hand dropped. He exhaled low and weary as he eased down to the floor next to John. "You wouldn't be in here if it weren't for me." At John's scoff, Roy darkened. "This is serious, Johnny. You wouldn't be in here if it weren't for me!"

John rolled his eyes. "I heard you the first time, Roy. I'm not disagreeing with ya. You're right."

Roy looked taken aback. His head lowered and his eyes slid away.

"If it weren't for you, I'd probably be dead." John elbowed Roy gently. "Hospital's preferable."

Roy crooked a faint grin. "Even with Morton?"

"Now, I wouldn't go that far."

Roy chuckled with John. He shoved one of John's knees.

John's knee nudged him back. "Now go home. Let me sleep."

"I can't leave."

"Now Roy, don't be silly. I'm fine. I have a line of oxygen, I feel fine, I'll probably be out tomorrow—"

"Day after."

John glared at Roy. "Tomorrow."

Roy scoffed.

"Listen. It's fine. Go on, get going." John waved his hands, shooing Roy.

Roy, however, didn't get up.

"Roy, for crying out loud..."

Roy smiled crookedly. "I can't. I haven't been discharged yet." He shrugged his left shoulder and that's when John realized he hadn't seen Roy move his right arm at all.

"What happened?"

At least that was what John wanted to say, but what came out instead was a series of coughs that had him doubled over on the floor. Dimly, he felt Roy's hand on his back, rubbing as if coaxing every drop of coughing itch to come out so his lungs could have room for air. It hurt to breathe, why couldn't he stop coughing...

Cool air tickled his mouth and John opened his mouth immediately. He gulped in air from the mask Roy pressed to his face, long draws of air.

The fog cleared and he blinked through watery eyes at Roy.

Roy looked drawn, white lipped as he asked, "Okay?"

John nodded. He opened his eyes as wide as he could when he felt them droop.

"Okay, let's get you back up on the bed then. Here we go. Just lean on me."

Knees shook as they straightened. John made a face when he realized he couldn't do anything more than hunch over, leaning lopsided against Roy. His bed was close then far away. So when he fell almost face first into his bed, it came as a shock.

"You gotta lay off the tacos, Johnny," Roy wheezed. Nevertheless, John felt him helping him roll onto his back, swing his legs back on the bed.

John lay there, gathering his strength together because he wanted to know what had happened, why was Roy in a sling? Did they catch the guy? Was someone still watching Roy?

A door quietly creaked open a crack.

"Do you need me to get a nurse, sir?"

"No, I think we're fine now. The doctors will be making their rounds here soon. Thank you, officer."

"All right. I'll be right outside."

A hand massaged a circle over his right shoulder. John realized he had tensed since the door opened.

"Just the police officer they put outside the room," Roy murmured. "We're okay. Take deep breaths."

John allowed himself two gulps before he pulled the mask down. "How," he managed before the mask was pushed back over his mouth, effectively muffling the exasperated, "Roy!"

"Happened in the fire," Roy explained, still digging the heel of his hand carefully on John's shoulder; the one the tank straps left a bruise on somehow. He hadn't realized it ached until Roy began working on it.

"I'm fine. Simple dislocation, but I'll be missing a shift. I'm getting discharged tomorrow." At John's pleading look, Roy chuckled. "Nope, sorry, partner. Just me."

John grumbled behind the mask. We'll see about that. He huffed and let the air loosen the vise around his chest. He arched an eyebrow at Roy.

Roy shook his head. "No, they didn't catch him." He hesitated. "Do you remember anything about him?" He furrowed his brow when John pointed to his face.

"What? He had a mask on?" Roy dropped a hand on top of John's head to still the nodding. "Would explain how he was able to walk around in there. Cap said fire marshals thought it was arson. Barton," Roy made a face at the name, "was here before. Wanted to ask you what you saw. Dix threw him out."

Dix? John perked up. He tried to pull his mask off until he realized Roy had placed his fingers on the side of the mask to abort John's attempts. What a rotten thing to do.

"She didn't appreciate being called a clueless lady nor did she like being pushed aside. She threw him out before Doctor Early could punch him."

Early? Shoot. John missed all the action.

Roy smirked. "I'm sure Chet will tell you all about it tomorrow when he visits you... in the hospital." John sagged deeper into the bed.

"Hey, thought you said the hospital was preferable," Roy teased as he sat on the edge of the bed. His smile softened to something John often associated with "What am I going to do with you?" Roy never seemed annoyed though; just amused.

"Look, Cap said to tell you not to worry about your shifts or your gear."

"Huh?"

Roy patted his knee. "Don't worry about your gear. All right?"

John bit his lower lip. Easy for Roy to say. He couldn't wrap his head around how much everything was going to cost. He rubbed a hand to the back of his neck, but the sensation made his insides squirm with a memory he really didn't want to think about. He hastily dropped his hand.

"Johnny."

John raised his head to Roy.

Serious eyes fixed on John. "Don't worry about it. Trust me. Okay?"

The hard lump in his gut loosened. If Roy said not to worry about it…

Without looking away, John nodded.

He couldn't sleep.

Roy laid there on the bed, his right shoulder a numb weight, his head reeling, almost lightheaded.

He almost got Johnny killed.

The mantra haunted him all night, stayed with him when morning mulishly came through the blinds. He waited until Johnny finished his breakfast of scrambled eggs the color of his fridge and oatmeal the color of their hoses (hospital food made him miss Joanne's cooking more).

Johnny gulped down his downcast expression along with his gummy oatmeal when Roy reluctantly told him he was heading out. Roy could tell by the way Johnny poked at the last chocolate chip cookie Dix snuck in (his favorite), the loss of his shifts and its pay was still bugging him. Hopefully, that would resolve itself soon with Chet's idea.

"I'll pick you up tomorrow alright?" Roy patted his partner on the knee. The reminder that even Roy was missing a shift didn't seem to cheer him up though.

"Sure," John muttered dejectedly. His smile was strained and lopsided when he looked up from his tray. "Want my cookie?"

"Nah." Roy patted his stomach. "Dix makes good cookies. I ate all of mine. Any more and Cap will have me on extra hose duty."

The smile twitched. Johnny chuckled wanly. "Yeah."

Roy sat down at the edge of the bed. "Listen, don't worry about it, all right? About your gear, I mean. It'll work out." He rubbed a knuckle on the blanket Johnny always kicked off in his sleep. "And look, I don't mind if you keep wearing my gear, okay? I'll even tell the guys to lay off on the 'Junior' stuff."

"Aw..." Johnny's ears pinked. "That's not what's bugging me, Roy."

Roy arched an eyebrow towards him. "Could have fooled me."

Johnny ducked his head. "You were safe in the station, you know, with all the guys. But you're going home alone, Roy. Joanne's not there—I mean, it's good she's not there but—Shoot. You sure you can't stay in the station for a while?"

Ah. Roy found himself grinning goofy again, his gut warm and full and not just from Dix's treats.

Johnny scowled. "I wasn't trying to be funny, Roy."

Schooling his face to a more appropriately serious one, Roy nodded. "I know. Don't worry about it. Vince is driving me to the station to get my stuff then escorting me home. There's going to be a patrol car outside my house until this is all over."

"Yeah?" Johnny perked up.

Roy chuckled. "Yeah. So uh...you still don't want that cookie?"

"Well, ah, you did already have three, Roy and you don't wanna get too pudgy before your mother-in-law comes visiting again..."

Roy's smile fell. He narrowed his eyes at Johnny, who crammed the last cookie in his mouth and chewed noisily. He rolled his eyes at Johnny's cheeky grin.

"I'll see ya tomorrow...Junior."

Roy smirked at the muffled but audibly indignant "Roy!" he shut the door to. He waved, smiling wanly at Vince, who stood up immediately as soon as Roy came out of the room.

"Detectives Barton and Crockett are waiting to talk to you back at the station."

Roy's smile and whatever good humor he carried evaporated pretty much after that.



 

By the time Roy arrived in the barn with the ever vigilant Vince, the next shift was already busy polishing the engine. The squad was glaringly absent, already out on a run to a fallen child according to their engineer.

It was strange to be arriving when all the guys were off. Roy knew he would see them next shi—no, the shift after as Early said—but seeing other firefighters walking casually out of the dorms and kitchen did a funny thing to his gut. It was like walking into what you first thought was home, only it wasn't; only looked like it.

"DeSoto, they're waiting in the Captain's office," Hookraider said, giving Roy a curt nod.

"Thanks, Cap," Roy called out but Hookraider went back to scrutinizing poor Stewart's wax job.

"Now I think you can do better than that..."

Detective Barton jumped on him before Roy was completely in the door.

"Why didn't you tell us Campbell made an attempt yesterday?" Barton demanded before Crockett could stop him.

Roy was taken aback. "What? No, he—"

"I had to hear about it from the Sheriff's department this morning?" Barton looked like he was two rants away from a cardiac. He was red from the neck up. "Did he say anything? Did you see what he took to get away? A car? What's the license plate number?"

"Hang on..." Crockett tried to play peacemaker but Barton dismissed Crockett with a grunt.

"Now hold up." Roy was sorely tempted to bust some teeth. "No one tried to kill me yesterday. He tried to kill my partner!"

"Who?" Barton looked almost cross-eyed.

"Is Gage all right?" Crockett frowned.

"Why the hell was Campbell trying to kill your partner? Did Louie talk to him?"

Roy had to take a step back because there was a boiling sensation in his gut. He doubted he would get police protection behind bars when he got arrested for breaking Barton's nose.

"No. Look, he must have mistaken my partner for me. Johnny had my coat on and—"

Barton eased back, He even smiled, which didn't improve his looks.

"I get it. Quick thinking getting yourself a decoy, DeSot—Hey! What's the matter with you?"

Roy didn't realize his hands were on Barton's lapels until Crockett's arms were thrust in between him and Barton, Vince shouting in Roy's ear to let go, Hookraider bellowing "What the hell is this?" by the door.

"Back off, DeSot—"

"Roy, let go—"

"DeSoto, calm down! Let go of—"

"DeSoto, get off! I could arrest you for—"

There was a brief scuffle, more shouting, a lot of shouting actually, but after a few more tugs and shoves, Roy found himself glowering at Barton from across the room, Hookraider standing in the center of it all like it was a demilitarized zone, his arms out to ward both sides back.

"What the hell, DeSoto!" Barton screamed. Spittle sprayed out in his wake. "What's your beef?"

"My partner is not a decoy!" Roy snapped back. His right shoulder pounded. Vince wasn't restraining him anymore, but Roy felt a warning grip on his left elbow.

Barton's face twisted into a sneer. "Oh yeah? You didn't seem to have any problem with him wearing your name on the paper!" He flung a wad of crumpled newspaper at Roy.

Roy stared at the article in his hands, Johnny all smudged and dazed from the fire a few nights ago. "Wha—I didn't." He waved the article at Barton. "This was from the fire at his place a few nights ago! He was wearing my coat and the reporter thought his name was DeSoto. He thought..." Roy's eyes widened.

"Oh God..."

"Roy?" Vince let go to peer at him. "What is it?"

"DeSoto?" Hookraider frowned.

"DeSoto," Roy murmured. "The reporter mistakenly called him DeSoto." The near miss at the road, the ramp, the fire—No...

"He didn't make a mistake thinking Johnny was me. He thought Johnny was me. He must have seen the newspaper article. He..." Roy elbowed past Barton, everyone in his haste to get to the telephone. Absently, he knew he forgot to ask Hookraider, maybe use the payphone, but he didn't care.

The call was picked up after the longest three rings Roy ever felt.

"Rampart General."

"Dix, it's Roy DeSoto. Can you connect me to Johnny's room?" Roy caught sight of Crockett darting out of the office.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Roy. Actually, you just missed him."

Roy thought he would squeeze the handset hard enough to snap it into two. "What? What do you mean?"

"Well, Doctor Morton felt sorry for John and discharged him this morning."

"He left?"

"Uh huh. Chet gave him a ride."

"Dix, did they say—Where were they going?"

"Johnny mentioned something about going back home to grab some stuff before heading back to your place. Roy, is everything al—"

"Roy, what—"

"Campbell thought Johnny was the witness, not me! He was never trying to kill me at all! He's going after Johnny! He has been the whole time!"

Roy had shouted the last part over his shoulder as he veered around Hamilton, startled firemen, darted past the squad backing up into the barn.

"We'll get some uniforms over to Rampart," Barton called out after Roy.

"No, he's not there anymore!" Roy ran straight for his car. He fumbled out his keys.

"What? Where the hell is he?" It wasn't clear who shouted it.

The ignition roared the moment Roy jammed his key in.

"DeSoto, what are you doing?"

"Home!" Roy shouted as he turned his car around, the engine nearly drowning him out. "Johnny went home!"

Roy didn't wait for a response. There wasn't time. The tires shrieked, echoing the white hot fear wrapped tight around his chest like barbed wire.

Vaguely, Roy remembered someone had to jump out of the way as his car zipped out of the parking lot and straight for Johnny's place.

 

"Aw man."

John stared at his living room. His stomach sank as he surveyed the streaks of black soot that was...it was...it was everywhere.

Chet stepped through the open doorway and stopped to stare. He whistled.

"Geez, looks like a zebra lives here."

Even the glass windows were obscured by splotches of black. He could barely tell it was only noon.

"Probably an improvement to the mess before, huh, Gage?"

John couldn't speak. His eyes wandered over to the mustard couch and the armchair Roy had complained tried to eat him the last time he stayed over. He had just finished paying for them. They were gray now; they looked like props from one of those late, late shows.

A warm hand dropped on his shoulder and squeezed before slipping away.

"Aw," John sniffed loudly. He fought back a cough. The place still reeked. "I was lucky. Fire didn't even get up here. Second floor was worse." Poor Mrs. Parker. She still can't find her little brown dog. "They sustained water damage downstairs. Third floor is a mess. Nobody can move back in there yet. This...this...it's just a lot of," John toed the carpet that was once a tan color, now it was as muddy as a rain-swollen river bank.

"Just a lot of smoke," John finished with a lump in his throat.

Chet clapped him on the back. It startled the cough John had been trying to hold back and it came out in a fit that had John slouched forward, hacking until tears sprang into his eyes. It felt like forever, Chet pounding his back, his chest and throat tight. Each time he tried to straighten up, he was coughing all over again.

Finally the tightness was back to only an annoying tickle in his throat again. John wiped his face with a sleeve as he stared hard at his couch—how was he going to get it cleaned? He could feel Chet's dirty look on him.

"Thought you said the doctors cleared you."

"I sure hope I still have some clean shirts," John said loudly. "I better go see in the bedroom."

"Johnny..."

"Think I got some old gear, too," John went on, his words as fast as his feet were. "I'll go see."

Before Chet could say anything more—because then John would never hear the end of it—John ducked into his bedroom and shut the door.

He wished he hadn't.

The smell in the bedroom was worse, so bad, John first tossed stuff around to make sure there wasn't a hot ember lurking about. He tugged the bedsheets off his bed and the acrid stench of scorched wood and oil wafted up.

The ghostly impression of a hand over his neck squeezed.

John gagged. He slapped a hand over the spot on his neck so hard the sting chased the phantom sensation away for a second.

Nothing's there. He was just imagining things. Pull yourself together, Gage.

Suddenly weak in the knees, John dropped heavily onto the stripped bed. He clasped a hand on his chest, fingers uselessly grabbing at the frantic heartbeat and the short breaths trying to break free from his ribs.

 

No, no. Calm down. Otherwise Chet will see and he'll blab it all over to Roy because he has a big mouth.

One steadying breath. Then another. John found himself no longer feeling like he'd been running uphill with all his gear on. He rested his elbows on his knees. His head drooped low to his chest. He found himself staring at the two foot cord of rope he was trying various knots on.

This wasn't so bad, John told himself. Loads of people come back to nothing but ash. It's just smoke damage. He can fix this. Everything here can be fixed, but damn it, it'll cost money, too.

John pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.

After a minute, John raised his heavy head up. He sucked in some air, coughed into his elbow and got to his feet, swaying briefly at the sudden elevation. He jogged in place, chanting 'Come on, come on' until it no longer felt like his face would shatter if he tried to smile. He even felt his face with his fingers when he did. Yup. There it was.

John grabbed the beat up blue travel case in his closet. He had had it since high school and thought many times about getting a new one. Now, he was glad to see the old thing had survived. Kind of. He gave it an experimental sniff. He made a face. He would air it out in Roy's yard. He gave each shirt in his closet a cautious sniff, tossing one in, making a face as he diagnosed others as total losses and dumped them into another pile. He didn't think about how much bigger the pile on his bed was compared to what was in his suitcase. He crammed in as many pairs of socks as he could because he sure wasn't going to get caught without a pair again and after a brief hesitation, threw in the cord of rope he was practicing his knots on.

"Doesn't look too bad," announced John as he swung open the bedroom door. "Uniform shirts smell like they were in a humidor but I'll give them a good wash and iron before I use them. Chet, you think...Chet?"

John canted his head, puzzled. His front door was closed now and Chet was nowhere in sight. He scowled. What a pal. Cindy from 4J must have sauntered by and Chet went out to introduce himself. Shoot, now he remembered why he'd never offered his place for game nights.

Grumbling, John set down his suitcase. He might as well grab the rest of his stuff so he could clean them at Roy's place. Given how friendly Cindy usually was, Chet could be a while.

The couch had a zippered slipcase that John could take off to wash. As he peeled the fabric off its frame, John breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the ash stains hadn't seeped past the covers. Alrighty then! If Roy didn't mind him hogging the washing machine the next two days, maybe John could get the couch clean without costing him more than the price of soap. Shoot, unless...would he need bleach too? John held up the cushion's cover and squinted at it. Was this color a dark or a white? Aw man, was that a ketchup stain on it? How was he supposed to get that off? Why weren't there any tags telling him how to—

Creak.

John stilled. He furrowed his brow and peered down at his feet. He pressed his right heel down again and the floor groaned, but not in a 'time to evacuate' sort of way. More in a 'time to complain to building management' way.

Shaking his head, John rolled up the covers as tight as he could and crammed them into his suitcase. He grimaced when he remembered too late about the stains. John pulled out the cases then groaned when he realized now his shirts were all dirty as well.

"For crying out loud," John griped. "Maybe I should just go to a laundromat and—"

Creak.

John paused. It sounded like it was behind him this time. He pursed his lips. Everything looked stable when he was in the bedroom. He bit his lower lip, thinking.

"Cut it out, Chet," John whispered unsteadily. "I know it's you." He waited.

Nothing.

John could feel a flush creeping up his ears. Good thing no one was here to see him jumping at shadows. He shook his head, rolling his eyes at himself. It wasn't even Halloween yet when they showed those creepy late night movies on television. The one with the invisible man had him up the whole night while everyone else was snoring away in the dorm. Roy ribbed him the next morning but could you blame a guy for being nervous about some guy no one sees, only hears, silent footsteps sneaking up on—

Abruptly, John spun on his heels. "Ah ha!" He blinked.

There was no one there.

Flushing, John rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. He turned back and stripped down his armchair. He jammed the slipcover into his full case, putting his weight on it to keep it shut when he heard it: the soft hiss of a slow exhale.

John froze.

"Chet," John whispered, not turning around. "Cut it out. You're not funny."

There was a weird feeling of someone standing behind him. There was a low steady rhythm of breathing behind him, very low, as if someone was trying to control his breathing. John could feel tiny spots of heat on his back, unmoving, steady...

Watching.

This wasn't Chet.

John swallowed. He could feel a bead of sweat trailing down the side of his face as he lifted his eyes, only his eyes, to the front door. The shut front door. 

With unsteady hands, John pretended to check the buckles on his case again. His right foot edged forward an inch.

Muttering nonsense under his breath, John made a show of hefting the case in his hands, testing the weight as his left knee flexed, shifting weight onto his feet, just three feet, around the armchair, past the coat rack—

Run.

With a sudden shout—it worked for bears—John threw his suitcase behind him at the mass he could sense. He took off.

Three steps.

Three lousy steps before footsteps as loud as thunder stomped after John and a large hand—Oh God, he knew that hand—gripped the back of his neck.

John, caught, was jerked back against what felt like a solid wall. A thick arm snaked around to ram under his throat, forcing his chin painfully up.

"You're a hard man to kill, Mister DeSoto," a voice snarled into his right ear. John thought he could feel the edge of teeth grazing by his ear. He could feel how tall the man was, how broad against him and Crockett's blurry photograph sprang up in his head.

Campbell.

"I never had to work so hard for my fee before."

"Where's...Where's Chet?" John gasped. He clawed the arm around his throat. The pressure against his Adam's apple was making the living room go dark.

"Don't worry." Campbell cooed like he sincerely wanted to reassure John. "Your buddy's taking a nap in the bathtub. He'll wake up, with just a headache." He chuckled softly into his ear.

"I don't kill for free."

John stomped on the foot next to his as hard as he could. Campbell only grunted. The arm cinched tighter around John's throat, hard and painful. He found himself flailing, hands grabbing, scrabbling as he fought for air.

A hand slipped up to his hair, almost like a caress before wrapping around to his forehead. John felt callused fingers digging into his temple.

"Hold still," Campbell purred. "I don't usually like the hands on approach but nothing else seems to work with you."

John's neck tensed as he realized his head was braced to be forced to turn where it normally couldn't. He gasped, but only a wheeze came out. His fingers dug into the arm's thick muscle—

"Johnny! Johnny!"

The loud banging on the door startled them both. John felt Campbell's arm around his throat slacken, enough he could slip his hands in between to give him enough leverage to push the arm away.

"He's in here, Roy!"

With an elbow—or two, at this point, everything was a blur—John shoved Campbell back. He caught a glimpse of a square jaw, dark slitted eyes and a scar that went from his jaw and disappeared into the neckline of his black shirt.

John stared at him, taken aback. The face taunted him. He think he's seen it many times before. The fire. At Rampart.

"I saw you," John whispered, unable to stop himself.

Campbell shrugged. "Hazards of the job," he murmured. "Now hold still. I'll be sure it's quick."

John swallowed. He backpedaled as Campbell approached.

Just then, the sharp thwack of an ax hit his door. An ax? John spared a disbelieving glance at his door. A crack already split his door. Another thwack and John saw the door bend.

How many people were out there?

Campbell growled and lunged. John ducked. He grabbed John's shoulder. John yelped, twisted away and fell over his armchair.

"Johnny!" Unbelievably, the chopping intensified on the door. A plank popped free right down the center. The ax blade broke through the door.

Campbell muttered something under his breath. He slipped a hand into his jacket pocket.

"He's got a gun!" John hollered as soon as something black shone in Campbell's grip. "Roy, he's got a gun!"

The chopping paused then continued.

John grabbed the suitcase on the floor and swung it at Campbell's arm.

A bullet zipped past his ear.

"Johnny!"

"I'm okay!" Not really, because Campbell was turning all sorts of red as he stalked towards John.

The couch that stood between them felt woefully inadequate, but at least the gun was knocked off...somewhere.

Campbell vaulted over the couch before John saw him move.

Arms around his middle, John found himself thrown into the coat rack. It crashed behind him into the window. The glass shattering almost drowned out Chet's groggy "What's going on?" and Roy's furious "Get off him!"

Winded, John swung a punch but it bounced off Campbell like it was nothing. He saw Chet's unsteady feet from the floor.

"'het!" John gasped as hands curled around his throat. "...'elp..."

Roy now had an arm through the door, slapping around for the doorknob as he shouted. "Chet! Over there! Grab him!"

Chet didn't question. He stumbled drunkedly towards Campbell and tackled him. Well, fell on him.

Campbell's hands were suddenly gone. John rolled to the side, coughing, trying to get air. He could hear Chet, slurring yet still sounding determined as he grappled with Campbell's legs.

Campbell stood up. He rose higher and higher before John. The man glanced down at Chet still wrestling with his ankles. Campbell's jaw flexed.

Before John could sit up, there was Roy. His partner jumped over the fallen couch, colliding with Campbell. The man toppled like a redwood by John's feet.

Campbell was cursing and writhing like a rattlesnake by the time John fumbled out the cord from his suitcase and tied his hands and feet. Oh well, he was gonna practice knot tying anyway.

Done, Campbell was dragged into the bathroom Chet was in before. They locked it and for good measure, jammed the coat rack against the door.

And dragged John's dresser in front of the door.

Along with his small bookcase.

And the other armchair.

Finished, they collapsed into the couch. After setting it back upright first.

John sat there, arms flung out to his sides, wheezing as he stared at the ceiling.

"Chet, you okay?" Roy asked somewhere to his right.

"That guy clocked me," Chet groaned. "Ouch, knock it off, Roy!"

John raised his head and blinked at the three Roys wavering in front of him. "Concussion?"

A hand slipped to the back of his head. John hissed at the knot Roy found.

"You asking about Chet or yourself? How many fingers do I have?"

John grinned crookedly at Roy because staring at that many wiggly fingers was going to make him throw up. "Ten," he announced. Then he frowned.

"We should call Dispatch."

"Don't worry," Roy said wryly, "I think half of LA County was right behind me—"

"Freeze!"

"Hi, Vince!" John and Chet chorused. Roy snorted.

Vince was a fuzzy dark spot as he stood over them. "You guys alright?"

"He tried to kill Roy again," John told the Vince spot solemnly. "Then he had to go to the bathroom."

"Uh huh." Vince went to check. Then he radioed for Engine 51 for help because he couldn't even get to the door.

Roy went to call for an ambulance. Suddenly, there was a lot more people in his apartment. Hopefully not Cindy though. Man, his place was a mess!

John squinted at Roy as he drew back into focus. He scowled.

"What? What's wrong?" Roy swept hands over his head again. "You feel nauseous?"

John shook his head. Oh, bad idea. He gulped convulsively before he shot Roy a glare.

"Roy, where's your sling?"

Roy froze, considered and huffed out an "Ouch." He sagged back onto the couch next to John.

John let his head drop onto Roy's left shoulder. "Where'd you get the ax?"

"The fire box downstairs." Roy paused. "Sorry about your door."

"That's alright." John blinked sleepily at his overturned armchair. "You think that counts as a dark or a light?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind."

"Gage," Chet mumbled as he raised his head and considered the wreckage. He dropped his head back to the couch. "You sure got lousy taste."

John weakly flapped an arm over Roy, but couldn't quite reach Chet. Roy, with his eyes closed, wordlessly reached over and punched Chet in the arm.

"Thanks, pally."

"Anytime, junior."

 

"Still in the doghouse?"

Roy sighed. After Campbell's arrest, he had called Joanne to confess (ironically he had called from the police station). Joanne left the kids with her mother and came home.

John had been checked back into Rampart and even though he was stuck with Morton (again) and a concussed Chet for a roommate, Roy considered him the lucky one compared to the cool reception he got when Joanne came home.

"Roy?"

Roy leaned out of the locker to give John a nod before he stuck his head back in. Darn it, he thought he had brought shoe polish in but he didn't see any in his locker. It was why they came in extra early for John's first shift back.

A whistle to his right caught his attention. Roy, head still in the locker looking for his elusive can of polish, wordlessly stretched an arm out towards his partner. John slapped his tin onto his waiting palm. Roy grunted his thanks as he straddled the bench.

"I mean..." John fumbled. He offered a faint grin. "Your wife can't stay mad forever, right?"

"Spaghetti," Roy reminded him. Even after finally admitting Mike's recipe was better, Joanne had been mad at them both for weeks.

John's smile faded. He gulped visibly and sat inside his locker with his hands clasped over his knees. Then he jumped out, all nervous energy pent up from missing two shifts.

"I mean, it wasn't like it was, you know, on purpose." John hopped onto the bench and peered at the mirrors over the line of sinks.

"Shoot," John grumbled almost to himself. "This didn't wash out."

John rubbed his thumb over a spot only he seemed to see. He looked down at his chest with a scowl before carefully pinning his badge and name tag on.

Roy's mouth flattened. The other shirts John had packed up and brought over were a lost cause. They had tried washing them. Joanne, too, but the smell lingered. The slipcovers were a goner, too. And from what Chet told the others, pretty much everything in John's apartment were a loss.

John seemed more concerned about Joanne right now, though. He squinted at himself in the mirror over the sinks, brushing a palm over the broadcloth of his shirt. He jumped off the bench to duck back into his perch inside his locker.

 Still trying to cheer Roy up, ever dogged in his belief that things are never that bad, John pressed on.

"I mean, she looked alright this morning for breakfast."

 But it was hard to forget Joanne's cool morning greeting to him before they left. It warmed a few degrees towards Johnny, but only after she caught him trying to hide a cough over a bite of waffles. She forgot she was mad at John for his part in Roy's deception. She fussed to get his partner a glass of water and lectured him on his eating habits, before swapping out his waffles for soothing cream of wheat.

Roy looked over to John, who was waiting, looking anxious because he was staying with them for another two weeks until his place was fixed.

"She's not mad at you. You didn't lie to her."

Roy scrubbed furiously over his left boot.

"But you were trying to protect her," John pointed out in a small voice.

Roy stopped brushing. He glowered halfheartedly at John. "You know that. I know that. She knows that." Roy smeared some polish on his right boot now. "But it doesn't change the fact that I lied." He snapped out the rag and rubbed over the toe.

"Hey, partner, go easy with that. That has to last me the rest of the year," John joked weakly.

Roy glanced down. To his dismay, he had carved deep grooves into the tin. There was enough wax on his boot to polish the whole station's shoes.

"Darn it. Sorry," Roy sighed. He handed the tin back to John before he depleted everything.

"It's alright," John reassured him. He offered Roy a lopsided grin. "I was only kidding." Nevertheless, Roy caught John scraping the polish that clung to the edges with his finger, nudging it back into the can before twisting the cap back on.

"Still down about that?" Roy asked. He sat back from his slouch over his boots.

John didn't ask what 'that' was. He smiled wanly and shrugged a shoulder.

"Be better if the docs would sign me off for overtime," John muttered. He ducked his head into the locker but still, Roy heard the tiny cough he was trying to muffle into his shoulder.

"That's why," Roy pointed out. "Brackett said two weeks. You do all right in the checkup then, he'll okay full duty." When John didn't pull his head out of his locker, Roy grabbed one of his boots, reached over and nudged John's knee with it.

"Roy!" John squawked. He looked comical as he tried to twist around to check the back of his trousers. "These are my last pair!" He huffed, calming down when it looked like his uniform was unscathed.

Roy raised his hands in surrender at John's glower. "It's not like Brackett said you couldn't fight fires, just that he didn't want you to be more exposed than you already are."

John mumbled something before he turned around to sit inside his locker.

"What?"

For a moment, it looked like John was going to pretend he didn't say anything but he glanced over to Roy. His shoulders slumped further.

"I said. I wouldn't be fighting fires without any gear," John fumbled. "And...and...well, it looks like I'm not going to be able to pay you back next—What?"

Roy realized he was smiling the whole time Johnny was talking. He swallowed his grin. "Oh." He lifted a shoulder. "I told you. Don't worry about it."

"But..."

Roy shrugged. "Don't worry about your gear."

"But even if I get the coats replaced, Marco's spare helmet was a goner. I gotta get him back his spare, two for me and I don't even know where Chet's fancy gloves went and..."

Sighing, Roy shot his partner an exasperated look. "Look, it's being handled."
 

"But how?" John sat so close to the edge of his locker, it looked like he was going to spring out of it like a Jack-in-a-Box. "Even if headquarters okay me using borrowed gear, there was everybody else's gear I have to replace because the guys can't go without spares and the Chief said..."
 

Roy threw up his hands.

"You know what? Let's go." Roy tugged on his boots, checked the laces before he waved impatiently to John. "Come on. Up and at 'em."

"What? Wait. Roy, didn't you hear what I just—where are we going?" Nevertheless, John followed him out of the locker room and to the common area. "Hey, Dwyer," he absently greeted B shift's paramedic having coffee. He blinked when he realized everyone else was here early as well. But he recovered, fixated on Roy again.

"Roy. Wait, Roy..."

As soon as Roy spotted Chet, sitting at the kitchen table with the paper, he gave him a light punch on the shoulder.

"Are you going to tell him or not?" Roy demanded. He grinned as he stuck his thumb over his shoulder towards John. "Will you put him out of his misery already?"

"What? What?" John glared at Chet then at Marco by the coffee pot, snickering as he poured Cap a cup.

Dwyer snorted as he swatted the paper Chet held up over his face. "Come on, Kelly. Junior here is jumping out of his skin."

"Junior?" John growled. "Chet, I told you—"

A sharp whistle cut John off. Cap leaned against the counter, cradling his coffee cup. He took a sip, eyed Marco until he gulped back his smirk. He then dragged his gaze over to Mike, who promptly turned off the television.

Cap cleared his throat and stared meaningfully at the back of Chet's head.

The paper drooped and Chet's sheepish grin popped through.

"Aw, I was planning to let Gage..."

"Kelly."

"Yes, sir." Chet sighed. He got up, cleared his throat behind a fist.

"On behalf of the LA—"

Marco tossed a dish towel at him.

Chet threw up his hands.

"Fine! No sense of ceremony here! We should honor—"

It wasn't clear who threw the other rag that landed on Chet's head.

Chet peeled the towel off his head. He sauntered over to John, who tracked him warily. To Roy's amusement, John checked the ceiling for any water balloons.

Whistling to himself as he dug into his back pocket, Chet pulled out a folded envelope that was stuffed, bound with a rubber band to keep it from bursting.

With a flourish, Chet slapped the envelope on Johnny's chest.

"Remember, my gloves were from—"

"That guy in Pomona. I know. But Chet, I—What is this?"

John's mouth dropped open at the wad of bills in the envelope. He shot Roy a guilty look.

"Guys. Listen, I appreciate this but I can't accept this from you guys! I—"

"It's not from us," Cap interrupted. "Chet let the word out at your building about your gear and your neighbors wanted to do something for the fireman who got them out."

Roy punched John lightly on the shoulder. He grinned at John's wide-eyed expression. "They had bake sales, yard sales while you were back in Rampart."

"B-bake sales?" John stammered.

Chet hummed. "Your neighbor Cindy makes a nice apple pie." He patted his stomach.

John's head whipped towards Chet. "Cindy?"

Chet smirked, patted his belly once more. "Marco liked her brownies."

Marco chuckled but nodded with a faraway expression. "Cindy had very nice..." At Cap's cough, he finished with, "cupcakes." Marco shrugged with a crooked grin.

Whatever annoyance John had with them faded when he looked down at the money again. "I..."

Roy gently elbowed him. "See? Told you not to worry about the gear."

John was still stammering his thanks when a new voice sounded in the room.

"Well, guess they won't be calling you DeSoto any more, Gage." Detective Crockett stepped in, hands in his pockets. Barton, fortunately, was nowhere to be seen. Good, Roy still had the overwhelming urge to punch him.

"Oh no." Johnny blanched. "Campbell escaped?"

Chet cupped the back of his head and grimaced.

Crockett, smiling, shook his head. "No, no. In fact, Campbell is already on his way in front of a judge this morning. He gave a full confession to Barton so there's no need for you two to testify."

"Oh." John flicked a look to Roy. He rubbed a finger under his nose as he shifted from foot to foot. "We weren't, you know, worried about that, but, that's good. Great." He caught Crockett eying the envelope in his hands.

John started.

"Oh no, this isn't a bribe!" Johnny yelped.

Cap slapped a hand over his face.

Crockett chuckled. "I hope not, Gage." He paused before pulling out an envelope of his own out of his jacket. "Oh, this isn't a bribe either."

John gave Crockett a puzzled frown before he peered into the envelope and the slip of paper inside. He started.

"Roy," John choked out.

Looking over John's shoulder, Roy saw it was a check, typed out from the US Marshals, for...Roy whistled as he eyed the total.

"There was a reward for Campbell's arrest," Crockett explained as Chet leaned over to see too.

"Hey, Gage, that should be enough to replace all that crummy furniture of yours," Chet whistled. He rubbed his hands together. "And to get me these other gloves from this guy in Fullerton—"

"What about Pomona?" Roy smirked.

"Aw, that guy does shoddy work. Now the guy in Fullerton..."

Crockett shook hands with everyone before taking his leave. Dwyer, his shift now over, waved his goodbyes.

John sat on the couch with a slight dazed expression on his face, the two envelopes clutched in his hand.

Marco nodded towards John. Roy nodded to him and Mike as they trotted out to wash the engine. Chet was walking with Cap, who nodded absently as Chet told him about the fine qualities of the gloves from Fullerton.

Quietly, Roy sat down next to John. He waited.

"I was all ready to eat peanut butter sandwiches for the rest of the year," John said finally.

Roy made a face. "Like Joanne and I would let that happen again." He nudged John's knee with his. "Peanut butter was your favorite."

"Peanut butter was my favorite," John repeated, agreeing. He stared at the envelopes in his fist. His Adam's apple bobbed. "This...I mean..." He twisted towards Roy.

"You know," John told him very seriously, "Half this reward money should go to you. I mean, Campbell was out to get you really and you went after him even though—"

"No," Roy cut him off. "He came after you. He was never out to get me. He heard my name called out that day, but saw you in the paper." Roy slumped into the couch.

"I was never in danger." Roy gulped. His stomach knotted as he remembered chopping through John's door, seeing John curled on his side, coughing, choking, just like when Campbell had locked him in that death trap of a room. Johnny had looked like he was in so much agony then, coughing so hard, he had to be carried out of the fire because he could no longer stand. And Morton had barred Roy from the treatment room at first, but Roy knew when they let him in finally that Johnny had stopped breathing at one point.

All because of him, all because of one coat and one lousy newspaper article.

"Guess you were having a pretty bad week," Roy joked weakly. He lowered his eyes to his knees.

John was quiet for a beat.

"Well...." John coughed. "John DeSoto was having a pretty bad week." He tapped the envelopes on Roy's knee. "John Gage though, was pretty lucky." He grinned lopsided.

Roy stared at John before he felt the corners of his mouth tick upwards. "Yeah, I guess so." Something loosened in his gut. "Yeah, John Gage was pretty darn lucky last week."

Johnny flapped the envelopes at him. "Roy DeSoto could be, too."

"Nope." Roy firmly nudged them away. "That's all yours."

"Aw, Roy." John brightened. "Hey. I know! I got it! I got it!"

Roy pretended to lean away from his partner vibrating with worrying excitement. "Whatever it is, don't give it to me."

"Funny, Roy."

"Yup, that's me. The comedian."

"Roy. Listen." John shook the envelope Crockett gave him. "If you won't take half, at least let me get you the biggest bunch of roses!"

"Oh Johnny, you shouldn't have," Roy drawled. He chuckled when John shoved him. He shoved back. "Alright! Alright! What are the roses for?"

"For Joanne!" John waved towards the payphone and the telephone book. "We get her a huge bouquet, okay? Okay? And maybe one of those boxes of chocolates, alright? You sign your name on a card and get some guy in a fancy uniform to deliver them. Roy! It'll be great!"

Roy mulled it over. Joanne did have a soft spot for roses. "She likes the chocolate ones with the caramel insides," he said slowly.

"Well, get her that! Get the biggest box they have! Get her two!" John was practically bouncing on the couch now. "What do you say?"

Roy smiled. "Okay. Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. Thanks."

John grinned. He looked like he wanted to do a victory dance.

"Although..." Roy hedged. "You should get a bunch of roses for someone else."

John's brow knitted. "Huh? Who?"

Roy smirked as he edged off the couch. "Morton."

Roy leaped off the couch, just as John yelped, outraged. But before John could retaliate, the tones rang out.

"Station 51. Truck 8. Warehouse fire. 435 Palson Bouvelard. Four three five Palson. Time out 1017."

Roy tossed John the new turnout gear coat he had hid in the squad. John whooped as he slipped it on, Fireman Gage stenciled new and black and solid on his back. He slid over to his side of the squad.

There was a click in Roy's mind the moment John got in and shut the door.

"Ready?" John asked cheerfully as he brushed a hand down the stiff new coat. "All set, pally?"

As the sirens blared and the garage doors opened, Roy replied, "Ready, Junior."

And this time, John didn't correct him.

 

The End

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

Acknowledgements: I would like to thank the Acad—okay, maybe not (LOL). I do wish to thank LdyAnne, who went through several versions of this story even as it grew from a wee story to what you see today. Patience, enthusiasm, and a dedicated red pen went into this fic. Oh, I had some part in this too. LOL.

Many Thanks: To a certain trainee. Thank you for sharing with me what it entails. Good luck with the academy!

Dear firefighters: Thank you.

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