Hellfire

by inkling

For Rose, who, with patience and persistence, discovered that even dedicated Stoker Babes have their price.

© 2001 by inkling. Standard "they don't belong to me they just come out to play now and then" disclaimers apply. "Emergency!" and its characters © Mark VII Productions, Inc. and Universal Studios. All rights reserved. No infringement of any copyrights or trademarks is intended or should be inferred. The settings and characters are fictitious, even if a real name may be used. Any similarity to actual persons, living or deceased, or to actual events is purely coincidental and is not intended to suggest that the events described actually occurred.

Gratuitous authorial commentary: Gratias ago to: Marykatesensei, MJ, and Rose, and to JoAnn, and Linda. More thanks to Rose for answering innumerable questions about Lakhota language and culture; to Cece for cheerleading, certain evil details; to CJ for the final dip, fluff, and comb, and for this little adventure's first home online; and to the old E!fic list in general for patience and help with piddly details and nuisance questions. Last but not least, thanks to Todd for taking in the orphan.

Special thanks to Cheryl M., momoftoad, MaryMorris, Doc Sharon, and Pat E. for the medical and technical details.

Caveat Lector! Reader, beware! You have entered inkling's UnE!verse, and all bets are off concerning the guys, their lives, their careers, and their favorite flavor of Jell-O. In my UnE!verse Marco Lopez was injured in a fire previous to this story and is no longer a member of 51's A shift.

Dutch Masters is the creation and property of MJ Hajost and appears here with her gracious consent (and the author's signed waiver stating no barns in any shape, form, or flames appear in this story.)

Hellfire

by: inkling

Simply stated, the most effective manner in which to fight fires is to prevent them from starting.

~~Essentials of Firefighting

~* 1968 *~

Johnny Gage was in hell. Sister Tercella would be proud of herself: Johnny's manifest destiny--the manifest result of his multitude of sins--had been the nun's favorite prophecy throughout his time under her iron-fisted rule. And now all those years of delinquency stood him in good stead. A terrified seven-year-old, facing Sister Tercella in her sweltering office, understood entirely how it felt to be drowning in a cauldron of black swirling heat, stinking sweat, and the bitter copper taste of his own fear.

Sliding his gloved hand along the rigid canvas hose, Johnny pushed thoughts of both boarding school and the afterlife away. He forced himself to breathe slowly--like a fireman, not a probie who panicked and used his air up too fast. Just because he was a probationary fireman and this was a bigger fire than most of the seasoned men he was supposed to be learning from had ever worked...

Setting his jaw, Johnny crawled on, forward, through the roaring furnace of heat and smoke and blind terror. He forced himself to remember his training, not his childhood. Do not let go of the hose. Breathe slowly. Do not panic. Do not let go of the hose...

Each exhaled breath whooshed loudly in his blistered ears. He pushed away the stinging pain, focused instead on the lukewarm water he crawled through. His left hand grasped the hose--his lifeline--firmly; the fingers of his right hand were twisted in the collar of Captain Fuller's turnout coat. The other two-and-a-half-inch hose vibrated and wiggled and slithered side to side on the floor inches his captain's inert form. Johnny ignored it. He'd just seen what that much uncontrolled force could do to an experienced firefighter. He wasn't touching it, no matter what the fire surrounding them did.

And just as he'd forced Sister Tercella from his mind each June, refused every thought of school and black-gowned dictators and the long winter months far from home, now Johnny forced away thoughts of the fire behind him. He ignored the screaming in the back of his mind that there weren't any fire stops built into the walls around him. Refused to acknowledge the dire insistence hammering through his veins that flames were climbing through those walls, into the second story of the old, rebuilt and over-built building. Hell wasn't going to drop down, wasn't going to consume them from above, just like it wasn't going to rise up to devour them from below.

It just wasn't.

Caressing the hose, his hand slid forward. Johnny crawled two paces further. Dragged Fuller up beside him. His hand slid forward...

Of course, the one thing Sister Tercella hadn't counted on was the fact that while Johnny was in hell, he was also in church. Sister Tercella's face bobbed in his memory, one long eyebrow lifted in an elegant curl. Her full lips pursed, further crinkling the wrinkled paper passing for skin on her sunken cheeks. Obviously this was the wrong sort of church, she would have said, rolling her r's just a bit and enunciating every upper class vowel clearly. Those Protestants, they didn't really understand the Sacraments anyway. They couldn't really expect to get into heaven, could they? It didn't matter how many nights each fall they packed their Army-issue meeting tent with Holy Rollers and Hellfire and Damnation preachers; they were not members of the true faith, and therefore they were doomed.

Johnny shivered and refused to admit he and his crewmates were doomed today. They just weren't. Station 31 had been part of the first alarm response. Last he'd heard, before Fuller handed him the nozzle--as was proper, to give the probie experience--the Battalion chief had called in three more alarm assignments, more men and equipment to battle the fires of hell consuming the Holy United Pentecostal Church of Jesus Christ and All His Saints. More sirens had wailed in the distance, but like the good firefighter he aspired to be, Johnny had ignored them and headed into the blaze, crouching low and cradling the nozzle in his arms. Fuller's hand on his shoulder had directed him, helped him lift the still unexpected weight of the charged hose, and they'd followed Trujillo and Palmer's line into the burning house of worship.

It wasn't the first time Johnny'd been in a Holy Roller church. He and Clayton Green Shirt had sneaked out to watch the doings down at the Pentecostals' tent one night, just after his tenth birthday. They had actually seen Lawanda Dull Knife rolling on the rough wooden floor, jerking and shrieking nonsense and spitting--not quite frothing at the mouth, but close enough to send Johnny and Clayton into paroxysms of silent laughter before they ducked out of the tent and ran back to their dorm. Johnny had thought he'd known what hell was that night, crawling up the spreading rose trellis and in through the transom only to find Sister Tercella waiting for them, a dark, winged fury rising up from the gleaming oak floor.

He'd thought wrong.

Barely visible, Trujillo's air pack bobbed in front of him. The broken arm Johnny had tucked into the rookie's turnout coat left the other man only three limbs with which to scramble to safety. Around them the air boiled and bubbled; behind them the flames roared. Johnny shifted his hand, taking a firmer grip on Fuller's turnout, and moved both his burden and himself two feet further into the darkness, away from the glowing, grasping tentacles of orange and red behind them. Where were the other crews? Where was their help? Their relief? Surely they'd figured things out by now; surely Palmer had made it to safety and told them a rookie, a probie, and an injured officer were still back there, in the belly of the beast?

Another breath, and Johnny slid his hand up the hose. He pulled Fuller's limp body through the inches deep water on the sanctuary floor. And again. And again. The two-and-a-half-inch hose was such a tiny link to salvation. Would it turn to ashes beneath his grip? Was he going to roast to death in his turnouts or drown in his own sweat?

Trujillo was making better progress now, up and duckwalking instead of crawling, five feet or more ahead of Johnny and his burden. Johnny blinked sweat away, raised his eyes for a second. The black roiling ceiling of smoke had lifted a bit. Someone must finally have had the balls to order breaking out the lurid stained glass windows for ventilation. A muffled shout, and Johnny looked forward. Trujillo, squatting by the hose, pointed off to the side, yelling something.

Johnny couldn't understand his crewmate's words, but he got up off his knees and duckwalked through the grey smoke to where Trujillo waited, Fuller's body creating a small wake in the shallow sea as he was dragged along.

"Shit!" That was clear enough. Trujillo leaned forward, yelling, "That...never...out!"

Johnny's gaze followed Trujillo's pointing arm. A ragged ghost just feet away, Eddie Palmer retched and coughed. Down on his hands and knees, his helmet gone and his SCBA tangled around his neck, the older firefighter crawled two steps--away from the hose and its link to safety, heading further into the darkness and heat, not out. No wonder their relief hadn't come: the one who'd supposedly gone for help had never made it out.

They were going to have to rescue themselves.

Trujillo was still yelling, though it sounded like Spanish now. Probably expletive-laced Spanish. He'd better slow down or he was going to run out of air. Johnny took a tighter grip on Fuller's turnout coat and slid the captain past his own booted feet and deposited him at Trujillo's. Trujillo nodded and sat, reaching out with his good hand to prop Fuller's head up out of the water. Refusing to meet his gaze, ignoring what sounded suspiciously like "Vaya con Dios" from the other fireman, Johnny turned and left the safety of the hoses.

All the Lakhota swear words Clayton had ever taught him rolling peji cigarettes out behind the convent's tumble-down barn, made a silent litany as he crawled swiftly through hell and low water over to where Palmer had lost his way. Grabbing for his boot, Johnny found himself dodging a flying kick.

"Hey!" His cry was muffled by the SCBA, but Palmer heard him, swiveled around, his eyes streaming and his face blackened by smoke. He blinked at Johnny, his curly red hair plastered black to his head with sweat.

"C'mon, Palmer, the exit's this way." Johnny waved back towards the hoses and their crewmates with the arm he'd lifted to block the kick. Gasping, Palmer stared. He blinked, then coughed and crawled toward Johnny. When he got close enough, Johnny reached for the SCBA dangling around his neck.

"Here, put this back on; it's pretty noxious in here."

"NO!" Palmer shouted in the instant before he shoved Johnny away. Johnny landed hard on his shoulder against the warped wood, creating a mini-tsunami across the floor, his helmet pushed awry and the strap almost strangling him. Damn, now he had water in his ear. Fighting the temptation to just lie there anyway and let the lukewarm water cool his stinging flesh, Johnny sat up and pulled his helmet back on top of his head. A muffled shout came from Trujillo's direction; Johnny waved one arm in reply. On his hands and knees, Eddie hadn't made it far. His face was almost on the floor in a paroxysm of coughing, deep and rasping. But he was still trying to crawl off on a diagonal, away from the hoses and Trujillo, waiting patiently with Fuller.

Anger rose, more choking than the fear for an instant, and Johnny entertained the thought that he could just leave the man. Trujillo sure as hell wouldn't object. Fuller was unconscious and would never know. The two injured firefighters were counting on Johnny to get them out; surely that was enough responsibility? Let Palmer, especially, fend for himself. But even as he allowed the thought to surface, Johnny knew he couldn't. New as he was to this brotherhood, unwelcome as he might feel in the fraternity of L. A. County firefighters, Johnny understood tribal values very well. He couldn't leave a brother behind.

"Hey, come on, that's the way out!" When the other man ignored him, Johnny lunged forward and grabbed a foot again. Palmer rolled over and kicked at him, but Johnny dodged once more. Hands up in the air, he waited for a second while the other man stared up at him, his mouth open and round. Finally, something seemed register in the man's bloodshot eyes.

"Gage?" he said, or at least that was the word Johnny thought his lips formed. There was no way to be sure in this inferno of noise and heat.

"Yeah." He crawled up to where Palmer lay, and keeping his hands away from the SCBA gear, grabbed his fellow firefighter by the shoulders. Pulling him up to his knees, Johnny waved a hand at Trujillo, barely visible through the hovering smoke as he stood guard over their lifeline out of this mess. "Take it easy; just take it easy," he said, hardly understanding himself through his airmask. "We're gonna get you out of here, okay? THAT way," he emphasized, giving him a small shove in the right direction. This time the other fireman didn't object, just crawled forward, coughing, toward Trujillo and Fuller. Johnny followed him, through the black heat and swirling smoke, hoping their bread crumb line to safety wasn't ashes, that it still led out of the inferno and into the welcome light of day.

Sister Tercella would be dumbfounded. Not only was Johnny Gage going to escape hell, he was bringing three other lost souls out with him.

~* E! *~

Fire is actually a by-product of a larger process called combustion. Fire and combustion are two words used interchangeably by most people; however, firefighters should understand the difference.

~~Essentials of Firefighting

~* 1978 *~

Johnny whistled cheerily as he rounded the engine; the slap he gave the bright red vehicle echoed through the bay. The normal station odor of combined diesel, grease, and smoke didn't quite override the faintly burnt aroma of coffee and eggs emanating from the day room, and Johnny's stomach growled. The remains of B-Shift's breakfast definitely smelled better than the options he'd had at home: dry cornflakes or cornflakes with sour milk. Hopefully the tones would have pity on a starving man and give him time to eat the leftovers.

Rotating his left shoulder as he passed the squad, Johnny winced. He shouldn't have hauled that plant of Rayna's all by himself. But the admiring gaze of Jenny Caraveganelly--or whatever her last name was--had been the only thing on his mind Tuesday. Watching over the fence as he lugged the leafy shrub and its earthenware pot from Mike's truck, across the yard and up onto Mike's porch, the dark-haired lovely had appreciated the show he put on. So what if Johnny's shoulders were still complaining two days later? Aspirin and a liberal amount of Icy-Hot would take care of his aches and pains; that little display of strength, combined with his trademark grin directed freely throughout the afternoon at both Jenny and her grandmother, should net him at least two dates--provided he could get Jenny's phone number from Mike.

"...I'm telling you, Mike, make sure Rayna gets rid of that dish drainer. That is, if you plan on--"

"Good morning, gentlemen." Johnny interrupted Chet as he entered the day room. "Oh, and good morning to you too, Chet."

Chet scowled at Johnny, but didn't move from where he lounged against the counter, coffee in one hand, the other hand deep in a pocket. Roy, seated at the table in front of the refrigerator, mumbled something into his morning dose of caffeine and kept staring into thin air. Across the table from Roy, Mike looked up from the daily edition of the LA Times.

"Hey, Johnny," he said, and went back to drinking his coffee and ignoring Chet.

At the stove, Johnny paused for a moment, then decided: Coffee first, food second.

"Hey, Gage," Kelly said. "Is that Ben-Gay I smell?"

The cabinet door Johnny opened just missed the other man's head. Pulling a plate out and dropping it on the counter, he grinned. Chet scowled back.

"Just 'cause you were too busy chatting up Miss Cara-carra--Mike's neighbor to do any real work, Chet." He reached back into the cupboard.

"Hey, like I told ya Tuesday, she's just trying to make Mike jealous, that's al--"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. You just said that because she paid more attention to me--and to Marco--than she did to you. Besides, what does it matter if she had her eye on Mike?" Johnny pulled a coffee cup out and waved it in Chet’s direction. "Whether he's married or not, Mike's off the market, and the poor girl's going to need consoling, isn't she?" Ignoring Mike's snort of disbelief, he straightened up and grinned at Chet, placing his free hand on his chest. "And what better man for the job than Johnny Gage, Los Angeles County's best paramedic, and all around extraordinary guy?"

Someone choked at the table, but Johnny ignored the noise, preferring instead to enjoy the sight of Chet, stammering for an answer for once. Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. Mike still leaned his elbows on the table, but now he held a small slip of pink paper out between two fingers.

"The lady's name is Caraveggio," Mike said. "She lives in Pasadena. Her grandmother gave me her phone number, wanted me to make sure I gave it to 'that nice, dark-haired fireman'."

"Caraveggio," Johnny repeated, smirking at Chet. It wasn't hard to shove the shorter man aside and grab the slip of paper Mike held out. All three men stared at the phone number written in a loopy, feminine hand for a second, then Johnny shook it in Chet's face. Mike grinned and went back to his newspaper.

"What makes you think that's for you, Gage? I've got dark hair and I'm definitely nicer than you." Chet grabbed for the pink paper, but Johnny yanked it away.

"Uh uh uh," he gloated, then leaned forward and got right in Chet's face. "Looks like this--" Johnny pointed at his own chest, "nice, dark-haired fireman has her phone number, and you--" he jabbed his finger at Chet, "don't."

Chet scowled, turning his glare on Roy and Mike when they both laughed out loud. Johnny tucked the slip of paper into his shirt pocket and smirked some more. A sulking Chet first thing in the morning made the eggs congealing in the frying pan look positively edible, and Johnny helped himself to the rest. Nabbing three pieces of the toast languishing on the counter, he carried his plate to the table and sat down next to Roy. Two bites of eggs and most of one piece of toast later, Johnny realized he didn't have his coffee, just as Roy got up.

"Roy, would you mind--"

"Yeah," Roy said simply, and Johnny grinned.

"Thanks, partner."

Chet headed for the coffeepot, but Roy beat him to it, smiling slightly as he filled his own cup and the empty one Johnny had left on the counter. The dribbles from the pot netted Chet less than half a cup, and he glared at Roy. Mike snickered while Johnny tried not to choke on the second piece of toast.

"Gee, Chet, it just doesn't seem to be your day. No coffee, no phone number...Maybe you should have stayed home in bed." He reached for the cup Roy set in front of him, smiling his thanks to his partner.

"No, he shouldn't have," Captain Stanley's voice preceded him into the day room. He waved aside the chorus of "Good mornings" that accompanied his entrance, proceeding directly to the coffee pot. Finding it empty, he glared at Chet. "Kelly, didn't your mother ever teach you that if you take the last of something, you make some more for everyone else?"

Putting on a sincerely martyred look, Chet opened his mouth, but Stanley shoved the pot at him before he could defend himself.

"Make some more coffee, ya twit!"

Chet deflated and set the pot down. He shot a dirty look over his shoulder at Roy before reaching for the coffee canister sitting out on the counter. Stanley stepped over to the table, his hands in his pockets.

"Cutler's out for two weeks; he wrenched his knee subbing at 110's yesterday."

Johnny laughed. "After the way he let Mike clean him out at the last poker night, he should use the time off to go to Vegas and practice his five card draw." He waved his last piece of toast at 51's engineer.

Mike glared at Johnny, who grinned, unrepentant, before half the slice of toast disappeared into his mouth.

"Maybe you should just enjoy the respite from losing for a while," Roy said, reaching for the sports section Mike had just shoved at him. "That's gotta be the first time you're not the one whining about losing all your date money in the game."

Shoveling a mouthful of eggs in over his toast, Johnny could only frown at his partner.

"Bobby called me yesterday at home," Mike said, shooting an unforgiving look at Johnny. He reached for the paper and unfolded the Opinion section, leaning over it with both elbows on the table. "Swore he'd be back in a couple of weeks, and told me not to spend any of the money I won. Said he was going to win it all back, and then some."

"If we could get past the poker game and onto the business the County pays us for," Stanley said, "what it boils down to is that we're a man short."

Still chewing, Johnny grinned.

"With Chet around you're always a 'man short', Cap. Or is that a short man? Chet, are you sure you didn't borrow your sister's platform shoes to pass the height requirement?"

Cap's stern look cut off Chet's rejoinder and he sullenly went back to filling the coffee pot with cold water. The look Stanley turned on Johnny after that mutated into a disgusted glare, and Johnny belatedly remembered his mouthful of eggs and toast. He closed his mouth and swallowed, but Cap was looking at Mike now. "Dispatch will have someone here within the hour; meanwhile the engine's stood down. You and Kelly there can make good use of the time and start inspecting those ropes that C-shift used last night. After Chester finishes making the coffee."

Mike nodded and returned to the Times; coffee perking behind him, Chet pulled a chair out and sat at the table, still scowling. Stanley sniffed loudly and stared at him.

"Chet, is that Ben-Gay I smell?"

~* E! *~

Heat--the form of energy that raises temperature.

~~Essentials of Firefighting

Johnny tossed his notepad into the jockey box and pushed it shut. This had been their fourth run since being toned out at 8:25 this morning, and they had yet to get back to the station. He slipped his pen into his shirt pocket and settled into the seat, arm out across the back as Roy started the engine and the squad pulled away from Rampart hospital.

"You know, Roy, I bet that little Suzanne's mom doesn't wear a bra."

Roy nearly drove into a pylon at that, and Johnny grinned.

"Watch where you're driving, Roy. I know I don't--and I'm sure you don't--wanna have to explain to Cap why Brice had to come rescue us in Rampart's parking lot."

The glare he got from Roy was murderous. Johnny just grinned and kept his thoughts to himself. After they were safely out from under the hospital's massive bulk and into traffic on Sepulveda, Roy broke the silence.

"Okay, I’ll bite. What makes you say that?"

"Say what?"

"That her mom doesn't...that she doesn't wear a...you know..." Roy let go of the steering wheel long enough to make an encouraging wave with one hand, giving him a sidelong look. Johnny grinned, and Roy's ears turned red.

"That she doesn't wear a bra? Roy, for a married man you sure are shy about some things."

That netted him another disgusted glare, and Johnny grinned again.

"What makes you say Suzanne's mom doesn't wear a bra?" Roy asked, enunciating everything very clearly and staring over at Johnny. He looked back at the road just in time to slam on the brakes and bring the squad to a stop, inches from the rear bumper of a dump truck. Johnny caught himself against the dash.

"Geez, Roy, watch where you're going, will ya? Or I just might have to drive for the rest of the shift."

The look Roy shot him spoke volumes about his chances of driving anytime in the next ten years. Johnny shrugged and turned away to the window. The first thing they'd seen as they rolled up to this last rescue was 10-year-old Suzanne, in pigtails and dirt-smeared jeans, perched on the hilltop above the sullen boys circled around their fallen compatriot. It hadn't taken long for the paramedics to splint the kid's arm; but given the seriousness of the break they'd transported him to Rampart as a precaution. And the entire time they were waiting for the ambulance to arrive, little Suzanne had stood up there, going on and on about the fact that anything boys could do, girls could do too and probably do better. Johnny grinned, staring at the passing fields and pastures. He turned back to his partner.

"Just think about it, Roy. Now would Cindy--would your daughter go out to where Chris and his friends were riding their bikes, and tell them exactly how to do the jumps, and then get in there and make a jump that showed them all up? I mean, none of Chris’s friends have ever broken an arm trying to keep up with Cindy, have they?"

"Cindy can’t ride a bike without training wheels."

"What’s that got to do with anything?"

Roy sighed and stared straight ahead. Johnny waited a second, but when his partner obviously didn’t have anything else to say, he shrugged and went ahead with his train of thought.

“Okay, so let’s take Joanne for instance--"

“No," said Roy. Johnny ignored him.

“See, Joanne, she’s pretty traditional--like you, right? You and Joanne, you’re both pretty traditional. I bet she’s never been into all this women's lib stuff, has she? And she--"

"This had better not go anywhere near Joanne's bra," Roy cut in. The squad stopped for a red light, and he took advantage of the moment to glare at Johnny.

"Uh... well, no, that's not where I was going, Roy. Sheesh. What kind of a thing is that to say to your partner? Would I do that?"

“Let’s not find out," said Roy, shooting him another glare before moving out with traffic. Stung, Johnny stared out the window. After a moment’s silence, Roy spoke again.

"You were making a point?"

"I was trying to, until you interrupted me." Johnny shifted around to face Roy.

"Well, by all means, don't let me stop you when you're on a roll."

"I was trying to say--look, Joanne, she's home with your kids; she's teaching Cindy how to be a woman and not a man. But Suzanne, all that stuff she was saying about boys and girls and girls being as good as boys? Don't ya think her mom would have burned her bra back when they did that? Now don't get me wrong." Johnny put a hand on his chest. "It is nearly 1980, and I'm all for women not wearing bras--especially the pretty ones." He grinned, but it was wasted on Roy, who was staring straight ahead. Johnny waved at a little boy in the paneled station wagon next to them before finishing up his train of thought. “But I’m betting, I’m just betting, that her mom was out there with them, burning her bra."

Roy didn’t say anything, merely concentrated on turning onto 223rd street. Johnny rested his arm on the open window. He thought for a moment longer, then snorted.

“Course, she is setting her daughter up to have a hard time getting a date."

No comment from the driver’s seat.

“I mean, what boy is going to want to date a girl who can out-ride him at the dirt bike track?"

"Johnny, those kids were ten years old. I hardly think--"

"That doesn't matter, Roy. Either way, her mom is setting that poor girl up for a fall. Well, yeah, sure, women are as smart as men." Johnny conceded the point with a wave. "And admittedly women can do nearly everything a guy can. But most guys don’t want a woman who can do everything they can; most guys want a woman who's a woman, who can do, well, you know, womanly things, and she can feel good about being a woman and the guy can feel good about being a guy, he can feel--"

"Superior," Roy cut in.

"I didn't say that. Superior is pretty harsh, don't ya think? But still, most guys like a woman who can do the woman stuff and they can do the man stuff and that's kind of the way this world goes round, ya know? See, it's the symbolism of the thing. The symbolism." He waved his hand again, trying to be sure he had Roy's attention--except for what he needed for driving.

“No, it’s not about symbolism. It’s about you obsessing over whether or not a little girl’s mom wears a bra."

“What’s that got to do with anything?" Johnny asked. Waiting for a purple Datsun to pass before he backed into the station, Roy looked like he wanted to cry. The blonde paramedic scrambled out of the cab a minute later as if he were making an escape, rather than just getting out of the squad.

"You coming?" Roy had the grace to stop and ask as he shut his door. Nodding, Johnny took the time to pull the various slips documenting their morning's runs from the jockey box before he followed his partner.

In the day room Mike stood at the counter, elbows deep in suds and dirty dishes. The remains of lunch were scattered on the table, some sort of casserole. Hopefully it had been edible, but since it wasn't spaghetti or fried chicken, chances were it hadn't been. So far having a live-in girlfriend didn't seem to have had any effect on Mike's culinary skills. Johnny leaned over to snag the one thing he knew would be edible, a small, dark pickle. He had the entire thing stuffed into his mouth before he realized it was a dill and not one of those little sweet ones he liked. Grabbing a napkin, he quickly spat it out into the paper, and headed for the sink and the garbage can.

"You didn't even try lunch," Mike accused as Johnny dumped the wadded up napkin in the garbage. The engineer looked decidedly put out. "It's Rayna's mom's recipe for chicken rice casserole. You should at least try it before you decide you don't like it."

"Hey, I will, I will," Johnny protested, raising his hands in innocence. "Just give me a chance."

Mike gave him a skeptical look and went back to the dishes. Johnny, relieved to escape so easily from the pitfalls of discussing cooking with Mike, focused instead on the laughter at the other end of the room. Standing beside the leather couch with his back to Johnny, Chet was just finishing some sort of introduction, and Roy, standing next to him, was reaching out to shake the hand of another firefighter seated there. Cutler's replacement had obviously arrived.

Transferring the slips of paper to his left hand, Johnny crossed the room. Approaching the other men, he held his right hand out and opened his mouth, ready to butt in over whatever snide and derogatory introduction Kelly would offer for him. But his friendly greeting died in his throat and his hand fell to his side when he saw the man sitting there, chuckling at Chet's comments about Roy being the only half of 51's paramedic team that mattered.

His hair had thinned and greyed in the ten years since Johnny had seen him, and more of his beer was going to his belly now, but Eddie Palmer's resemblance to John Denver with his "country fresh" looks was still readily apparent. The similarities between the two had been too easy a target to pass up ten years ago. Johnny couldn't count the times song lyrics had been rudely altered and pictures doctored by crewmates heckling the other firefighter. Not that they'd treated anyone else any differently in his short tenure there; Station 31 had been an equal opportunity harassment club. John Denver was still around, more annoying with each passing year; Johnny had thought--hoped--that Palmer was long gone.

Roy stepped aside to make room for Johnny, whether he wanted to be there or not. Chet was still talking, and Johnny tried to focus through a sudden overwhelming memory of smoke and fire and harsh, angry voices.

"...and this is John Gage, the other, non-essential half of our paramedic team," Chet finished with a flourish. Despite the sinking feeling in his stomach, Johnny found a grin somewhere. It was less than convincing judging by the look Roy gave him, but it didn't seem to faze Chet or the man sitting there, grinning at him.

"Hey, Eddie. Been a while."

"Hello, Tonto," Palmer said, and even the sound of Mike clanking plates in the drainer died. Johnny knew his mouth was open, knew everyone in the room was staring at him, waiting for his reaction to the nickname. He'd worked hard to forget both this man and that stupid nickname in the last few years; he wasn't ready to deal with Palmer again, not on such short notice. Chet cleared his throat, but before he could break the uncomfortable silence Palmer grinned his good ol' boy grin and went on, "Or should I say 'Piranha Boy'?"

Johnny shut his mouth and glared fiercely at Palmer. Too late, though; the cat--or the fish--was out of the bag. Chet and Roy were both staring openly at him now, and by the hairs standing up on the back of his neck, Mike was too. The few seconds of silence this time were a reprieve, and broken not by his nemesis, Chet, but by his partner.

"I thought that was just another tall tale," Roy said quietly. Johnny transferred his glare to his partner for this betrayal.

"Nope," Palmer said. He took a sip of his coffee and grinned at Johnny.

"Piranha boy?" Chet gloated. "Piranha boy? I should have known, Gage, I should have known. It had to be you--"

"Gage, DeSoto, I see you've met Cutler's replacement." Cap's voice cut through Kelly's as he joined the small group, but the firefighter wasn't to be put off that easily.

"Cap, did you hear that? Johnny here is 'Piranha Boy!'" Chet poked a finger at Johnny, but he jerked back before he could make contact. Cap stopped next to Johnny and, arms akimbo, stared at him.

"I always thought that story was just another tall tale for the probies."

Roy grinned, and Chet and Cutler both laughed out loud at that. Something distinctly like a snicker came from the other side of the room. Johnny managed to glare at them all.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he said, and felt the heat rising in his face. "You, you, you--there were extenuating circumstances," he said, pointing the hand that held the run slips at Chet in particular and everyone in general. "Besides, how was I to know she kept piranhas in that tank? Who in the world keeps piranhas in a tank on their porch?"

"Obviously some people in California do," Chet said, grinning. Roy and Cap both had bemused stares on their faces. Mike had laughed too. And Palmer...that damn smirk on his face was the same one he wore constantly ten years ago, even after, after--Damn. Johnny never had been good at comebacks to Palmer's sly teasing, and right now he needed time and he needed space, and he needed to be somewhere besides the center of attention to try to figure out how to deal with the man after all these years.

Johnny turned his back on all of them, Cap, Roy and Chet and headed back across the room, aiming for the coffee pot on the stove. He ignored Mike, cleaning up the suds he'd dripped on the floor. Setting the run slips by the stove, Johnny reached for the cupboard door. At least Mike could be trusted to make a decent cup of coffee.

"So, Palmer," Chet was saying in the background as Johnny accepted the clean cup Mike handed him with a faint grin. "Tell all, man. No detail is too insignificant." The leather couch squeaked as at least one person sat down on it, and Johnny couldn't help the sigh that escaped him. He set the coffee pot down rather harder than he intended to, and managed another sick grin when he caught Mike looking at him sympathetically. Hopefully he could throw Mike off the track. It wasn't like Johnny wasn't used to taking his share of the teasing and more around the station.

His cup full, Johnny turned around and couldn’t help his scowl at the sight of his captain and crewmates gathered around Palmer, ready and willing to hear his tale, Palmer obviously relishing the spotlight.

"Never saw a probie so willing to risk his life for fish. Though let me tell ya, the gal screaming about her imported fishies was one gorgeous broad, and being she was more than half nekkid, well, we could all understand why Ton---the probie went a bit nuts." Palmer looked over and smiled at Johnny, but as Johnny stared steadily at him the older firefighter looked away and coughed, clearing his throat. "He tore into the house, came running out with his arms full of fish and tossed them into this big fish tank by the front door. Did it twice, then started trying to drag this huge, fifty-gallon thing off the porch. Of course, by that time, the water in the tank was all red and frothing and the lady of the house was really screaming. Stinson and Murphy were all for dunking the probie in the piranha pool to cool him off--"

Cezacikala, Johnny thought, and made a face at the group, but found no comfort in either the action or the obscenity. Thankfully no one seemed to notice his grimace. Abandoning his cup of coffee, Johnny collected the run slips and beat a hasty retreat out the door, ignoring the laughter he left behind him. At least in Cap's office he would have some peace and quiet--and time to collect himself and maybe figure out what to do about this particular specter from his past.

~* E! *~

Combustion is defined as the process of rapid oxidation (resulting in fire). But oxidation is not always rapid.

~~Essentials of Firefighting

"Rampart, this is Squad 51, how do you read?" The green pen only left scratches on the pad. Crouched by the biophone, Johnny scowled at it for a moment before clicking the ball point down and trying again. This time it left a satisfying squiggle of blue ink on the paper.

"51, this is Rampart, go ahead." Joe Early's voice, made tinny by the tiny speaker, floated out of the biophone. Johnny cradled the receiver between his ear and shoulder, writing down the respirations and pulse he'd taken. To his left, Roy bent solicitously over their moaning victim. The obvious damage was cuts and scrapes littering the man's shoulders and arms, still oozing blood. The not-so-obvious damage was another matter entirely. Ever the professional, somehow Roy had managed to get the blood pressure cuff around one muscled arm without pulling the guy out of his knot of misery. Johnny's scalp prickled in sympathy, and he shifted just enough that he didn't have to actually look at the man.

"Rampart, we have a victim, male, approximate age thirty-five--"

"Thirty-two," cut in a voice, and Johnny spared a glance for the woman who'd called them. Short blonde hair framed a pixie-like face, and large blue eyes couldn't--or wouldn't bother--to hide her amusement at the victim's predicament. Her arms crossed tightly across her narrow chest, she showed her teeth more than smiled at Johnny, and he found himself thinking of piranhas. Very small piranhas, but piranhas none the less. Pushing away the unflattering comparison, he refocused on the job at hand.

"Uh...Rampart, patient is thirty-two." There was an acknowledgment from the biophone, and Johnny quickly recited the rest of the vitals, including the B/P that Roy called out to him before he went back to coaxing their patient to uncurl himself enough so he could actually check his injuries--injury. Johnny didn't blame the poor fellow for not wanting to let them look. "Rampart, the victim fell approximately fo-"

"Paul didn't even fall two inches," the Mia Farrow look alike cut in as their patient let out another agonized groan through tightly clenched teeth.

"Uh...Rampart, hold just a moment." Ignoring Early's response, Johnny lowered the biophone and stared at her. In his peripheral vision, Roy pulled the man--Paul's--long pony tail away from where it was in danger of being inhaled, then rested a hand encouragingly on one bare shoulder.

"That truss slipped, he caught himself, and then fell when the rest of the gazebo collapsed under his weight." She raised her voice to be heard over the man's moans. "At that point it wasn't even two inches. And I told him that thing wouldn't support his weight, I told him." Short blonde hair didn't move as she shook her head, lips pursed in disgust, entirely missing the communal shudder that Johnny, Roy, and a late arriving Vince shared. The paramedics didn't have to explain anything about this one to the deputy sheriff. Sunlight glinted off the huge diamond on Tinkerbell's left hand as she waved at the jumbled heap of lattice and posts and greenery behind them. "Just because I got my Bachelors in structural engineering while Paul was studying flowers."

The man writhing on the ground gasped something, and Roy leaned over, keeping his hand on the man's shoulder. But Roy's interpretation wasn't needed; their victim lifted his head enough to make himself understood.

"Hort-ture," he rasped, his legs extending just a bit and then drawing back up close to his body again. "Horh-cuh-ture." His hands never left their protective positioning between his thighs. Johnny caught himself dropping one hand to mimic that pose and quickly moved to scribble on the notepad instead. Good, his pen still worked.

"Sir, just be st--" Roy started, his own hand out to keep the guy from curling into an even tighter ball, but Tinkerbell cut in.

"Yeah, right. Just maybe next time you'll listen when I tell you something can't bear the weight you're going to put on it. Even if I am a woman and women aren't supposed to know anything about load bearing beams and trusses and weight ratios or anything, are they? Oh, no--"

She took another breath, but Vince took her arm and politely requested she step back and let the paramedics do their job. Shaking her head, Tinkerbell allowed him to lead her off to the side. Johnny couldn't decide if Vince was really trying to help, or just couldn't bear facing the victim and his injury any longer. He took a deep breath and lifted the biophone receiver, picking up his report where he'd left off.

"Rampart, the victim fell approximately four inches. He was climbing on a structure that collapsed under him. He fell with the structure, then slipped further and landed straddling a beam." Johnny kept a wary eye on the quiescent woman whose head didn't come to Vince's shoulder. If the victim was as tall as he appeared to be, even curled in a ball, she probably had better luck kissing his belly button than his mouth. Johnny forced himself to focus on the task at hand. "There are numerous scrapes and bruises on his arms and shoulders, and patient is complaining of extreme pain in the genital area. There are no other apparent injuries."

There was a moment of silence before Dr. Early responded. Respect, Johnny thought, for the dearly departed, shuddering as his legs suddenly wanted to close over his own vulnerability. Down on his knees, Roy was having no luck getting the victim to uncurl himself long enough for them to check for any real damage. Ideally they should get the man laid out and pack some ice around his injured area, but Johnny didn't think Mr. Green Thumb was going to go for that, at all.

"51, can you check for injuries to the genitals?"

His face pale, Roy shook his head. His hands twitched as he sat back on his heels. Looked like protecting the family jewels should be added to the list of autonomic nervous responses. Or maybe there needed to be a new category: Sympathetic Nervous Responses. Did women react the same way when one injured her breasts? Johnny shoved that thought aside before it brought about an entirely different physical reaction and clicked the receiver on again.

"Rampart, we are unable to get the victim's cooperation to do so."

More silence. Early was probably fighting his own sympathetic responses.

"51, how long ago did the victim fall?"

He turned to ask, but Tinkerbell called out, "He fell about fifteen minutes ago, and I called you right away. Paul couldn't even get up off the ground." She was finally starting to look concerned as the ambulance screeched to a stop ten feet away.

Johnny didn't even bother to repress his shudder as he relayed that information to Rampart. The ambulance attendants hung back, as if they were afraid of injury by association. Roy waved them forward, and the three men very carefully and very gently lifted their victim to the gurney. They strapped him in on his side, leaving him curled in his ball of misery.

"Ten-four, 51. Transport as soon as possible."

"Ten-four, Rampart. Transporting now."

Half an hour later, the sun had slipped beneath the western horizon, the city of Carson gentled in twilight's careless embrace. Gold chased rose chased lavender across the sky, then swept east into the deep purple haze over the Santa Anas. Few headlights glittered in the fading light; in between rush hour and the going out hour the roads were quiet and relatively free of traffic. At the entrance to Rampart's parking lot, the squad idled, waiting for the few cars to pass on Sepulveda so they could pull out onto the road.

"Baseballs?" Johnny asked quietly, for the fourth or fifth time, and Roy nodded, for the fourth or fifth time since he'd exited the treatment room Johnny hadn't had the guts to enter. Biting back a grin, Johnny slouched further into the seat, his knees spread wide. Not that it would help Paul and his swollen parts, but Johnny's own anatomy appreciated the breathing room. He caught the sideways glance from Roy and the smile the other paramedic couldn't quite stifle, and both men looked away. Too late, though, the squad was filled with their laughter for the next minute or so. Still chuckling, Johnny tapped his fingers on the door, thinking of the rest of their crew's response to this particular rescue. This run should even get everyone's minds off Eddie and the piranhas.

The traffic cleared and the squad accelerated, but Johnny felt like an astronaut suddenly hurtling into the frozen void. His heart slowed and he was surely pounds heavier than he had been seconds ago. He opened his mouth, but closed it before he embarrassed himself by audibly gasping for breath. Damn. Of all the substitutes Battalion could have sent, why did they have to send Palmer? Shouldn't the man be pensioned off by now? Johnny hadn't heard his name in years. Last he knew, Palmer had been transferred out to a brush station in Division Nine. Johnny'd been grateful to have the entire county between them.

The silence in the squad had lost its relaxed, rosy feel, and Johnny stared blankly out into the dusk as Roy made yet another turn.

"You okay?" Roy asked, silent moments later. Schooling his features against betrayal, Johnny turned from the window.

"Sure. Why wouldn't I be?" Trying for his usual bravado, he chanced a grin. It was wasted. His eyes on the road, Roy shrugged, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Johnny returned to watching the passing factories and low-rent bars and strip joints.

"Palmer," Roy said, and then didn't say anything. The squad stopped for a red light, and Johnny turned his back on the dancing olive in a cocktail sign. Roy was gazing steadily at him. "That Ton...that 'Tonto' thing." He grimaced as he stumbled over the name, and Johnny smiled slightly.

"I've been called worse," he said quietly, over the replay of voices in his head, far more voices than just Palmer's: Geronimo. Pocahontas. Prairie Nigger... The slight shudder that shook him at the familiar taste of bile in his throat--mixed of equal parts anger and shame--was unnoticeable, he hoped.

"Yeah." Roy's acknowledgment was almost lost in the soft rushing of tires on asphalt. They were near the station now. Hopefully supper would be edible, if Johnny could find any appetite. Roy's soft voice wasn't helping. "So have I," the other man said. "But it still stings."

Frowning, Johnny swung round to stare at Roy. The whites of Roy's eyes glimmered his only acknowledgment. Roy signaled and then swung out into the opposite lane. The bay door began to rise automatically as he backed the squad up the driveway, parking in their familiar spot next to the engine. The door rumbled down; the seat squeaked as Roy bent forward to kill the ignition. Hunched over the steering wheel, his face was painted stark white and black in the shadows cast into the cab by the harsh lighting of the bay.

"Viet Nam. We were never sure from one day to the next whether or not the people hated us or loved us. Most days it seemed...it seemed as if it was both at once. And then I came home and it was the same, people loved us or they hated us--or both. There was never any way to be sure which it would be." Roy paused and laughter filled the space between them, spilling with the golden light from the day room. Johnny sighed and covered his eyes with his hand, his elbow propped on the door handle. Too bad he couldn't wipe Palmer away as easily as the sweat on his forehead. Keys chinked in Roy's hand as he pulled them from the ignition. "Nam's where I learned that sticks and stones and AK-47s and frags and bouncing bettys will break your bones. But words...words will break your spirit. They'll break you."

Roy glanced over at him then, but Johnny turned away before he could meet whatever lurked--sympathy or pity or comradeship--in those blue eyes. He stared at the engine, gleaming red and chrome in the severe lighting of the bay. His fingers beat a nervous, staccato rhythm on the door, an Omaha beat, Johnny realized, the voices of the singers rising from his memory with the tapping of flesh on metal. Other memories came unbidden: dancers stomping and whirling late into the night, mothers, fathers, teens and toddlers. Crowds of laughing, smiling, intent--and some angry--faces. Layered through the throngs of people were the smells: fry bread and roasting meat, sweet grass and sage, sweat and leather. And woven through them all, the everpresent tang of woodsmoke.

Images from his childhood were dominated by flames: campfires in front of tipis and tents at powwows, cooking fires for every giveaway, wake or naming on the reservation, flames heating rocks in the sweat lodge and leaping for the low ceiling. The roaring fireplace in his grandfather's cabin, five skinny kids elbowing for warmth around his father's jerry-rigged wood stove, flames flickering from the open barrel as they consumed his brother Jeffrey's toys and clothing. The terrifying crackle of grassfires racing the wind across the swells and dips of the prairie, the myriad candles in the church, the orange glow behind the grate of the rotund, potbellied stove that looked like Father Dengler in his black robes but, unlike the gentle priest, never generated enough heat to warm all the way over to Johnny and Clayton's sleeping corner.

Fire had accompanied him into the bewildering world he'd found himself in when his father moved the family away from Pine Ridge and his mother's people. New memories layered over his childish ones: early winter mornings in high school spent feeding wood into his mother's store-bought wood stove, his father and brother welcoming the warmth of his fire in hunting camp, bonfires at football games and the occasional kegger deep in the wooded hills. Summers on the reservation with his grandfather, uncles and cousins, throats and eyes burning as they roped and branded bawling calves. Owl dances his grandmother sent them to, where Johnny and his brother and sisters weren't novelties, just more laughing, smiling faces in the flickering light, participating in the universal adolescent rite of boy finding girl finding boy. The myriad smokey fires that had paid for his letterman's jacket even as they consumed the leaves and detritus from the oaks and maples and sweet gums dominating their Napa Valley neighborhood of big, fancy houses and big, fancy yards; his family's own, more modest bungalow tolerated with a few others on the very edge of the neighborhood. He'd probably set more fires in high school than he'd put out in his first four years as a fireman; but then, fire had fascinated Johnny from his earliest memory. Like his mother's voice, it had been a constant throughout his life.

He chanced a glance back at Roy, still hunched forward, as if he was half-afraid of whatever it was he was waiting for. Interesting; neither one of them had offered specifics on what, exactly, they'd been called. Johnny shrugged, and pushed the memories from him, ignored the sick fluttering in his stomach.

"I've been called worse," he repeated, and tried a half grin this time. Roy stared at him, then gave him a tiny smile in return.

"Piranha Boy," he said.

Johnny's fingers stopped drumming, and he opened his mouth and pointed at Roy.

"Now, look. I said there were extenuating circumstances! How the heck was I supposed to know she kept piranhas in that tank? She was screaming about her 'imported koi' so I just ran in there and grabbed them off the floor. There wasn't anywhere else to put them!"

Roy shook his head and reached for his door handle.

"You should be grateful that Cap hates fish so much; that will probably limit the Phantom's jokes on the subject."

The image of an avalanche of dead fish from his open locker washed the memories away, and Johnny sighed. Roy slammed his door shut, but hesitated, one hand resting in the open window..

"Cap won't let him get away with it."

It was half apology, half promise, and Johnny wasn't sure what to do with either one.

"Yeah," he said, and stared down at his hands, swallowing the temptation to point out that no one could tell Roy was a Viet Nam veteran just by looking at him. And then he shut his lips tight to keep himself from blurting out the fact that it wasn't only Tonto and the piranhas that lay between him and Palmer.

~* E! *~

Very slow oxidation is more commonly known as rusting.

~~Essentials of Firefighting

So in love with them it had demanded their presence all day, the Fire Department gave them the cold shoulder that evening. Johnny's choices for entertainment ranged from watching Three's Company with Cap and Roy to helping Mike with dishes or listening to Chet attempt to pry more embarrassing probie stories out of Palmer. Instead, he opted for the basketball and the hoop beneath the buzzing streetlight out back. He half-heartedly played a game of Horse against himself, and knew the day was bad when he kept losing on both sides.

This time the ball rebounded off the netless hoop, bounced off Chet's van and into the back of Mike's Chevy truck. Johnny clambered up in the bed and retrieved the basketball from the empty milk crate Mike kept back there for whatever reason, and then, in a fit of pique, launched the ball at the basket. This time he didn't chase it when it ricocheted off the backboard and bounced into the station wall. He watched listlessly as it rolled under the hose tower, the metal ends of the hoses clanking gently against each other in its wake. It took Johnny a minute to tease out the memory that said he'd heard that noise before. Sister Tercella, striding through the hall, her beads and rosary clacking with each step.

She'd always said his sins would find him out.

With a sigh Johnny plopped down on the wheelwell. Bracing his elbows on his knees, he rested his head between his hands and stared blankly at the back of the station. Visions of Mike and Marco's "fire-blowing" apparatus flaming, spouting ash and sparks all over the concrete left him smiling. It had taken the two men a couple of years and some other station's idiots to live that one down. Johnny'd had to move across Los Angeles county and into a different Division to live down the piranha incident--or at least separate himself from it. Now he'd been tied to it again. No telling what other tales Eddie had come up with for Chet; not that there were that many. Johnny had been a conscientious probie, if nothing else.

Or had he been? There had only been the one incident when he was a probie, but he'd lied with the rest of them. Could he still be held accountable for split second decisions forced upon him in the midst of flames and terror? The sudden breeze was his father's voice, whispering that those were the decisions that told what sort of man he truly was.

So did that make him a coward, or a hero?

Johnny climbed out of Mike's truck and headed over to reclaim the ball from under the dangling hose. He listlessly shot a few more baskets, blaming each miss on the deepening night, not the memories twisting his gut. He'd done his best that day; so had Trujillo. Fuller couldn't remember anything but the headache he'd had when he finally came to; no one could blame him for his decision. And all Johnny had wanted was to survive and keep fighting fires.

Staring at his feet, he decided it was Palmer's country boy face he saw in the shadowed concrete, and grinned as he dribbled the ball on the shadow. He swept the ball up, jumped and let the shot go. Perfect, didn't even need the backboard. Score two for the skinny Indian kid from South Dakota.

He retrieved the ball from between Chet's VW and Roy's battered Porsche, and thought maybe, just maybe, the fact that Palmer was here now was a sign that things really were okay, that he didn't have to worry all over again. Johnny bounced the ball off Chet's van twice before he stepped out from between the cars. Surely, if he'd been wrong before, something would have been done before now? Something would have come to light in the last ten years, wouldn't it?

Another basket would have swished if there'd been a net to pass through. Picking up the ball, Johnny fingered the lines between the rough leather, remembering the feel of charged canvas beneath his fingers, the choking terror that the canvas lifeline would be charred, reduced to ashes before it led them to safety. He lofted that memory through the night with the basketball, and missed the hoop entirely. Figured.

It took him a few minutes to locate the ball in the darkened lot, but he finally found it in the corner between the station and its surrounding brick wall. He grabbed the ball and the old but familiar rationalization that he hadn't had any other choices back then. Maybe he had chosen wrong, but ten years was a lot of water under the bridge--a lot of fires to be fought. Why dig up old ghosts? Sister Tercella's elegant eyebrow lifted, but Johnny brushed the memory of her skepticism aside. This wasn't the boarding school or the reservation. Johnny wasn't a terrified, homesick boy; he wasn't even an insecure probie any more. He was a paramedic, a firefighter, one of the best. Member of an elite corps chosen from an exceptional group of men, and he damn sure wasn't going to spend any more time second guessing ancient history--his own or anybody else's.

The ball hit the pavement hard, and Johnny caught it and slung it under his arm, heading for the back door and the kitchen. He was through hiding; and he refused to worry until something was in front of him to worry about--not behind him.

As for Eddie Palmer, he could go to hell with the rest of the ghosts.

~* E *~

...flames may cease to exist if the area of confinement is sufficiently airtight.

~~Essentials of Firefighting

Metal clanked dully on concrete as Johnny set the airbottle down. He pulled the bay door open, hung his turnout coat on the hook and then lifted the SCBA gear in. A muted thud reverberated as the bottle met the back of the compartment. Johnny made sure his turnouts weren't tangled in the black straps of the bottle, then closed the door and latched it. Roy's voice contacting Rampart for a calibration check said the shift was officially started.

After four days off, it actually felt good to be back at work. Besides, Johnny had another date with Jenny Carraveggio to look forward to tomorrow night. They'd done the French restaurant and several girly movie dates already. He had high hopes for this next outing, a romantic picnic and evening stroll on the beach. After that hopefully they could adjourn to his apartment--or hers--for the night.

"Mike, I keep tellin' ya, you gotta make sure she gets rid of that dish drainer." Chet's voice cut through the soft morning air. The man was as relentless as the cicadas buzzing in the trees and the July heat. Johnny was thankful Captain Stanley's aversion to fish had forced the Phantom to look for prey other than "Piranha Boy." Mike and his recently acquired housemate had been the latest unfortunates to wind up in Chet's sights. Johnny grinned. If anyone was jealous of anyone around here, it had to be Chet who was jealous of Mike and his well-endowed girlfriend.

"Look, my Aunt Addie and my Uncle George?" Chet said to Mike's back, jogging to keep up with the engineer as Mike came around the squad, gear in hand. "They'd get together and then they'd split up. They'd get together and split up. No rhyme or reason, just we'd get another hysterical phone call from Granny O'Rourke and George would have moved out again. You wanna know what they finally figured out it was kept him doing that?"

"No," Mike said rather hopelessly, setting his SCBA gear down and lining his turnout coat along the running board beneath the driver's door with careful precision. Johnny stifled a laugh. He stepped over and reached into the open equipment compartment, pulling out the drug box as Roy replaced the biophone.

"Actually, I'd like to know, if just to get Chet to shut up about the darn thing," Roy whispered. Johnny's snicker was louder than he intended it to be, and he avoided the indignant look Mike shot at him by squatting down to open the drug box. Roy squatted next to Johnny and they quietly inventoried their supplies as an oblivious Chet continued pestering Mike.

"See, they tried everything, the priest, the exterminator, the fortune-teller--they even had the house exorcized, to get rid of whatever demons might be making George leave. And it wasn't liquor, 'cause my Aunt Addie didn't care if George drank, as long as she held all the purse strings. So they finally got my Great-Grandma Fahey--"

"The one with the Sight," Roy said, sotto voce. There was a pause that said even Chet heard Johnny choking on the laugh he couldn't completely stifle.

"We need more morphine," Roy said, and both paramedics avoided looking at each other or their fellow firefighters. Ignoring them, Chet stayed on Mike's heels as, his SCBA gear stowed, the engineer stalked to the back of the engine and jumped up on the bumper to check the lay of the hoses in their bed.

"And see, it was Great-Grandma who figured it out. After George and Addie made up for the fifth time, and he'd moved back in, Great-Grandma went in the house and she said she sensed it, in the garage. They found a box marked "George's stuff" there. You know what was in it?"

"A spangled bustier, " Mike said, stepping down off the engine. "Black, with red garters. Fishnet nylons. And a Dolly Parton wig."

Johnny and Roy both laughed out loud. Chet glared at them both before turning back to Mike.

"You can laugh if you want to, Mike, but this is serious stuff. I'm just trying to lend a helping hand here. I mean, I know you really like Rayna, and since she won't marry you I'm just trying to make sure you keep her around as long as possible."

Arms akimbo, Mike stared down at the shorter man. "Like I need your help to keep her, Chet."

"Hey, you never know, Mike, you never know when this information will come in handy." Chet's grin was impish, and Mike shook his head, frowning. Chet ignored the engineer, stroking his mustache. "Now, where was I?"

"George's box," Roy prompted, and shrugged when Mike glared at him.

"Oh yeah. Well, in George's box they found..." Chet paused dramatically, checking to see that he had everyone's attention before leaning towards Mike and prodding him with a finger. "A dish drainer." There was a moment of complete silence.

"A dish drainer?" Mike asked. He looked over at Roy and Johnny. "I think the spangled bustier with fishnet nylons would have been more fun. Chet could have modeled for us next shift. Chet'd be a natural as a blonde, don't you think?"

Roy looked like the image of Chet's hairy body wrapped in spangles and fishnet was making him ill; Johnny couldn't help the laugh that boiled out of him. Chet frowned at the paramedics, but kept his focus on Mike.

"Obviously you're not taking me seriously, here, Mike. And this is serious stuff. Aunt Addie and Granny O'Rourke burned that dish drainer, and you know what happened after that?"

Mike crossed his arms and stared at Chet. "You sat up in bed with your head twirling round on your neck. No, wait, that was the false alarm last shift we worked. I have no idea, Chet, but I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"Har har har," Chet said, giving Mike what he probably hoped was an Evil Eye. Mike just stared back at him, refusing either to disappear in a puff of smoke or keel over dead. Chet sighed. "Nothing," he said, then looked offended when they all stared blankly at him. "What? Nothing is a good thing! George never moved out again, and he and Addie stayed married. Had seven kids after that."

"I think I'd rather deal with the dish drainer than seven kids," Mike said. Wide-eyed, Roy nodded dazedly in agreement. The blond-haired paramedic looked greener at the thought of seven kids than he had at the thought of Chet in drag.

Chet ignored them both. "So see, Mike, you gotta make sure Rayna doesn't have a dish drainer stashed somewhere, if you want to be sure she'll stay."

Chet shifted uncomfortably as Mike continued to stare at him.

"What if I'm the one with the dish drainer stashed in the garage?" Mike finally asked.

Chet sputtered, and Johnny and Roy shared a grin. Obviously this was something Chet had not considered.

"Well--well, in that case... in that case I'd say that's keeping your options open, and you're a smart man." Chet smirked and winked, hitting Mike on the arm with his fist.

"Chet, you're unbelievable." Mike rolled his eyes in disgust and shoved past the man. He stalked around the big Ward/LaFrance, Chet at his heels, their further conversation lost as the locker room door swung shut behind them.

"I think I need a large cup of coffee after that," Roy said. "You want some?"

Johnny buttoned up the drug box and grinned. "Yeah, just let me finish putting this stuff away, here."

Roy nodded, and headed around the squad. Johnny whistled tunelessly as he stood and slid the drug box into place. From beyond the squad, he heard Palmer greet Roy. Whatever his partner said in reply was lost as, for a second, the old worry tightened his gut. Then Johnny remembered that he'd decided not to worry about anything--and so far there'd been nothing to worry about. He didn't think it was too obvious that he was avoiding Palmer when he could, and ignoring him when he couldn't. If it was, no one had said anything. All in all, the last two weeks had gone better than he expected.

Palmer walked into view, heading towards the engine with his SCBA gear and turnout coat in hand. "Hey, Fishie."

Then again...Johnny took a deep breath. He reached out and touched the latch he'd just shut.

"You know, Palmer," he said quietly, "my name is Gage. John Gage. Just in case you inhaled a little too much smoke and forgot." He looked over as Palmer paused. Dropping his air bottle down to the floor, the older firefighter hitched at his pants and grinned his John Denver grin.

"Well, now, I didn't realize this was a nursery for little baby firefighters with tender feelings. You gonna go cry to Captain Stanley so I can't call you Fishie, either?"

Johnny's hand froze on the latch. Butterflies rioting in his gut, he gazed calmly at the man.

"Did you make sure your air tank was full, Palmer?" he asked quietly. "Face mask okay? Your regulator's not gummed up or anything like that?"

Butterflies were warrior medicine, after all.

His cheeks suddenly grey in the bright morning sun, Palmer's grin sagged and nearly died before widening into one of those good ol' boy smiles. Johnny hoped the sweat beading on his forehead wouldn't drip down into his eyes and show his bravery for the sham it was.

"Why they're fine, Tonto, just like always," Palmer said. "Panty-waisted Fishies ought to know that." Without waiting for an answer, he hefted his gear, swung around and stalked off behind the engine.

Bracing both hands against the squad, Johnny stared after Palmer for a moment, waiting for the butterflies to go away. Warrior medicine? Idiot medicine, more like. What the hell was he thinking? Small sounds drifted over the engine as Palmer stowed his equipment in what used to be Marco's seat behind Cap. Johnny angrily pushed off from the metal he'd been leaning against. Damn Palmer anyway. And damn Johnny, for letting the man get to him like that today. They only had this last shift together and Palmer would be gone, out of his life again--along with their shared history.

A clank and thud on the other side of the engine, and then the locker room door opened and shut behind Palmer's footsteps. Taking a deep breath, Johnny willed his pounding heart to slow. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of one hand. Enough of Palmer and the past for one day. Just concentrate on doing his job and let it all go. Johnny shook his head and took another deep breath. And concentrating on his job meant it was time for more coffee and finding out what the hot topic was on Donahue this morning. The cup Roy had promised to pour for him ought to be just about drinkable by now.

Mike's irritated voice drifted out of the locker room as Johnny rounded the squad and headed for the day room.

"You know, Chet, I did Jenny a big favor by giving her phone number to Gage instead of you."

~* E! *~

Pope Gregory (A.D. 590-604) gives us a description of an early in-water contact rescue. A monk, Placidus, fell into the water, whereupon another monk, Maurus, walked out on the water and grabbed Placidus by his hair, pulling him to shore. While this system has much to recommend it in terms of speed and simplicity, it is not a practical option for most of us.

~~Slim Ray, Swiftwater Rescue

"Take it easy. Don't shake him up any more than you have to."

Useless admonition, really, but Johnny said it anyway, more for the victim than himself or anyone else. Crouched in the open door of the half-submerged van, one hand braced on the twisted frame beside him, he kept a careful grip on the stokes until he was sure Roy had it. Bracing himself against the chill current, the older paramedic carefully maneuvered the victim through the rushing water, making sure the stokes didn't bang into the crumpled steel more than was absolutely unpreventable. Releasing the victim to his partner, Johnny watched, arms braced on his knees, keeping his hands out of the flow. The cool water racing past them should have been refreshing in the summer's heat, but there wasn't much to feel good about when they were in the middle of a flood channel, full and rushing last night's Santa Ana thunderstorms safely through Los Angeles and out into the ocean.

Safely, that is, as long as you stayed on the road and out of the water. Ricky and his sister and girlfriend hadn't gotten that part right. Ricky's van had somehow managed to take a flying leap off the bridge and into the flood channel. Speeding, the sheriff's deputy trying to pull them over had said. And that moment of careless irresponsibility would be paid for with the rest of their lives.

At the front of the van, Mike, extra ropes coiled loosely over one shoulder, grabbed the stokes before it got into the current. Roy waded past him in the waist-deep water and the engineer gave the stokes to the paramedic. He made sure the line securing the litter from the other side of the bank went up and over the half-submerged VW, and that neither Roy nor the litter tangled in any other ropes. Forty feet away on the bank, Stanley shouted and waved. Across from him 16's engine crew began letting out rope, and Chet and Eddie, on the bank beside Cap, took a tighter grip on theirs. Roy, keeping a white-knuckled grip on the end of the yellow litter, followed. Along with the small flotsam and jetsam that made it past the low debris dams scattered up and down the flood channel, Roy and the stokes gave themselves to the current, allowed themselves to be swept away into the long arc that would bring them over to the shore where Brice and Dutch waited to lift the victim out of the water.

Johnny swiveled back to the two shivering girls still in the van. Wet through by the van's tumble into the aqueduct, the young women were wrapped in yellow emergency blankets. After the initial assessment, they'd been left to Mike's rudimentary first aid skills. He'd tended them where they huddled in their seats while Johnny and Roy focused on the critically injured driver. Beneath her blanket in the faux-leopard skinned seat across from him, a wide-eyed brunette cradled her splinted arm against a chest that would win, hands down, any wet t-shirt contest Johnny had the privilege to judge. In the front passenger seat behind Pamela, Amy's platinum blonde hair straggled across her face and Johnny didn't like how vacant her large blue eyes were. But they'd been lucky; other than Pamela's broken arm, all either girl had suffered in the wreck was a few cuts and bruises. If they'd been older, or in a different situation, Johnny would have been pouring on the charm, hoping to score a date with one of the girls--both if he was lucky.

But not today. Not when Pamela and her friend had spent the last half hour or more listening to Ricky screaming and moaning. What they probably needed right now was a hefty dose of Valium and a sturdy shoulder or two to cry on.

Water sloshed up over his shirt as Mike moved in to help with the two girls. Johnny took a deep breath, firmly pushing from his mind the immobility of the boy they'd just sent to the waiting ambulance. Mike's face was drawn and grim in the bright afternoon sun; Johnny knew his own expression mirrored the bleak look in the other man's eyes. At this moment he was grateful for Mike's reticent nature. Johnny didn't have much to say either. The words would come later; the flood streaming from him as he attempted to make sense of yet another senseless tragedy. Sister Tercella's catechisms about a loving God didn't really compute in the midst of dead children and overwhelming sorrow. Over the years Johnny had found he preferred not to believe in a supposedly all-powerful, all-knowing Deity who was above preventing such tragedies.

Nodding at Mike, he let the cries of "I can't feel my legs!" bleed away into the water washing around them and focused once more on the task at hand. This should be the easy part.

"Okay, you saw what we did with Ricky." Johnny held one hand out to Pamela. Her lips were turning distinctly blue; time to get the girls out, before hypothermia set in. "We're going to do basically the same thing to get you out of here. We'll each take one of you, and all you have to do is hold onto us. Mike and I will stay on the downstream side, holding on to you and the rope." Johnny was proud of the fact he managed to sound like he had no personal doubts about this new style of water rescue. The trainer in their class last month had sworn by it. Johnny wasn't so sure. He'd definitely have some feedback for the guy after today--and more reason to start agitating for the Department to authorize purchase of the new, quick-release harnesses so he and his fellow firefighters weren't stuck with hanging on to the ropes as best they could.

Focusing again on the task at hand, Johnny said, "Once we're beyond the van, we'll let the current and the ropes belay us over to the shore. Quick and easy; everything's secured to the bank so we'll automatically swing in before you get too far down. Once you're at the shore, there'll be a fireman there to get you out of the water." He paused, looking to see if Amy was paying attention. No such luck. He'd better let Mike take Pamela, and he'd take Amy. Besides, given Mike's recent choice of a what looked like a permanent girlfriend, he had a latent fascination with large-busted women. "Mike will take you, Pamela, and Amy, you'll go with me. Okay?"

Pamela stared at him, then her eyes flickered over Johnny's shoulder to Mike. No response from the platinum blonde in the front seat. Her black bikini stark against her pale skin, Amy didn't have quite the same wet-t-shirt assets as her friend, but she'd have been in the running, for sure. From the shore came cries of "Got him!" and more sounds of rescue, but the wet hush within the van was palpable. Cold water rushed and gurgled through the crinkled steel, and the vehicle shifted on the bottom of the flood channel, straining against the ropes anchoring it to the bridge abutment on one side, Engine 51 on the other. Unwrapping her arms from her legs, Pamela frowned, first at Mike, and then at him. Johnny gave her what he hoped was a reassuring grin in return. He refused to let the knowledge of what she'd done show in his eyes. She'd held her brother's head above the water; she'd saved his life. But she'd probably severed his spinal cord in the process.

"Unshike; cunke cante makasica ksto," he heard his mother saying, and looked down at the water to hide the emotion in his eyes. It was pitiful, enough to make anyone's heart sick, Pamela's unwitting sin against her brother.

Johnny stepped down out of the van into the current, then turned, the water pushing him against the vehicle. He waved, urging Pamela forward. They'd done all they could for Ricky. Now it was up to the doctors and specialists and therapists, the host of other medical professionals of whom the paramedics were simply the vanguard. The men of Station 51 would be lucky if they ever heard more about this case than today's initial report from the Emergency Room. He's all right, he'll live. But what would his life be like? Would he regain any movement in his legs? Would he be able to drive, play basketball, dance with Amy? Johnny would probably never know.

Just as hopefully Ricky's sister would never know what she'd likely done. Johnny and Roy, and maybe Mike, were the only ones who knew and they'd never tell. They'd add it to the secrets they carried for the rest of the county they were sworn to protect, the nightmares they lived with to keep the people about them sleeping peacefully. He closed his eyes for just a second; the voices of women praying wove through the gurgling water, the groaning metal and the distant traffic. Both women prayed for another, much smaller boy, his little brother Jeffrey. Sister Tercella's calm and measured voice asked her God and his Virgin mother for Jeffrey's life. Johnny's mother's voice rose in the ancient, wailing rhythms of the wanagi yuha, the keeping ceremony, the heart of a bereaved mother crying for the spirit of her youngest child to remain with her. Jeffrey's death was the first tragedy Johnny'd knowingly held against the Catholic God. Wakan Skan, the Great Spirit of his mother's people, was a sleepy god who made less grandiose claims than omnipotence and unconditional love.

"So, Pamela, let's get out you out of this water." Johnny opened his eyes and found his smile still in place. Two faces peered back at him, Pamela's fearful and tear-stained, Amy blinking as though she was just waking up.

"Can--can't you tie us to the rope instead of just hanging on to you?" Pamela asked again. "I--I'd feel a lot safer if you could tie it around me."

"Now we can't do that," Johnny said, pretending he hadn't just explained this to her minutes before, as they packaged Ricky for his trip out. "If we were to run into any trouble, the rope would pull us under and hold us there. We have to be free to let go of it. Don't worry," he said, flashing a cheerful grin at the girl's dubious expression. "Mike's the strongest swimmer we've got, and I'm not so bad myself. And we've already got teams set up down the channel to catch you if somehow Mike did have to let go of the rope. But that's not going to happen. You're safe, and we're going to get you out. Just take it easy, and let us big, strong firemen do all the work, okay?"

Holding his gaze for just a moment, Pamela took a deep breath and nodded. She put her feet timidly into the cold, swirling water, held a hand towards him. Johnny reached out to pull her from the watery womb that had changed her life forever. Two live births for one still birth. Those weren't odds he was comfortable with, even if he had to live with them.

Then Amy finally woke up.

"Oh my god! OUT! I--I have to get out--out!" The van rocked and groaned beneath them as Amy shot out of her blanket and clawed her way over the seat, knocking Pamela down into the swirling water. Pamela came up sputtering, minus her blanket but still safely within the vehicle. Johnny caught Amy just as she got to the door. He tried to grab her in places that were polite, but, hard pressed to keep her from just barreling out into the flood, he found himself taking any handhold that presented itself. Mike's sturdy presence against his shoulder steadied him as her momentum rocked him back on his heels; the current pushing him upright. It took both men, but they managed to keep Amy in the van. Johnny supported her while she found her feet on the car floor. Mike reached around her to help Pamela up and out of the water.

"Now, take it easy. We're going to get you out, okay?" Johnny put a hand up, trying to get Amy's full attention. "You're gonna be fine; we'll get you out. But you gotta take it easy and give us a little time to do this right." For a second huge blue eyes stared blankly at him, and then the pretty, pouty face wrinkled up.

"NO! I want out, now! I want out!" Mike had stepped back to answer a shouted question from the bank, and this time Amy's frantic lunge took Johnny completely down into the water. Her scream was cut off when his head went under, and he let go the frail grip he had before it pulled her bikini off. Her weight disappeared, and he flailed his way to the surface almost immediately, banging a hand on the body of the van before getting enough of a grip to pull himself up. The screaming was now in stereo. Pamela stood in the doorway of the van, hands against her face and her mouth open. And Amy, still screaming, was clawing her way over Mike Stoker as he went down into the water beneath her.

Johnny grabbed for Amy but he was too late. Mike disappeared in a tangle of rope and pale flesh under the muddy water just in front of the van. Amy's screams became staccato and then stopped altogether as the current pulled her under after Mike. Pamela's screams and the shouts of other firefighters on the bank accompanied Johnny's lunge into the rapidly unfurling ropes the engineer had dropped. If he or Amy became tangled in that mess they'd be in even more danger. Six feet in front of him, Mike surfaced. Johnny managed to grab the front of the van as his friend shook the water out of his eyes, and moved his arms, somehow getting his feet under him despite the current.

"Do you see her?" Mike shouted, in between coughs.

"No!"

At that moment platinum blonde hair surfaced just beyond the engineer, and both men lunged. Johnny tripped over something being swept out to sea with the floods and, losing his footing, went under again in the midst of Mike's ropes. Coming up, it was his turn to shake the water out of his eyes, to try to keep breathing air instead of water. He shook a coil of rope off his arm and struck out into the current, looking for Mike, spotting him ten feet beyond. Mike had Amy in a reverse hold, but the firefighter was having a hard time keeping both himself and the wildly struggling girl above the water. A throw-sack and its rope landed just beyond them, but they were swept past and around the bend before Mike could do more than start to reach for it.

Then the frantic yelling from the banks of the channel ratcheted unbelievably up in volume and intensity, and as he was swept around the bend, Johnny realized what they were yelling about.

Twenty feet beyond the bend, in the middle of the channel, was a dam. The flood water rose before it, the flow deepening and quickening before spilling smoothly over the barrier. There wasn't a dam here normally; this had to have been one of the portable ones the city crews used for god-knew-what. Rescue crews had dubbed the dams, permanent or not, "drowning machines."

"Shit! Mike!" Johnny yelled, and took in a mouthful of water for his pains. He coughed, choked, spat it out. "The dam!" Mike had to see it, but the engineer's hands were full with Amy's thrashing body. Johnny kicked harder, trying to reach the engineer with his wildcat burden, but before he could get close enough both Mike and Amy disappeared over the rim of the dam. His heart sinking, it was Johnny's turn for the throw-sack and rope, landing just beyond him. But like Mike, even as he reached for rescue the current swept him past it.

Then it was his turn to go over the dam.

Johnny had the wild thought that this was what his laundry felt like in the front-loading washers at the laundromat. There was no up and no down, just water and strange, rough surfaces and dizziness and the pain in his chest as he fought not to breathe liquid. Something yanked on his leg and Johnny stopped, slamming against a hard and unyielding surface. Suspended, he breathed air out and water in, then refused to breathe any more. He would have liked to lay there, dazed and confused, and let his environment sort itself out around him. But, angry at his refusal to move along with it, the current refused to leave him alone. It rushed around his stationary position, picking him up and dropping him again and again, slapping him from side to side like a fish on a keeper. His leg burned where the tentacle wrapped around it, and he suddenly worried that his sins had found him after all. Maybe God had decided to intervene in this particular tragedy, reaching down to hold a sinful, unrepentant, sporadically spirit-worshiping John Gage under the water.

If he could have remembered them in the rush of the moment, he would have repeated one of his mother's prayers. Of course there was no guarantee the Wakinyan, the Thunders, could be bothered to save one wayward paramedic, caught like a bug in their never-ending battle with the Unktehi. The Water Spirits themselves would most likely think it a suitable ending for Johnny, drowning in the backwash of a dam.

Forever later, there was a final thump and slap, and then he was free, moving with the current again. Tumbled in the water, his lungs burning from the desperate effort to keep water out and what little air he had left in, Johnny floundered wildly, unsure where to find "up" or "down". It dawned on him a second later to open his eyes. Pale light fragmented to his left, and he surfaced in the welcome heat of the sun, just past the boil line and in the outwash of the dam's flow.

Trapped in the swifter current mid-channel, Johnny fought to keep his head above the flood. Fluid burbled in his ears, and he blew water and snot out of his nose and tried to figure out how far downstream he'd gone, where Mike and Amy were. Turning, he managed to take a couple of strokes towards the bank, then he looked downstream and saw a welcome sight. Someone in a fire department uniform, several someones, stood on the edge of the channel, yelling and waving at him. Arcing out across the channel in front of him was what looked like a long white worm. Johnny angled toward the bank, swam three or four strokes with the current, then reached out and grabbed the inflated firehose. He told himself it wasn't a deathgrip as he wrapped his frozen body around the hose for the dizzying sweep over towards the steep bank. Someone managed to catch him before he slammed into the concrete wall. Man, he sure hoped Jenny did not want to go swimming tomorrow.

"It's okay, take it easy." Hands grabbed him and pulled him up, out of the water and onto dry land. Heart-pounding terror faded; heart-pounding relief took its place. Johnny shook the water from his ears and nose and savored the ability to breathe air. Sprawled across the grass and dirt, he took a deep breath and stared wild-eyed at Dutch.

"Mike?" he asked and was rewarded with a smile.

"Plucked him and the wangfish out while you were playing in the water."

Johnny blew out a deep sigh of relief, then took another deep breath for the fun of it. Looked like his mother's Thunders had won this round. Either that or he really was off the hook for spitting at the Crucifix, all those years and a lifetime or two ago. He grinned up at Dutch.

"Man, I sure am glad that was a self-flushing toilet."

~* E! *~

Water is used in a cooling or quenching effect to reduce the temperature of the burning material below its ignition temperature.

~~Essentials of Firefighting

Someone, somewhere, had found coffee. Johnny gratefully accepted the steaming styrofoam cup from Dutch.

"That's some hairdo you've got there," Dutch said, turning Johnny and giving him a small shove in the general direction of Squad 16 and the other rescue vehicles.

Johnny grinned but forbore an answer in favor of more coffee, savoring the warmth slipping down his gullet, enjoying the warm, dry air surrounding him. Amazing what a little river water and being chilled to the bone could do to his appreciation for what he'd usually call oppressive summer heat.

He managed to down half the cup as he limped over to the cluster of emergency vehicles; the group being enlarged now by yet another ambulance arriving with flashing lights. The thinning wail of a siren announced the departure of another, Roy accompanying Ricky into the hospital. A third ambulance just beyond the squad had its doors already open; Pamela, wrapped in a bright yellow blanket, was being helped into it. Someone must have retrieved her after he and Mike were swept away with Amy. Speaking of the "wangfish" herself, it looked like her swim in the river had calmed her nerves. Sniffling loudly, Amy lay on a stretcher, waiting to be loaded into the ambulance after Pamela. Brice, laden with biophone and drug box, waited beside her. Dutch steered Johnny past them towards the most recent arrival, coasting to a stop behind its fellow.

"Miss, there is no reason for further tears," Brice said primly as they walked by. "You have been safely extricated from both the water and the wrecked vehicle. Your injuries appear to be minor. The transport to the hospital is mostly a precautionary measure and you will quite likely be released shortly after you get there."

Amy turned her head away and continued to sniffle as she was lifted into the ambulance.

Dutch and Johnny rounded that vehicle and headed for their own ride, where the Swanson, one of 16's hose jockeys, and an attendant were already helping Mike into the back.

"Hope Brice wasn't planning on that day job as a motivational speaker," Dutch said, as soon as they heard the slamming ambulance doors behind them. Johnny snorted coffee and choked more than laughed.

"Trying to drown him again?" Mike asked, then coughed deeply. His hair stuck out in all directions and he had the beginnings of a livid bruise on one cheek. After the coughing spasm passed, the shivering engineer hunched his shoulders under his yellow blanket and collapsed onto a bench inside the vehicle. He accepted the cup of coffee Swanson held out to him, fine purple lines standing out on his pale face as he nodded his thanks.

"Gage always was a slow learner," Dutch retorted. Johnny grimaced at his friend, but concentrated on getting into the ambulance without spilling his own coffee. Dropping down beside Mike on the bench, he pulled the blanket closer about him, leaned back against the metal wall and closed his eyes for a moment.

The attendant's voice floated in the open door. "B/P's 110 over 70, respirations 24 and pulse is 82. He's banged up and swallowed some water, but there are no obvious signs of trauma or broken bones."

Johnny let the words roll over him. He wasn't the lead rescuer any more; he wasn't responsible for anything but warming himself up and finishing off this cup of wonderful, warm coffee. His paramedic self automatically interpreted the numbers to mean that, other than a touch of hypothermia and some bruises, it sounded like Mike had survived both Amy and the flood just fine. He shifted his leg and flinched as wet material scraped over raw skin. Looked like he had a little more to worry about injury-wise than Mike did.

The ambulance dipped and squeaked as Dutch climbed in, and then what had to be equipment thudded on the floor. Dutch thanked his helpers, but the only reply Johnny heard was the squeak and crunch of gravel beneath shoes heading off to finish the job Johnny and Mike had gotten out of with their inadvertent dunking. Then the ambulance doors closed, shutting out the myriad noises of the accident scene.

Dutch's voice broke the silence. "You guys don't get too comfortable; first thing we're gonna do here is get you out of those wet clothes."

"No offense, Masters, but I don't know you that well," Johnny said around another swallow of coffee. "I don't want to know you that well."

"What's the matter, Gage? I didn't think you'd be shy about getting naked; usually you're bragging about it."

"Yeah? Well," Johnny said, opening one eye and glaring at Dutch. "That's cause usually I'm getting naked with a beautiful woman. Not with two ugly firefighters." Next to him, Mike snorted. Neither man made a move to get up.

Squatting by the door, Dutch dug in the trauma box and flashed a grin at Johnny.

"Well, I wouldn't worry about impressing beautiful ladies right now. After that swim you just took you're not going to have anything worth mentioning for a while."

It was Mike's turn to choke on his coffee. Johnny resisted the urge to check inside his blanket. Instead, he pointed at the engineer while he gave Dutch a mock glare.

"Geez, Masters, what kind of paramedic are you? You've already almost drowned both your patients and you've only been in charge for a minute or two."

"Can I help it if you two are easily amused? And don't think this is going to distract me about the clothes. Off. Now."

Catching his breath, Mike gave them both a sour look. He tipped his head back to drain his coffee, then shook the last few drops out and stared glumly at the empty thermos cup.

"Mike's out of coffee," Johnny said, "and you can't ask a man to undress on an empty cup of coffee."

Rolling his eyes, Dutch reached for something on the floor beside the door and came up with a silver thermos. Johnny more than willingly held out his own cup for a refill.

"That's Brice's private reserve you're drinking," Dutch said, ignoring Johnny and filling Mike's cup first. "You should feel privileged. He doesn't haul that out for just anybody."

"He'll probably send us a bill," Mike muttered, downing half the coffee in one gulp.

"Nah, he knows Johnny here never has any money, and you have a girlfriend now, so you don't either." Dutch poured the last of the coffee into Johnny's cup, then capped the thermos and set it on the floor. "He'll go for the jugular. He'll bill the Department."

"For two dollars and three cents," Johnny said, savoring a slow sip of coffee.

"More than you spent on your last date," Dutch replied. Before Johnny could come up with an appropriate retort, Dutch put his hands on his hips and glared at both men. "Now, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. Easy way is you undress yourselves. Hard way is I open that door and ask for volunteers."

"You wouldn't."

"Hey, I'm all for volunteers," Dutch said, reaching for the door latch.

And knowing the crews they worked with, there'd be no lack of volunteers. Beside Johnny, Mike sighed and carefully placed his cup on the floor. The engineer didn't say anything, just leaned over and started to unlace his boots. Dutch relaxed and settled back on his heels. Johnny, keeping a wary eye on his friend and the door latch, finished his coffee first. Then, sitting forward, he let the blanket fall to the bench and started unbuttoning his shirt, glaring at Dutch all the while.

Surprisingly enough in the cramped space of the ambulance, Johnny managed to get out of his sopping and clingy uniform without falling over on his butt and adding insult to injury. Crouched over at the front of the patient compartment, Mike got out of his clothing without ever entirely letting his blanket go. The engineer stared at the wet uniform in his hand, then dropped it on the floor beside his feet. He reached for the blanket Dutch handed him and wrapped it about his legs and feet, then pulled his other blanket firmly about his torso before flopping back on the bench.

Dutch turned to Johnny with another blanket in hand.

"Whoa, wait a minute, Gage."

Johnny scowled, but let Dutch push him back to sit on the bench. Dropping his blanket on the stretcher, the blonde paramedic carefully peeled Johnny's wet sock off. All three men stared at the pink, glistening rope burn tracing its way around Johnny's lower leg. So that's what had happened; no angry or vengeful or lazy gods, just lots of water and a rope. His mother might blame Iktomi, the trickster, but Johnny had his father's disdain for giving even the powerful spider Spirit credit for chance and happenstance. He'd been so worried about Mike and Amy getting tangled in the ropes he hadn't stopped to consider that it might happen to him. Johnny pulled the blanket up over his shoulders and tried not to wince as Dutch turned his leg this way and that.

"Doesn't look too deep," Dutch muttered, letting go of Johnny's leg. "If you had hair on your legs like a real man we wouldn't even be able to see it."

"Yeah, like you know anything about being a real man, Masters."

Dutch just grinned, and gestured for Johnny to finish undressing. "Speaking of impressing the ladies," he said as he shook out his blood pressure cuff, "How are things going with Jenny?"

Mike looked at Johnny expectantly from behind his coffee cup. Johnny pulled the last sock off, and then shimmied out of his underwear. He refused to give Masters the satisfaction, so he didn't bother to check the size of things before he kicked the sodden mess aside and accepted the blanket Dutch grabbed off the stretcher. Wrapping himself securely in both blankets, Johnny smiled at his audience as he settled on the bench beside Mike.

"Things with Jenny, they're going, well they're going okay," he said. "But they, ah, they could go better, if you know what I mean."

Dutch shook his head and made tut-tutting noises. Mike bent over and reclaimed his coffee cup from the floor of the ambulance.

"You need bruises," he said.

Both Johnny and Dutch stared at him. The engineer shrugged and tossed off the last of his coffee.

"Sympathy. It works every time," he said. His grin was decidedly wolfish.

After a beat, Dutch grinned at Mike, then Johnny. "I knew that. You," he said, pointing at Johnny, "should have known that."

"I knew that, I knew that," Johnny protested. "It's just--it's just--bruises aren't always easy to come by, ya know, not even on this job."

Sharing a "yeah, right" look with Mike, Dutch leaned forward and pulled at Johnny's blanket.

"Okay, Gage, lets see what the piranhas have left you with."

"Hey!"

A few minutes later, Dutch was finished with his examinations and had instructions to transport both men to Rampart. Mike had grimaced when Brice relayed Early's orders through the handy talky, but Johnny had expected nothing less. What was one more trip to Rampart in his Workman's Comp file? The only question was were they going to have to walk into the Emergency Room naked, barely covered in blankets, or not? While Johnny could see where that might have potential, chances were he'd get stuck with Dixie or some other old nurse for his examination. If he could guarantee that he'd get a young, cute nurse, it would definitely be worth it to go for the au natural entrance. Maybe Dutch could be recruited to help orchestrate things in Johnny's favor.

He opened his mouth, but someone knocked on the back of the ambulance and Dutch left off packing up his equipment and leaned forward to open the door. Seeing who was outside, he swung the door all the way out.

"How's it going over here?" Captain Stanley peered in, his dark eyes assessing first Mike, and then Johnny. "Stoker, Gage, are you two all right?" Though he asked both of them, it was Johnny he looked at while Mike nodded and said, "Yeah."

"I'm fine, Cap," Johnny said, grinning at Cap. Cap didn't return the grin, just stared at him. They all were staring at Johnny now, and he was hard-pressed to keep his own smile in place. It wasn't like he'd planned to get caught in the ropes and freak everyone, including himself, out.

Cap took a deep breath. He shook his head and offered Johnny a faint smile. "Man, you're just lucky Palmer noticed that rope was caught on the bumper of the VW. Mike and the girl had come up all right, and the rest of us just kept waiting for you to show up too. Palmer's the one who figured it out, and he got out there and cut the rope holding you. Brought the other girl to shore after that."

It was Johnny's turn to stare blankly at Cap. Palmer had saved his life? Sunshine Boy? The man who hid a killer whale personality behind that fresh country boy face? A sudden rush of nausea left him wishing he hadn't sucked down quite so much coffee.

"...they're fine. Rampart wants to look them both over, but it's mostly a precaution," Dutch was saying. Johnny hadn't heard Cap ask Dutch for a report; he didn't know if his friend was intentionally covering for him or not. But he took advantage of the fact that everyone's attention had shifted from him to other concerns. He looked down at the grey metal floor and fiddled with the blankets, willing Brice's coffee to stay in his stomach. In his peripheral vision he could see Chet, stepping up beside Cap to hand Dutch their turnouts. Mike had leaned forward and was shaking his uniform out, folding it and dropping it into a neat pile on the floor by his feet. Johnny surreptitiously looked out the back of the ambulance, trying to spot Palmer. The man was no where in sight.

Leaning back against the wall, Johnny stared at the cabinets opposite, trying to decide how he felt about Palmer saving his life. He should be grateful--he was grateful to still be alive. But he wasn't grateful it was Eddie Palmer who had saved him. And no matter what Palmer might say, this damn sure didn't erase the past or make them even. Maybe Johnny'd thank him later, for appearance's sake, but he wasn't going to consider himself beholden to the man, not on any account.

Then again, maybe he had made a mistake, ten years ago. Maybe the reason Palmer had come into his life again was to give Johnny a chance to see the truth, after all these years.

"Well, you two be careful, and don't linger at the hospital, no matter how many sympathetic nurses you get."

"Sure thing, Cap," Johnny heard himself say, over Mike's "No problem, Cap." He opened his eyes and glanced over in time to see Cap smile and nod. Then he and Chet were closing the doors of the ambulance and one of them, Cap probably, given that the point of impact was three feet above Chet's head, pounded on the door twice in the universal signal that it was okay to pull out.

"Here." Dutch held his turnouts out, and Johnny grinned a feeble thanks as he took the bundle from his friend. Doors slammed in the front of the ambulance, and the engine started with a roar. Johnny shut his eyes again to get away from Dutch's concerned curiosity, and shook his head slightly. He needed time and he needed distance to figure out what to think about this turn of events.

If he could figure them out.

~* E *~

...it is obvious that heat can travel where matter does not exist.

~~Essentials of Firefighting

Jenny was in his arms, finally; warm and willing, finally. She smelled faintly of sand and sun--and his laundry detergent. Johnny filed that strange detail away for a later date and concentrated on holding Jenny tightly to him. His body let them both know just how happy it was, pressed against her soft flesh, and Johnny murmured her name. He brushed the side of her neck with his lips, then her bare shoulder. Emboldened when she didn't pull away, he took hold with his lips and exerted gentle pressure with both teeth and tongue, intent on leaving her a visual reminder of their pleasure.

Johnny awoke with a mouth full of Tide-flavored pillowcase. He rubbed visions of Jenny in her bikini away with the grit in his eyes, and tried to disentangle himself from sheets and pillows. What a hell of a dream. Hell of a penance, if Father Dengler had ever caught him like this, committing indecent acts with his pillows.

The springs squeaked as he gave up on freedom and flopped back on the bed. Closing his eyes, he tried to recapture the fragments of his dream. But Jenny was gone, as completely gone as she had been when her apartment door slammed firmly behind her earlier tonight. It had been a week since his dunking, and Mike had lied about both the bruises and the sympathy effect. Johnny had never met a woman so oblivious to his ... charms. Hell, he couldn't remember the last time he'd had this much trouble getting a girl into his bed--or him into hers. He'd even shaved his monthly check to Ina as much as he dared to finance his romancing Jenny. But he couldn't keep shorting his mother that way; he'd promised he'd help pay for leg braces for her cousin Miriam's daughter.

Johnny went cold and still for a moment. So, maybe there was a reason he'd wound up wet inside and out last week.

He kicked free of the entangling sheets, then pushed them aside. Sitting with his legs drawn up and arms braced on his knees, he stared into the darkened room. A late, late movie droned through the sheet rock from the next apartment, and the faucet in his kitchen dripped. With the breeze through the open window drifted a woman's voice, arguing softly, persuasively, and Johnny was suddenly back in the Napa valley, in the California home his father had bought so proudly for his wife. It was his mother's voice now, drifting up the stairs as she argued with his father over the money she sent monthly to the reservation. Dad gave her the money to spend on the house and herself; he'd been irate when he found out she'd been sending most of it back to Potato Creek. The argument had gone nowhere, his mother insisting it was her obligation to take care of her kin as she prospered, his dad grouching that Pine Ridge was a black hole down which hard-earned money disappeared to no discernable gain.

But Johnny had noticed afterwards that Ina still mailed her money orders each month. And, instead of waiting for his wife to buy things for herself, Melvin Gage started buying things for her.

Night air puffed through the open window and chased goosebumps up and down Johnny's back. The woman's voice faded. He shivered and shook his head, reaching up to rub his face.

"Okay, okay, so next month I'll make up what I left out this month," he promised the air, hoping the Spirits were listening. And maybe he could send a little more; there was always the money he was saving for a down payment on a house. Hopefully that would get any vengeful Spirits off his back. Besides, by next month he fully planned to be past the "going out" stuff with Jenny and well into the "staying in" part of the relationship. Then it wouldn't matter that he didn't have as much money to spend.

Smiling, he laid back on the bed, his feet pushing the sheet off onto the floor. Left arm over his head, he stared at the ceiling and pictured Jenny again. She'd looked incredible this afternoon, her little pink bikini leaving just enough to the imagination. Johnny'd been the envy of half the people on the beach--the male half. And there was time yet to find out just what that two or three ounces of material hid. As he was dozing off, visions of Jenny dancing in his head, the phone shrilled.

He reached for the receiver about the time he realized that its ringing had been what woke him in the first place. His hand hovered for a second, while Johnny tried to decide if he should answer, or just pick up and hang up on whoever had pulled him from the illicit liaison with his bedding. That thought was shoved aside when he looked at his clock. Rank fear gripped his stomach and crawled coldly up his spine. The only reasons he could think of for someone calling at 3:28 a.m. were all bad. Willing the hair on his arms and neck to lay down, Johnny grabbed the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Gage, what the hell took you so long to answer the damn phone?" Kelly's irritated voice cut through the night. "I've been calling you for damn near ten minutes!"

"Wha--? Look, Chet, it's three-thirty in the morning, and you're interrupting...well, you're interrupting things. And if you need a ride home, you can forget it. Took me two weeks to get the smell out of my car last time."

There was silence on the line, and Johnny's stomach crawled back towards his spine. He found himself hoping that all the other man needed was a ride home.

"It's Mike, Johnny. He got called in to finish Trujillo's shift over at Station 165."

"Mike? What do you mean, it's Mike?" The goosebumps were back and Johnny felt sick. Catching the phone between his shoulder and his ear, he sat up, feeling for his jeans on the floor. "What happened?" he demanded, finding them and shaking the remaining sand out. He got his feet into the right openings, stood and pulled them on, shivering as clammy denim swept over his bare legs.

Chet sighed and his voice was small and cold. "I don't exactly know. Neither did Cap. Dispatch called him, said there was some kind of a collapse or something at a fire and Mike got caught in it. I think there were a couple of other guys hurt too, but Mike was the worst."

What kind of odds would let a man could escape both fire and flood in less than a week? Unwilling to contemplate the long shots that were surely involved, Johnny sat abruptly on the bed. For a moment there was silence, then a siren wailed down his street. Johnny shuddered. Police siren, he realized a second later, and he sighed as the shriek faded.

"Johnny?"

"Yeah, Chet." Johnny shook his head, grabbing the phone and switching it to his other ear. He pulled open the dresser drawer and rummaged for a clean shirt. "Do you know where they took him?"

"Rampart. Cap's gone to pick Rayna up, and Roy and Marco are already on their way. Only reason I'm not gone is you wouldn't answer your phone."

"Okay, I'll be there as soon as I can." Johnny dropped the phone back into its cradle without waiting for the other man's farewell. He hit the light switch. It only took him a moment to get into the shirt he'd retrieved and scrounge his socks and tennis shoes from the floor where he'd tossed them. Shoving his wallet into his pocket, Johnny stopped and stared at the clock. What was it that Chet had said? Mike was called in to finish out Trujillo's shift? Cesar Trujillo? Curtains flapped in the breeze, and with the air came more memories, fire and flame and desperation. For a moment he stood there, as transfixed as he had originally been that day ten years ago.

Then his frozen brain churned out the thought that his friends at the hospital would be wondering where he was.

Shuddering, hoping for Mike and Rayna's sakes that Mike was going to be okay, hoping for all their sakes that the tall, quiet engineer wasn't badly injured, Johnny slammed the window shut and headed out the door.

~* E! *~

As soon as the needed oxygen rushes in, the stalled combustion resumes.

~~Essentials of Firefighting

Word hadn't spread far yet; the only firefighters in the Emergency Department waiting room when Johnny arrived at Rampart were his own shiftmates--including Marco, still considered part of A-shift though they all knew he wasn't coming back to firefighting. Chet huddled against the wall with Marco and his girlfriend, Rosita. Johnny acknowledged their greetings with a nod, but he headed for the orange vinyl chairs a few feet in front of them where Captain Stanley and his wife, Andrea, were long, dark brackets on either side of Mike's live-in girlfriend.

Elbows on her knees, dark red hair tangled about her shoulders, Rayna slumped forward in her chair between the Stanleys, staring at nothing. A sleeveless, army-green dress gave a gaping view of her considerable decolletage, and a string of light brown wooden beads wound tightly about her clenched hands before dangling down to the floor. A rosary, Johnny thought, then remembered the heavy, Oriental shrine he'd helped move out of Rayna's apartment and into Mike's house. Nope, not a rosary, but some other sort of prayer beads. Andrea Stanley put one hand on Rayna's shoulder as Johnny walked up and stopped in front of them.

"Cap," he said. "Rayna, Mrs. Stanley." He resisted the urge to check his shoes. Cap's slender, elegant wife always left him feeling like he needed to make sure he hadn't tracked in any cat doo-doo or something else awful. Even called out in the middle of the night, her hair was perfectly styled and her slacks and blouse looked freshly pressed, not "tossed on the floor" rumpled, as did her husband's--and Johnny's own--jeans and knit shirt. Rubbing small circles on Rayna's back, Andrea Stanley smiled at him, increasing her resemblance to Audrey Hepburn. His hands on his knees, Cap glanced at the oblivious Rayna beside him, then looked up at Johnny and shook his head.

"We don't know anything yet. Roy's gone to see if he can find something out. Evans and Banks brought Mike and at least one other guy in, but they were called out on another run before we got here."

Johnny nodded, then squatted down in front of the motionless woman. Rayna had yet to acknowledge his presence and there was no response as he stared directly into her face. Johnny frowned at Cap, but Cap just shrugged. Mike's girlfriend was a relatively new addition to their "permanent" crew; no one knew what to expect from her in this situation.

"Rayna?"

It took a few seconds, but she came back from wherever she was. Blinking sudden tears away, the smile she tendered him flickered and fled. Beads clicking softly as her fingers worried them, she looked beyond Johnny, then over at Cap.

"Roy?" she asked in a strained voice, and Cap shook his head. His reply was gentle.

"He hasn't come back yet."

"Sometimes it takes a while," Johnny said, reaching out to rub her knee. "No news can definitely be good news in a case like this." He met her sober gaze with a reassuring smile, and this time her answering smile, while still watery, had a bit more strength to it.

"Thanks, Johnny." Beads clicked as she brushed his hand with her own, then Rayna closed her eyes, took a deep breath and was gone again. Cap frowned and gave her a wall-eyed look; he was more used to dealing with hysteria than this quiet ritual. But Johnny recognized the distant look on Rayna's face; he'd seen the same expression on many faces, those of medicine men and women before their ceremonies, of priests and nuns before Mass, and his own mother when she and his father finally made it through the snow and wind, arriving at the boarding school hours after Jeffrey's death. It was a combination of resignation and faith, a going deep within or far beyond, seeking strength from whatever sources a person drew upon in times like these. Rayna wasn't ignoring anyone or trying to escape Mike's fate. She was gathering herself, praying to whatever deities she worshiped, preparing to deal with whatever life--or death--threw at her tonight.

Hair on the back of his neck prickled and Johnny shoved the thought of death away. No sense tempting any malevolent Powers to meddle in this affair. Cap sighed and leaned back in his chair, stretched his arms and legs, then sat forward and braced his elbows on his knees. Sharing a small smile with Andrea at her husband's unconscious imitation of Rayna's pose, Johnny stood, braced his hands on his hips and looked around him.

Chill and uncomfortable despite the presence of plants and light wooden paneling, Rampart's waiting room made no pretensions of being anything other than what it was: a stewing area for the fears of those waiting for word on their various private disasters. This early morning in the middle of the work-week didn't have many here to fear; hopefully there were fewer disasters in process. An elderly women dozed in one corner, her yarn tangled and her needles dangling from unresponsive fingers. A few feet away from her, a sullen teenager with an Afro larger than the chair itself slouched so far down in his seat he was practically laying in it. The neatly groomed, middle-aged man next to him was oblivious, muttering to himself and staring fixedly at a small book in his hand. Two disheveled young men, faces pale amidst their long, ratty beards and hair, sat on the far side of the room, twitching various parts of their body in obvious efforts to remain controlled and collected.

And then there was Johnny's group. Despite his apparent calm, Cap fairly vibrated with tension. If Chet pulled one more leaf off that plant Dixie would have his head--or at least dun him for the replacement cost. Marco's grip on his crutches was white-knuckled and Rosita's nervous expression clearly indicated there were many places she'd rather be. No wonder; it had only been a matter of months since 51's last vigil here, Marco hovering near death as doctors debated interminably whether or not to amputate his leg. None of them had wanted or expected to be back this soon.

Johnny took a deep breath and shook his head. That vigil had ended at least somewhat happily; there was no use expecting less this time around. He shifted, surveyed his friends once more, and came to a conclusion: What this group needed was coffee.

And maybe a doughnut or two, though what could be had at this hour of the morning was probably only yesterday's leftovers. No matter; hot coffee and stale doughnuts had sustained the fire department through more than one crisis. All Johnny had to do was figure out where the drinkable stuff would be, and get there and back before Roy returned with whatever news he'd dug up about Mike.

Johnny's stomach growled, netting him another slight smile from Mrs. Stanley, but her concentration never wavered, her hand continuing to rub Rayna's back in small circles, supporting her, waiting beside her with that quiet patience women had. It must have been bred into them over generations of being left to wait, watch, and pray. Behind the Stanleys, Rosita hovered silently while Marco and Chet competed with quiet stories about their nieces and nephews. Johnny lived too far from the rest of his family to have much to contribute to that discussion. Instead he turned around, hands in his pockets, and came to a decision. He'd draft Chet to go with him and they'd get everyone some coffee from the cafeteria, where they would hopefully find doughnuts too.

But even as he opened his mouth, Dr. Early materialized in the corridor leading to the exam rooms, Roy close behind him. Coffee was definitely going to have to wait. Johnny's stomach growled once in protest, then hunger was squeezed out by nervous fear. His partner's face wasn't exactly grim as the two men came towards the waiting room, but he didn't look happy, either. When he caught Johnny's gaze, Roy's lips thinned and he shook his head and looked away.

The conversation behind Johnny came to an abrupt halt, mid-story, and there was a communal instant of held breath as Roy and Dr. Early entered the waiting room. Johnny could have sworn he saw the leaves of plants shiver in the general exhalation as they headed for the small group of firefighters. Those who were left waiting went back to their holding patterns. Knitting needles clicked, paper shuffled and vinyl squeaked in the small space of silence while Marco and Chet moved their huddle over directly behind the group in the chairs. Obviously bracing for the worst, Stanley gathered himself as if to stand, then sat back and hunched his shoulders, staring up at Early. Andrea's hand faltered and stopped, but stayed on Rayna's back.

Dr. Early's poker face was much better than Roy's; the slight smile held steady and his eyes gave nothing away as he stopped in front of the group. Johnny stepped back and, taking his cue like a professional, Dr. Early pulled a chair over and sat in front of Rayna.

"Miss Matthews?"

It was faster this time; Rayna blinked and focused on the grey-haloed face before her. Hope and fear warred in her countenance before it stilled into a calm, slightly afraid, slightly hopeful mask. That, too, must be genetic by now. Johnny crossed his arms and set his feet, preparing himself for whatever the news would be.

Including them all with a glance, Dr. Early's face crinkled into a reassuring smile.

"The good news is Mike doesn't have any broken bones or internal injuries. He's got quite a few bruises, a bit of a concussion, and a nasty gash on his right bicep. We'll be stitching that up for him, and he'll need a tetanus booster. He's got some burns on his wrists and his face--mostly first degree and a few mild second degree burns," the doctor hastened to add as Rayna tensed and her eyes went round in horror. "A lot like a very bad sunburn." Again, his glance included the entire group as he shared that information, and Johnny wondered that Early wasn't blown over by the group's combined sigh of relief. Every firefighter knew full well what burns did to a body; they'd all be grateful not to add Mike to the nightmare images seared into their memories.

Hands on his knees, Dr. Early gave them time to absorb those facts. Grinning, Chet elbowed Marco, knocking him off balance. Only Rosita's quick hand saved him from a tumble to the ground, and they both glared at the oblivious Chet. Andrea smiled slightly and patted Rayna on the back. Cap relaxed fractionally but didn't smile. Johnny followed Stanley's gaze to Roy, leaning on one shoulder against the wall behind Dr. Early. His hands buried in his pockets, clearly trying not to frown, the paramedic was definitely worried. There was bad news yet to come, then.

"So, he's all right? What...Why...?" Rayna's eyes pleaded for the information she couldn't bring herself to ask for. Dr. Early sighed and put one hand on her arm.

"Mike inhaled a lot of smoke, Rayna. His oxygen saturation levels are lower than we'd like." Roy's face said a lot lower, but Early was the one dishing out the details right now and Rayna was focused on him, not Johnny's partner. Early wouldn't lie, but he might soft-peddle things just a bit. "Right now we've got Mike on oxygen, trying to increase the amount in his bloodstream. But...there are some noises in his lungs, what we call 'crackling', and he's having some difficulty breathing. If he doesn't improve soon, we'll have to intubate him."

Behind the doctor Roy's dour expression said that wasn't an "if," it was a "when." Rayna's face went white, and she didn't seem to notice the supporting arm Andrea put around her shoulders. Certain they must be cutting off circulation by now, Johnny resisted the urge to reach out and take the beads she clenched so tightly from her. Someone, Chet or Marco, muttered a heartfelt "Shit." Again, Dr. Early gave them time to absorb the information, before he went on dispensing his bad news.

Johnny tuned out Dr. Early's explanation of the ventilation process and the reasons for it. He'd heard it before, one too many times. He closed his eyes against it all, Rayna's fear, Cap's worry, Marco and his undeniable testimony to the possibilities of crippling injury. But in the darkness lurked another image at odds with Dr. Early's soft voice: Johnny's little brother, shrunken and pale beneath the oxygen tent, his black hair stark against the harsh white linen of the reservation hospital. Refusing the memory, Johnny opened his eyes and insisted his stomach settle in its normal spot in his belly and quit twisting around his spine in fear. This wasn't an Indian Health Services hospital, twenty years or more behind modern technology and with doctors who either didn't know or didn't care. This was Rampart, a state-of-the-art facility with zealous staff and the best of modern equipment and knowledge. Johnny pushed the old bitterness aside. Mike would have the best of care. He would be okay.

"...be in ICU for a couple of days, at least." Dr. Early actually managed to make this sound encouraging. "What everything depends on now is if and how long he has to be on the respirator, and whether or not he develops what we call Adult Respiratory Distress Syndrome."

Johnny carefully kept his dismay at that news from his face. Adult Respiratory Distress Syndrome, with its 60% mortality rate? No wonder Roy looked rattled. His partner kept his focus resolutely on the back of Early's head and wouldn't meet Johnny's gaze. Damn. How bad was it? Johnny took a deep breath and stared over the heads of their little group at the wall. Okay, even if Mike did develop ARDS, the good news was survivors were usually able to return to their normal lives with little problem or long-term affects to their lungs.

All Mike had to do was be one of those survivors.

Fortunately, Rayna didn't seem inclined to pursue this avenue of discussion. "Can I see him?"

Dr. Early hesitated, studying Rayna closely. Roy started to shake his head but caught himself. Johnny understood, and opened his mouth to suggest coffee instead. Seeing a loved one lying there, face faintly blue, gasping for breath, was hard on the steadiest of nerves. He should know. But again, before he could voice his idea, someone else had a better one.

"Sure," the doctor said, smiling. "But only for a moment." Dr. Early looked up at the group. "I know you'd all like to see him, but for now I'm going to ask that only one of you go in with her. Things get a bit crowded otherwise."

Yeah, with germs and bacteria and a whole bunch of other stuff Mike didn't need right now, including Chet's incredibly bad morning breath. Everyone looked at Cap, and he in turn looked at his wife. Andrea smiled bleakly and reached under her chair to pull out her purse.

There was a chorus of nods and acknowledgments. Dr. Early got to his feet, and offered a hand to Rayna. Draping her prayer beads around her neck, she stood, her macrame purse falling from her lap as she did so. Coins and Tarot cards and more beads and some sort of herbal debris scattered all over the grungy carpet of the waiting room. Glad of the diversion, however slight, Johnny, Roy and Chet jumped to help her gather it up, the herbs releasing a faint smell of sage and cedar beneath their feet. Johnny caught Chet surreptitiously sniffing at some of the plant material; glaring at the man only netted him a wide-eye, "What?" look from the other firefighter. As if Mike would shack up--live with someone who was smoking or burning anything illegal.

Rayna rapidly shoved everything they haded her back into her purse, and with a nod and a faint smile she allowed Dr. Early to take her elbow and lead her down the hall. Andrea Stanley trailed behind them as he explained what Rayna would find in the exam room.

As soon as the small group turned the corner, the other men clustered around Roy.

"How bad is he really, Roy?" Marco was the first to ask.

The paramedic stood up straight and shook his head. He stared at the floor for a minute, before looking back up at them. "He's deteriorated since they brought him in. Carol said Banks told her it was one of those new video rental places. Pretty toxic, all that burning plastic." Roy gave them a weak smile and shrugged. "Like Dr. Early said, it all depends."

"Damn," Chet said, forcefully.

Yeah. Damn. Johnny didn't like things to "depend", he liked things to be done, taken care of. Go in, put the fire out, and get it over with. Rescue the people, get them to the hospital where the doctors would make them better. All this sitting around and waiting while things "depended" was for the birds.

He needed some coffee to deal with this. Not to mention the fact that three of the four men standing here were due at the station in less than four hours. Much as they'd like to stay, L.A. County could hardly call in replacements so they could sit around the hospital and worry. If Mike died the County would give them a week or two off to grieve--again Johnny pushed the thought away. He focused instead on the fact his wallet couldn't exactly handle a missed shift right now. No, better to go to work and leave the actual waiting and worrying to Rayna and Cap's wife, and probably Joanne DeSoto. As the news spread there'd be plenty of off-duty firefighters who'd show up and keep vigil with the women. Johnny would be better off at work with something to do instead of sitting around and waiting while all the "depends on" stuff worked itself out.

He opened his mouth to suggest one more time they all see about getting some coffee, but the doors to the Emergency Department burst open and two dirty, turn-out clad firefighters trooped in, heading for the nurse's desk. Spying the cluster of men from Station 51, they made an abrupt change in direction and headed straight for Johnny and his friends.

"Hank," the leader said, holding out a grimy hand. A short, barrel-chested man with a thick mustache, Jack Bronson had been captain at 165's for longer than Johnny had been at 51's. After a second, Johnny matched the smoke-blackened face behind Bronson to a name, Weathers. Another engineer and an old friend of Stoker's, if he remembered correctly.

"Damn, Jack, when I loan you one of my men I expect you to return him in working order." Stanley grasped the proffered hand and smiled slightly.

Bronson grimaced. He glanced down the hall behind them.

"Hank, I'm sorry about that. Damn thing nearly got away from us. Have you heard anything?"

"Mostly bruises and one bad gash on his arm." Bronson nodded as Stanley outlined Mike's injuries, as if matching things to some internal inventory, frowning when Hank mentioned the respirator. Finished with his explanation, Stanley put his hands his hips. He probably meant to sound cranky, but the question came out more as a plea. "Jack, what the hell happened out there?"

Bronson shook his head.

"All we know is that Donaldson and Geoffreys from 12's went in the back and found him half-buried under some debris. His face-mask was off and he was barely breathing when they got him out."

"Who was with him on the hose?" Stanley demanded, and Bronson hesitated before he jerked a thumb down the hall towards the exam rooms. Beneath the soot and sweat on his face, Weathers looked murderous.

"Palmer was, but his regulator was messed up so he had to come out. By the time he got to the engine he'd gotten a lungful. He was coughing and hacking so bad he couldn't go back in. I sent Evans in right away, but all he found was the hose, nozzle off." Bronson's tone as he said the last was soft, apologetic.

There was a beat of silence before the storm of protests started. Johnny heard it all as if from the bottom of a well. Staring at the grimy faces in front him, he locked his knees so they wouldn't collapse beneath him. He stood there, trying to pull concrete air into frozen lungs and listened to the voices, the insistence from both Weathers and his own crew that Stoker wouldn't--couldn't--have shut off his hose off and abandoned his post in the middle of a fire. But tonight's storm of protests was overlaid with other, older protests, protests that rang in his ears as loudly as they'd rung ten years ago. Johnny blinked and shook his head, but the voices remained, and the angry faces around him wavered beneath visions of other faces, just as angry.

Palmer... Eddie Palmer had gone into that fire with Mike. Palmer had come out, but Mike nearly hadn't.

Johnny'd gone into a fire once with Palmer. So had Trujillo, and Fuller. And they'd been lucky any of them made it out.

Suddenly, coffee didn't sound so appetizing after all.

~* E! *~

Incomplete combustion, of course, also leaves behind some unburned or charred fuel.

~~Essentials of Firefighting

The elevator dipped and settled, but it didn't affect Johnny's stomach. One could only be so nauseous, and his stomach had been an acid bath of bile and coffee long before he entered the elevator for the slow trip up to ICU. The jelly doughnut he'd managed to down for breakfast was the inert mass around which his gut had knotted itself. Forced by the clock to abandon Rampart for their duty at the station, all A-shift had had to take with them was bad news. Four and a half hours later, it was nearly noon on a cloudless, glorious summer day. Their first run that had actually brought the paramedics all the way in to Rampart, this time they could verify the bad news in person.

"Johnny?" Roy asked softly. He'd been like that all day, soft-spoken and quietly concerned; hovering, but keeping his distance. Even when Johnny had handed him too large a bore of catheter on this last run, his only reaction had been to reach for the correct gauge.

Ignoring both Roy and Roy's concern, Johnny stared at the elevator wall, some sort of fake paneling from some tree that wasn't native to southern California any more than most of the rest of its inhabitants, flora or fauna or human. Like Johnny himself, Mike was a transplant to the sunny skies of Los Angeles. His family lived up north somewhere; Washington or Oregon, Johnny wasn't sure which. Cap had called them from the station this morning after Rayna had extracted the number from her rope and bead purse.

They were harsh facts that Cap had to report to Mike's step-dad, with little encouragement. Mike's excellent physical condition, a requirement of his job, would help his chances of survival, but it was going to be an uphill battle. The doctors could only treat symptoms, not the problem itself. They'd focus on keeping his other major organ systems going, freeing Mike's body for the fight to keep breathing with lungs that were slowly solidifying. Ultimately, whether or not Mike survived would depend on Mike himself and whatever will he had to live. His mother was off in London or somewhere thereabouts with Mike's little sister, some sort of church choir tour, Cap had said. By the time she could get back it would likely be all over, one way or the other. Johnny's own mother's son had died before she could rush to his side; would that be Mrs. Stoker's fate as well?

The elevator doors slid open with a muted clank, but Johnny didn't move from his corner, caught in the unbidden voices of his kinswomen, eternally mourning Jeffrey's death. Arms braced on the hand rails, shoulders hunched, he stared at the empty hallway before them as the memory wailed on. Beside him, Roy hesitated, then hefted the handy-talky and stepped out of the elevator. Reaching back, he caught the doors as they started to close.

The elevator doors backed up and tried to close again, Roy's arm frustrating their attempts while Johnny tried to push both memories and fear away. Mike would survive; he had to. Johnny had more than enough on his conscience already when it came to Eddie Palmer.

His partner's arm had stopped the doors a third time before Johnny pushed himself out from the corner and followed him into the hall. Roy didn't say anything, just released the doors and turned to lead the way through the crowd milling about them. No one seemed to want to stand too close to the double doors with the red sign starkly lettered in white: Intensive Care Unit. No Visitors. Most of the concerned faces turning toward them in the stark fluorescent light were men Johnny recognized, men he fought fire with, bowled and played baseball with, men he drank with at the occasional wedding or funeral--his thoughts skittered away from that idea. This wasn't a wake, not yet.

Roy acknowledged the greetings and friendly back slaps that came their way; nodding along behind him, Johnny kept his eyes on his partner's back and his emotions to himself. Besides, he wasn't sure he had the right to draw strength from this crowd, not sure he was really part of this family, not any more. Not if what he was afraid of was what had happened.

"Dammit, I know Mike well enough to know Palmer's full of shit! I don't care what he says. Mike wouldn't leave his hose in a fire, not without a damned good reason!" Todd Weathers' angry voice cut through the crowded hallway. There was a chorus of angry mutters, and then Chief McConnike's bellow cut through the noise.

"All right, that's enough!"

Johnny nearly ran into Roy when his partner stopped dead, just a few feet from the waiting room entrance. In full uniform, McConnike blocked the doorway, white hat dangling from one hand. "I don't want to hear any more from anyone about this."

Weathers, flanked by an unimpressive, overly tanned and overly made-up brunette, glared down at another firefighter. Chin thrust out belligerently, his buzz cut so raw more scalp than hair shone on his head, the shorter man glared right back. Next to Weather's trim shape, his faded blue LA County Fire Department t-shirt strained to encompass a distended beer belly. With a start, Johnny placed the large, hooked Roman nose and the clenched jaw: Murphy, Palmer's drinking buddy from the old days, back at Station 31. Johnny sidled over just a bit, putting Roy's blue uniform between him and the older firefighter. No sense asking for any more trouble than he was already unable to handle.

Weathers flushed, and turned to McConnike, his face a mix of anger and helplessness. "But Palmer's spreading this shi--"

"I am fully aware of what Palmer is saying. He made his report to me first thing this morning, before he was discharged from the hospital."

"It's a damn lie," Weathers said, his voice rising.

"Weathers, do I have to suspend you to get you to listen to me?" The Fire Chief included Murphy in the threat with a glance. After a beat of sullen silence, McConnike went on. "Palmer's made his report, and when Stoker's able to give his I'll hear what he has to say. At that time I'll decide if-- IF--" he raised his voice to emphasize the point," there are any grounds for any kind of investigation. Before that I am not making any judgements on what might," he pointed directly at Weathers with his cap, "have happened. In the meantime, I shouldn't have to remind any of you that this isn't the time or the place for this sort of discussion."

His gaze locked with Weathers' for several long seconds, and finally the engineer scowled and nodded. Murphy, too, nodded reluctantly when the Chief's gazed raked over him. There was a low growl from more than one throat, but no one challenged McConnike's statement to his face. The rest of the firefighters clustered around the other two men, separating them neatly and shuffling them to opposite sides of the hall.

McConnike waved the two paramedics forward as the crowd parted. Johnny swallowed hard and stayed at his partner's heels.

"You're not going to stop them talking about it," Roy said quietly as they paused by the fire chief.

"No, but I can keep them from lynching Palmer or starting a riot before I have a chance to hear Stoker's side of the story," McConnike said with a slight smile. "Whatever possessed the man to start spreading that kind of a tale, I'll never know."

The jelly doughnut rioted, intent on escape. Johnny half-turned, thinking to head for the bathroom before he puked on McConnike's shoes. But McConnike had stepped aside with a rueful smile, allowing them access to the waiting room behind him. Johnny swallowed bile and half-regurgitated doughnut and followed Roy, leaving the Chief to his crowd control efforts in the hall outside.

The last thing anyone from 51's A-shift had said to Rayna had been Roy's quiet suggestion that she tell the nurses and doctors in ICU that she was Mike's fiancé, not just his live-in girlfriend. Rayna had blinked and frowned uncertainly, but then Dixie had voiced her support for the idea and Rayna had reluctantly nodded. She, Marco, and Mrs. Stanley had seemed a small, bereft group, standing with Dixie in front of the elevators as the rest of the guys had trooped out of the hospital.

Now Rayna was anything but bereft of support. She might have wished for less than she had at this point, Johnny thought sourly as he and Roy stepped into the overcrowded room. Crammed with off-duty firefighters and their various wives and girlfriends, the overwhelming odor was of old coffee and fear and sweat and too many competing aftershaves and perfumes. Nothing like a show of departmental solidarity to stink up a place.

Nodding blankly at familiar faces, trying not to flinch beneath more supportive back-slapping, the two paramedics made their way through the knots of supporters and well-wishers. The thickest crowd, Johnny noticed sardonically, was around the table with the coffee pot and the cookies and doughnuts. His stomach roiled and once again he swallowed bile.

He found Roy's uniform through the knots of people and dodged hastily after him. Across the room, beneath the window magnifying the summer sun to heat the mix of odors, Rayna sat between Marco and Joanne DeSoto. Some of the composure she'd fought so hard for this morning had raveled away. Her face pale, her nose swollen and red, she'd added a well-used wad of tissue to the beads clenched in her hands. Staring at nothing again, she rocked slightly in her seat.

Joanne, dark-haired, slender and more pixie-like than ever beside Rayna's earth-goddess figure, patted her on the knee before rising and coming across the room toward them. Roy and Johnny stopped and waited for her.

"There's no change," she said, shaking her head. Roy's arm went automatically about her shoulders, and Joanne embraced him, her voice muffled in his shirt. "He's still going downhill. The doctors haven't said he's not going to make it, but...but they're not encouraging anyone either."

Roy's eyes closed and his face was drawn and tight above his wife's head, still buried against his chest. They stood unmoving, wrapped in each other's arms and the obvious knowledge that it could be Roy the next time. Johnny looked down at the floor, his stomach knotting impossibly tighter. Movement caught his eye; shifting his right leg awkwardly, Marco leaned over to say something to Rayna. She nodded silently, through the ceaseless back and forth, back and forth motion of her prayers. Mute grief radiated from her, gathered Marco's distress and then flowed over to meld with Roy and Joanne's fears. It flowed through the room, pulling anxiety and foreboding and anger to itself, swelling and rising and surrounding him with a physical pressure, threatening to swallow him. Johnny did the only thing he could, he fled.

Mumbling an excuse, he pushed his way back through the room and stumbled out into the hallway. His name came from several throats, but he waved them all off, heading blindly down the hall until he hit upon a sanctuary labeled "Men." Gratefully, Johnny fell through the doorway and leaned back against the cool tile to begin the desperate struggle to convince his stomach to keep its contents to itself.

Five minutes later he'd won the battle, but not the war. The bathroom door opened, and Johnny looked over, digging up a pale grin for his partner. It wasn't Roy, though, who slipped through the door and focused on the floor. Johnny stood up straight and stared at Cesar Trujillo.

Nearly as tall as Johnny, his tight, blue, Fire Department t-shirt molded to a slender frame that belied the strength of the long, lean muscles. Curly black hair still adorned the head, and from Johnny's brief glimpse before Trujillo ducked his head, the lean, hatchet face was still accented by a "Zorro" mustache. Raised on a ranch down the coast, Cesar sported the same laced leather belt hanging out from a rodeo prize belt buckle and the tight-legged Levis that the crew at 31's had teased him about ten years ago.

"Gage...I..." He swallowed, but continued to stare at the floor. "I didn't find out what...about...I didn't hear about Mike until this morning. For what it's worth, I'm sorry." Trujillo gave up on the scuffed tips of his boots and met Johnny's gaze. The blue eyes were startling in his tanned face, and from years ago Johnny heard Trujillo saying haughtily, "My family's Spanish, not Mexican." But everyone on the crew at 31's had called him "Beaner" and "Wetback" just the same, Palmer leading the way.

Johnny braced his hands on his hips, opened his mouth and closed it. He opened it again, but spoken language seemed to have deserted him. He closed his mouth and just stared at Trujillo.

"I'm sorry," Trujillo repeated, swallowing hard. "I wouldn't have wished this on him, not on anyone. But especially Mike. He's as good as they come." Trujillo, his face miserable, shrugged and looked back down at the floor. The unspoken "but..." was loud in the silence. Johnny waited for the other man to finish.

"I...it took me years to live down that fire, Johnny. Years." Just like Johnny remembered, Trujillo's accent intensified with stress. He looked up at Johnny, then stared over at the urinals on the far wall. "I applied for jobs in Los Angeles and Pasadena, with all the city departments. But none came through, and I was afraid that...that reputation was following me, no matter how hard I worked to prove myself again. After a while I managed to transfer away, to another Division, and finally, finally I was able to show them that I was a good firefighter, the kind I always was, in spite of their lies."

Johnny flinched as Cesar's voice trailed off. Lies. Lies Johnny himself had agreed to, however unwillingly, lies that Cesar himself had been forced to accept. His stomach once more wound in a knot too tight to allow for food; Johnny closed his eyes and refused to let it to expel anything. When he opened them again Cesar was looking at him.

"When Palmer showed up at our station, I...I couldn't do it. I wasn't going into any fire with him, not after what happened that last time. I've got Ignacia and the kids now to think of, and I couldn't take the risk. I...I wanted to tell Captain Bronson, but he knew Palmer from a long time ago and I was afraid he wouldn't believe me. I got into the first aid kit and swallowed some ipecac. He was just supposed to be there for one shift, and I thought...I thought if I just didn't have to work with him he'd go away."

"He spent two weeks with us," Johnny's voice was harsh, and Cesar flinched. Johnny put his fist out, knocked it lightly against the other man's shoulder. "I let Chet Kelly go into a fire with him, but I nearly made myself sick every shift thinking about it."

Trujillo's smile was weak, but he relaxed. Johnny leaned back against the wall.

"I thought he'd have been pensioned off by now. Or retired."

"Or dead," Cesar said, and again they shared a grim smile. The silence between them was companionable, the way it had been all those years ago, when they were the only two "people of color" at Station 31. Johnny briefly wondered if Marco had had any friends at his first station, or if he'd had to endure the hazing and hatred alone, without the support Johnny and Cesar had provided, however briefly, for each other. And Johnny had continued to be lucky; after he left 31's he'd been stationed with Stoney. The black firefighter was still one of his closest friends. Johnny shifted his feet and looked over at Cesar.

"I think he's a permanent substitute in this Division now. If he subbed for Cutler at 51's and got sent to cover at your station..."

"Yeah." More silence. Then, Trujillo took a breath. "Gage, you know, Mike...Stoker, he's not the only one."

Frowning, Johnny stared over at Trujillo. Only one what, he wanted to ask, but his throat was closed too tightly to allow the words to pass. Trujillo looked a bit green around the gills, but he nodded.

"Remember Nelson?"

Johnny cast about and came up with a vague memory of a bulky black man in a wheelchair at the last Departmental softball tournament. He nodded, and Trujillo's gaze went flat.

"He went into a fire with Palmer."

Johnny stared at his friend, his mouth open in shock.

"Are you sure?"

Trujillo nodded bleakly.

"And that big fire over at the shipyard? About four years back?" He didn't wait for Johnny's acknowledgment to continue. "MacAdams and Hoffman were injured. MacAdams never did get back into shape for firefighting after that. Then there was that refinery fire eight years ago, that big one over near the dock?"

"The one where Sullivan got killed?" Johnny asked, and Trujillo just stared at him. Johnny's stomach contracted even further. He knew what his friend was going to say before he opened his mouth.

"Palmer was the last one working the hoses with all of them."

~* E! *~

When the fire is confined in a building or a room, the situation requires carefully thought-out and executed ventilation procedures if further damage is to be prevented and danger reduced.

~~Essentials of Firefighting

The fragile scent of burning tobacco disappeared almost immediately into the heat-baked afternoon. Johnny sucked carefully on the cigarette. The end glowed red; he held it out once more and watched the faint, grey smoke curl upward, disappearing into the pearl-colored smog that passed for both air and sky in LA's summer. His shirt was already sticking to his back from the heat, and even the cicadas in the cottonwoods had given up singing for an afternoon siesta. Beyond the wall separating the station from the freeway, cars and trucks roared; in the vehicle bay behind him Cutler and Chet argued half-heartedly about something. But for now, the parking lot in back was a small oasis where Johnny could be alone to gather his thoughts and maybe--maybe--figure out what to do.

The embers faded; Johnny put the cigarette to his lips. It had been a long time since he'd lit up. Father Dengler's quiet disappointment had put an end to the peji cigarettes shared behind the barn with Clayton. Later, smoking hadn't exactly been compatible with his high school career as a track star. After graduation from the fire academy he'd been too busy to take up smoking anything. But the cigarette still felt comfortable, familiar between his fingers. Johnny had forgotten how calming that first inhalation could be, how nice it was to have something to keep his hands busy. Experimentally, he drew the smoke in and held it, then coughed it out. Nope, he thought, wiping an arm across his mouth, no sense paying for privilege of smoke inhalation. And especially not when LA County would pay him to breathe the stuff.

Besides, it probably wouldn't do to offer the gods previously inhaled smoke.

Roy hadn't said a word when Johnny had dropped the pack of Marlboros on the counter next to the soda and sandwiches they'd stopped for at the Seven-Eleven. He had wanted loose tobacco, but he couldn't see forking out for an entire can of Prince Albert, his dad's favored brand, when he just needed a little bit. For what, he wasn't sure, except that in both the religious traditions he'd been raised in, pleas for help were generally accompanied by smoke of some sort.

Johnny took another drag, careful this time not to breathe the smoke in. Thin tendrils of gaseous tobacco swirled as he quickly washed the smoke over his face and hands and then gestured with the cigarette to the four directions. He should, he supposed, pray. But it had been so long, and like Palmer and events of both long ago and the past few hours, prayers to the Lakhota Powers and petitions to the Catholic God were all jumbled up in his mind. What would the Thunder Spirits care about Mike anyway, since he wasn't Lakhota? And would Jesus take time from hanging on his cross, bearing all his devoted followers' sorrows, to listen to Johnny's tale of woe? After his prayers for Jeffrey's life went unheeded all Johnny had offered the Son of God was his spittle and his contempt. Why would that same God turn and listen now?

No, Johnny thought, as more grey smoke ascended into the smog, there wasn't much he could expect from God here. And probably not from the Thunders, either. They were capricious at best, helpful when it suited them. This decision was up to Johnny.

He let the cigarette burn, his mind filling with hazy memories from years ago. The names Cesar had rattled off danced amidst the smoke he drew from the cigarette, as did the image of Mike's face, pale and waxen beneath ventilator and feeding tubes. Woven through it all was the fear, fear that left Mike's "family" here at the station short-tempered and sullen, left his lover ragged and old before her time, left all his brother firefighters unable to ignore the sibilant subconscious whispers about next time: next time it could be them lying there, dying by inches, slain by the dancing beast they spent themselves every shift to fight. And Johnny's mother and father's grief over Jeffrey wailed on, a muted keening behind all the weary sorrow which stalked him today.

Sighing, Johnny closed his eyes, but that didn't shut out the anguish he'd seen in the years since Jeffrey's death. Oh, there'd been a few lovely years after they moved to California, when both his little brother and the raw ache of his absence became a faded memory. But then Johnny had taken this job, become a firefighter. Now he waded daily in the wreckage of people's lives. In self preservation he'd learned to let it slide off, not to take it as his own--most of the time. Sometimes there was nothing he could do, and the terrified faces and shattered realities threatened to overwhelm him. But the cure was a night out with the guys, beer chasers routing the horrific images from the screen. Or he'd find himself a pretty girl, wrap his arms around her, lose himself in her soft flesh. She'd be oh so impressed--and willing--because he was a firefighter, one of the good guys, a hero. And that, too, would chase the horror away for yet another night. Those were the good times; and most of the time they'd been enough to keep the demons on the run.

And for times like this, with memories old and new haunting him and the future in doubt? The evidence to this point was that Jenny wouldn't be willing to give anything to help him forget; getting drunk wasn't going to help Mike. Ten years ago Johnny had saved Palmer's life. One week ago Palmer had saved his; but what of the other lives that the man had ruined in the meantime? Johnny had to take some responsibility for those lives as well. What could he tell Mike, Mike's girlfriend, his family? How could he explain to his friends that he was the reason Palmer had been alive to screw up their lives?

The cigarette had burned almost to the filter. Johnny sucked the embers to life, and this time inhaled the fragrant fumes as the tobacco burned away. He closed his eyes,. held the smoke in, and came to his decision. Exhaling, he bent over and carefully ground out the butt on the concrete.

~* E! *~

In some cases, a fire is effectively extinguished by removing the fuel source.

~~Essentials of Firefighting

Still arguing half-heartedly, Chet and Cutler came out of the vehicle bay, headed for the hose tower. They'd finish hanging the hose C-shift had used when it was called in to help extinguish the fire that might yet extinguish Mike. His hand curled protectively around both the cigarette butt and the pack of cigarettes, Johnny tossed a vague wave in their direction and left them to their task. He headed into the station, detouring to stash the cigarettes in his locker and toss the butt into the garbage before heading over to the day room.

The day room was cool and air conditioned, smelling faintly of oven cleaner and diesel. Reynolds loomed over the kitchen sink, washing dishes and carrying on a desultory conversation with Roy. The log book was open on the table before the paramedic, but the small pile of run slips still lay where they had ten minutes ago, before Johnny had headed out for his impromptu prayer meeting. Nodding at Dave, Johnny stopped beside Roy.

"Roy? You got a minute?"

The chair squeaked; Roy pushing it back even as he said "Yeah." Johnny led the way back out through the vehicle bay into Cap's office.

Captain Stanley's way of dealing with worry was to pretend to work. They found their leader just as they'd left him an hour ago: hunched over his desk, staring blankly at the same two piles of paper, each at least two inches thick. Johnny was pretty sure the same report was still on the top of the "in" pile. Cap blinked as Johnny and Roy's presence registered, then leaned back in his chair, tapping his pencil against his other hand.

"Guys," he acknowledged, then looking from one to the other asked, "What's up?"

Johnny felt Roy's shrug as he slowed to close the door. When he turned around, Roy had pulled up a chair from the corner, leaving the chair next to Cap's desk for Johnny. Cap's eyebrows went up, but no one said anything as Johnny dropped into the seat. He reached out to play with the stapler, then put it back and grinned sheepishly when he realized both men were staring at him. Frowning, he shifted, thought he'd found an opening, but closed his mouth and discarded it. Then he braced his elbows on the chair's arms and leaned toward Cap, including Roy with a glance.

"You know I worked with Palmer ten years ago, at Station 31?" Both men nodded. "Well, he was pretty much the same then as he is now; a lot of mouth and tall tales, but a good firefighter."

"If you're here to tell us that the piranha story is a tall tale you can forget it," Cap said, smiling slightly. "I've had it from at least two other sources now that it was you that day."

His mouth open, Johnny stared at Cap for a moment. Then he flushed and shook his head. "I wish that was the only beef I had with Palmer," he said, the words bitter in his mouth as the taste of stale cigarette smoke. Silence held the room as Johnny brushed his fingers along the stapler again. After a long moment, he looked up and again found both men watching him. He sighed, and dropped his hands to his lap. Staring at the floor wasn't going to work, not for this. Johnny took a deep breath and met Cap's steady gaze.

"You know, I think it must have been the first fire I ever went on after the Academy, I watched Palmer save a couple of kids from a burning house. The mother was outside screaming about her babies, her babies, when we pulled up. Palmer was down and in the building before anyone else was even off the engine. Cap's yelling at him and at us, and we're all moving as fast as we can, hooking hoses up and getting them charged so we can go after him. Damndest thing, next we know, here comes Palmer strolling out the door, a kid under each arm." Johnny grinned, and Cap and Roy gave him tepid returns. A rescue that ended well was always a good story.

"They're all of them black with soot and coughing up a lung or two between them, but heck, they were alive; they were all alive. That mother, she was practically on her knees to Palmer. And me," Johnny put a hand on his chest and nodded, "Me, I thought, man, that's a real firefighter. That's what a firefighter does, that's what we do: we save lives; we save families." Johnny licked his lips, dropped his hand and clenched it with the other one. He shifted in his seat, and tried to keep his knee from jiggling. After a second he shrugged and let it bounce. He slumped back in his seat.

"Captain Fuller, he reamed Palmer out over the whole thing, said he endangered the kids and himself by going in without his SCBA. But Palmer and the other old guys, they all felt like breathing smoke was part of the job. Called us new guys panty waists 'cause we always put air masks on before going into a fire."

Rolling his pencil between his fingers, Cap nodded. Roy's affirmation was an echo at Johnny's elbow.

"I've known more than a few old twits like that in my years in the department," Cap said. "Can't tell them anything."

Johnny waited a second, then nodded. "Yeah. But that was ten years ago, and the Department was starting to come down on everyone really hard about the SCBA gear. They'd give the captains and battalion chiefs hell if they caught anyone at a fire without it." Cap and Roy were nodding again, and Johnny felt the first beginnings of butterflies. Okay, he'd need the warrior medicine if he was going to get through the rest of this. "Fuller was all over us about it. He wanted to be Chief someday. If he caught anyone at a fire without their gear, he made the entire company do drill after drill after drill. So eventually everyone gave in. They'd all wear airmasks at the fires." Johnny hesitated, more butterflies filling his stomach. "A few times, though... I caught Palmer coming out of a fire without his mask. He...well, he'd look more than winded, he'd look...upset. His eyes would be funny, like a spooked horse or something. But he'd just wink and slap me on the back like we were buddies, sharing a joke. Me, I was too young and green to feel like it was my place to say anything, and maybe he was a jerk sometimes, but he was a hero, too. Who was I to tell him how to fight fires? I was there to learn from him, not the other way around."

Silence, this time. Both men were listening, waiting for Johnny's tale to continue. He swallowed, then jumped up and paced over to the wall. Hands on his hips, he stared at the notices on the bulletin board without seeing any of them. He spoke to the wall.

"I'd been there about three months when we got called out to my first really big fire. The First United Church of the Holy Pentecostal Gospel, or something like that."

"I remember that one," Cap said, his chair squeaking as he shifted to lean further back in it. He dropped his pencil on the desk as Johnny looked back over his shoulder. "Four alarmer going on five before someone finally had the balls to order breaking out the stained glass windows. Place was gutted. The church tried to make the department pay for the windows."

Johnny nodded, then shook his head; he'd never heard that part of the story. Slipping one hand in a back pocket, he turned and strode across the room and dropped back into the chair. He clasped his hands in front of him, and his knee started jiggling once more. Maybe he should take up smoking again. Captain Stanley and Roy were quiet, waiting patiently for Johnny to find his thoughts.

"We were part of the second alarm assignment. They sent us around back. Cesar--Trujillo," he added, at Cap's blank look and was rewarded with a look of recognition. "Trujillo, he and Palmer took the first hose in. Cap'n Fuller, once he let the Incident Commander know what was up in the back, he and I took the second hose. I was on the nozzle." Johnny breathed deeply, and willed his leg to be still. "We followed the other hose, and found the fire. It was basic firefighting, crawling in under the smoke, putting the wet stuff on the red stuff--even if it was hotter than I'd ever been, and it was bigger than any of us had seen before. But we were getting the job done, and then..."

Johnny paused, licked his lips. He was leaning forward, hands clenched together, elbows braced on his knees without even being aware of having moved. Cap's hands had found his pencil again; he twirled it between his fingers while he and Roy stared at Johnny, waiting for him to finish his tale. Trouble was, the rest of it didn't make Johnny look too good, either, and once the fateful decision had been made it hadn't mattered what he'd seen. He swallowed, gave Cap and Roy a half grin, and waited for the butterflies to do their work.

"I...I wasn't sure what I saw, but it looked...to me it looked like the other nozzleman was letting the nozzle droop. Like maybe he was having some trouble holding it up. And...and he kept messing with his face mask. The guy behind him, the second guy, he reached up and tapped him on the back, like he was trying to get his attention, but the nozzleman, he just dropped the hose then and there. The second guy was caught by surprise, and the hose threw him into the wall, and then he fell, almost in the fire and under that damn loose hose. The nozzleman didn't even pay any attention, he just pulled his SCBA mask off and headed out. Fuller tried to stop him, but Palmer--it was Palmer," Johnny clarified needlessly. "He damn near knocked Captain Fuller down and blew right past us. Fuller left me with the hose, and I kept the water on Trujillo while he got in there to get him out. But then the loose hose, it flipped around and knocked Fuller in the head, knocked him flat."

There was a moment of silence, and Johnny studied his knuckles. He didn't like the rest of the story, but it had to be told.

"I shut my hose off, and managed to pull Fuller out, and then Trujillo--he was okay except for his arm was broken. All I could do was tuck it inside his turnout coat. Fuller was out cold, and bleeding from a head wound. Fuller and Palmer had the radios, and Fuller's was under the fire somewhere. Palmer...we could only hope he'd gotten out and someone else would find him and get us some help. But we didn't know. So we started crawling, following the hose, and pulling Fuller with us. We were most of the way out when we found Palmer. He was disoriented and coughing up a storm. We brought him out with us."

"You mean you brought him out," Roy said, and Cap, his eyes narrowed as he stared at Johnny, nodded. Johnny flushed, and shrugged. Well, okay, maybe he did. But that wasn't the point of the story.

"Yeah," he said flatly. The story wasn't over yet. "But...later...Cesar, he said that Palmer freaked, lost control and went nuts. Palmer insisted that his regulator was gummed up and he was out of air. He said Cesar didn't listen when he said he needed to get out of the fire. He said that Cesar was the one who'd lost control of the hose and was trying to blame it on him. They nearly got into a fistfight at the fire over it. Fuller...he never could remember anything about that fire. Me...Me, I was just a dumb probie in my first really big fire. I...I wasn't sure enough about what I saw then to confirm either story."

"Were you ever sure enough?" Cap asked. Johnny's grin twisted. Damn, but the man had good instincts.

"Later...later, I was certain that Cesar was right and Palmer was the one who lost control in there."

"And blamed it on a gummed up regulator." Cap's voice was cold and flat, and the pencil broke in his hand. He tossed the pieces on his desk with rather more force than was necessary. "Why were you certain?"

"For one, because I've learned to trust my instincts in a fire, and that I have good instincts when it comes to fire. My gut never sat well with the fact that Cesar got blamed for that accident. What I did remember seemed to line up more with his story. But...the kicker was that I helped Murphy refill the air tanks that night, after the fire. And...I checked. There wasn't anything wrong that I could see with any of the regulators, and the tanks were all at least half full. I didn't want to believe it then. I spent a lot of time the next few days trying to tell myself I didn't see what I knew I had."

"So what happened?"Cap asked when Johnny paused.

"A week or so later, I...I went to Fuller and told him that I thought Palmer had freaked out in that fire. I told him that I didn't think it was Cesar's fault, and that I'd seen Palmer in a other fires without his SCBA gear, and he looked just like he'd looked after the church fire: upset, and flustered and like he wasn't quite there. I told him about the SCBA gear. Fuller, he listened, but he said that Palmer was an experienced firefighter, and he didn't feel it was right to take the word of a probie and a rookie over his." Johnny's voice was bitter. "He made it pretty clear that if I pushed this, if I tried to help Trujillo, that I wouldn't get far, either with clearing Cesar's name or in the Department itself."

"Why didn't you go to someone higher up?" Roy's voice was high and tight, incredulous, no doubt, that Johnny had just let such an egregious sin slide. Johnny sighed, and turned to face his partner, spreading one hand against his chest to emphasize his next point. Cap's face was still, his entire body motionless, waiting. Johnny had the feeling that Stanley, at least, knew what was coming next.

"Roy, do you know how many guys there were that wanted my job--and Cesar's? White guys?" He was angry, suddenly, and the frustration and fury he'd held in for ten years suddenly rose in his voice. He pointed sharply at his partner. "Do you know how many of those white eyes wanted what I had, how many of them knew that I didn't deserve what I'd worked so hard for? Not just me, it was Marco, and Stoney, and Cesar, anyone of us who got in back then."

No response, from either man. Johnny swallowed hard to keep from spitting his disgust on the floor. "Damn near all of them," he said, his words like knives through the quiet room. "Every one who didn't make it, all the guys that had connections in the department, uncles, fathers and brothers, but who hadn't gotten in because me and a handful of other minorities did, they could all blame it on some unqualified colored man being coddled and let in without qualifications."

Roy's righteous indignation faltered and slipped, accusation dying in his eyes as he stared into the face of Johnny's anger. Cap didn't move, but his mouth twisted just a bit. He'd been around the department long enough; he knew, all right. His hand dropping to his lap, Johnny focused on Roy. The blond paramedic was frowning, now, understanding flickering but not yet settled on his face. Johnny took a deep breath and breathed the anger out, away from him. He gave the only defense he had.

"Roy, there wasn't any way I was going to rock the boat and chance losing the only job I'd ever really wanted. It was my word, and Cesar's, against Palmer's, and he had both seniority and color on us. I wasn't going to take that chance."

There was silence in the office. Cap took a deep breath and nodded.

"There were a lot of old guard firefighters who weren't in favor of integrating the Department," he said softly, his eyes on his senior paramedic. "Not to mention that a probie and rookie have no rank next to an established firefighter."

Johnny wasn't sure who, exactly, Cap was absolving, his paramedic or the courageous, loyal, and more than occasionally hidebound brotherhood of firefighters, but he nodded just the same. Roy was staring at his knuckles, the silence in the room as they awaited his reaction stifling. After a moment, Cap shrugged slightly and made a small, encouraging motion with one hand. Wanting Johnny to continue, finish the story, finish damning himself in his partner's eyes.

Staring at Roy's bowed head, Johnny knew Cap was right. There was no way to force the other man to understand the rock and the hard place between which Johnny had found himself. He could only hope that eight years of partnership would count for something as Roy grappled with a decision made years ago. Johnny might as well finish his tale.

"After that I rotated out, and never went back. A few months later, Palmer, I heard he went to a brush station, out in the East County." Johnny waved vaguely in that direction, before sitting back in his chair, his hands dangling limply, his defeat sounding in his voice. "I figured chances of him winding up in same situation were slim or none, and...I guess I just figured it would come to light somewhere, before anyone else got hurt. That someone else who could do something about it would find out and take care of it. I never...I never expected him to last this long."

"At a brush station there aren't many calls for big structure fires," Roy said slowly, still staring at his hands. Cap was silent, his eyes on the pencil half he was turning end over against his desk. Johnny swallowed and forced himself to meet his partner's gaze. The smile Roy offered was small, but it was forgiveness, if not understanding, and Johnny took what was offered, breathed it in and out, and smiled. The atmosphere in the room lightened, and Cap's chair creaked as he relaxed into it.

But Johnny knew the reprieve was only momentary. There was still Cesar's information to be shared.

"There aren't many structure fires out there, but there was that big refinery fire. The two-day one?"

Both Cap and Roy went utterly still again.

"The one where Sullivan died?" Cap finally asked.

Johnny nodded, suddenly not quite sure what to do. Would they accept this part of his tale as well? "Yeah. Cesar told me Palmer was the one working the hoses with him. And with at least a couple of other guys who've been injured over the last few years."

Roy breathed deeply, and exhaled, puffing his cheeks out. "And now there's Mike..."

"And Palmer's spreading the same damn lies about him that he spread about Cesar ten years ago." Only this time Johnny wasn't going to sit by and let him get away with it.

"Claustrophobia," Cap said, and grimaced more than smiled when their gazes turned toward him. "It's something they never used to test for, never had to. You guys, you get it in the Academy. But some of the older firefighters the ones who were here before the safety rules were enforced, they can't take the SCBA gear. It gives them claustrophobia."

Roy frowned. "But I thought that took a period of time to develop, hours. According to Weathers, Mike and Palmer had only been in that fire for ten minutes."

"Maybe," Cap allowed, then dropped his pencil. "Bronson told me that fire at the video store was their fourth fire since supper. Small ones, but still...that many fires, putting on the SCBA gear that many times, I'd think would be as much of a problem as being in one fire for a while. And Mike turning off his hose and following Palmer into the fire to get him out, that makes a whole lot more sense than anything else I've heard."

"What about Mike's SCBA gear being off?" Roy asked quietly.

"Maybe he was yelling at someone, when the ceiling collapsed on him. Maybe someone took it off for him. Maybe he took it off himself. Weathers said his air bottle was empty and you know how hypoxia screws up your head." Cap sighed and picked up the pencil again. "The truth is, we may never know. But I do know that anyone who's worked with Stoker will know better than to believe the crap that Palmer's trying to spread."

Cap's wry grin said he caught the irony as much as Johnny did. Mike's reputation would protect him, much as Palmer's had back then. Only this time it would protect the right guy.

"What do we do, Cap?" Roy asked for him.

"Right now I've got a bunch of reports to catch up on. You two have a log book to fill out. " He dropped the pencil and spread his hands out, before clasping them and leaning forward in his chair. "I...I'll make some phone calls, and then we'll all see what Mike has to say when he wakes up."

The silent, unavoidable "if" that overrode Cap's hopeful "when" filled the room for a second. Stanley's chair squeaked when he moved, picking up the shattered pencil. Chewing on his lower lip, he stared at Johnny, then took a deep breath.

"Gage...Johnny, I hope...I hope that if you ever see anyone here doing anything that's endangering the rest of the crew, you'd feel free to come to me and tell me about it."

Johnny grinned, weight lifting off his chest. "Yeah, Cap. Not a problem. I'm always willing to help you keep Chet in line, you know that."

Stanley snorted and Roy chuffed quietly. Shaking his head, Cap pointed the pencil stub at Johnny. "Get out of here, ya twit, and let me finish my reports. I'll keep you posted," he added, when Johnny, his hands on the arms of the chair, ready to push himself up, hesitated. Cap's smile was slight, and he shook his head. "Look, Gage, for what it's worth I believe you. Just give me some time to talk to a few people and figure out the best way to approach this. Trust me, I don't want my men in any more danger than they're already in. Bad enough we have to fight fires; we don't need our fellow firefighters endangering us."

Standing, Johnny returned Cap's grin, then followed Roy out of the room. Once again, he'd done what he could do and it was in the hands of higher powers. So why he couldn't shake the feeling that once again, he'd failed at whatever it was he was supposed to have accomplished?

~* E! *~

Smoldering fires are not easily extinguished...

~~Essentials of Firefighting

Smokey the Bear pointed reproachfully at him as Johnny reached for the shirt he'd slung in his locker yesterday morning. He pulled the short-sleeved, yellow shirt out and closed the door just far enough so the poster couldn't stare him down. The morning was heavy with a weariness that spoke of nightlong battles against smoke and flames at four alarm fires. Truth was their last run had been a minor single car accident at midnight, and the engine crew had been home in quarters before one a.m. They'd actually managed most of a night's worth of sleep. The paramedics had ridden with the inebriated driver into Rampart as a precaution, and then Johnny and Roy had headed up to ICU, hoping for better news than they'd had earlier.

They should have known it was a vain hope, Johnny thought, retrieving his shoes from the locker, ignoring the bear's accusing eyes as he automatically tapped Smokey's nose before swinging the door shut. They should have known better.

Reynolds had already changed his clothes and left this morning, practically bolting from the station. Johnny didn't blame him; it was hard to be the replacement for a fallen man. The rest of A-shift was intent on their after-shift rituals. Five feet away, Chet gazed silently into his locker, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. Seated on the bench just beyond him, Cutler stomped his feet into his boots, looking sheepish when they all started at the noise. Roy grinned faintly back at him before turning his back. Johnny just shook his head, concentrating on getting his shoe on and not falling over. No, it wasn't physical weariness that weighted their limbs with lead this morning, that had them ignoring each other, as if held apart by some terrible secret they all shared. No, it was the last of their hope shriveling in the harsh fact of morning, the grim realities of hospital ICU's and Do Not Resuscitate orders signed by friends when the terrible need to invoke them was simply a vague and smokey possibility.

Johnny pulled his laces tight and tied them off before he switched feet. No matter how hard they tried to step softly last night, his and Roy's footsteps had echoed in the silent hall leading to ICU. He hadn't recognized the nurse seated next to Rayna when they entered the waiting room in the wee hours of the morning. An older, grey-haired woman, she seemed calm and sympathetic enough. But no matter how soft her voice had been in the morbidly quiet room, no matter how solicitous her manner, the explanation of Do Not Resuscitate papers could not be made gentle. Prayer beads hanging limply from her hand, tears streaming down her face, Rayna had nonetheless listened intently. Johnny gave her credit for her half-choked enquiry about organ donation, but he couldn't remember what the answer had been. Slender fingers wrapped tightly around Rayna's free hand, Andrea Stanley had leaned, gaunt and weary, against Rayna's other shoulder and it wasn't quite clear who was holding whom up. Chief McConnike had hovered in the background, his face grim and his uniform wrinkled.

Roy and Johnny hadn't stayed long; they'd made their way through the thinned and much sobered group keeping vigil and headed back to quarters with the news. Mike wasn't expected to live through the night.

Johnny tightened the loops on his shoe, then stood to do up the snaps on his shirt. If Mike died, that would up Palmer's toll to two dead, and two crippled--that they knew of. And despite his conversation with Cap yesterday, Johnny's conscience still refused absolution. He tried to placate it with the promise that powers higher up in the Fire Department would now take care of Palmer; Johnny's part was done. If he had to testify at a hearing in Mike's defense, he would. He'd shout it to the four corners of the world, and he'd make sure Cesar told his story too. Anything to get Palmer out of the Department and away from the men he worked with.

Too bad his conscience didn't think that mattered.

The telephone jangled, muted by the closed door between the locker room and the Captain's desk in the dorm. In the midst of tucking in his shirt, Johnny froze, staring at his shiftmates. The phone shrilled again, but nobody moved to grab it; no one wanted to be the one to have to break the bad news to the others. The third ring cut off halfway through, and there was almost but not quite a sigh of relief in the room. They'd put off the grief for a few minutes, at best.

It should have been funny a minute later when the locker room door swung open and they all jumped, as if toys pulled by the same string. Should have been, but no one laughed. Dwyer's blond head poked through the doorway. "Hey, you guys. It's Marco. He wants to talk to somebody."

"Did he say..." Roy started, but Dwyer shook his head.

"No, he didn't, he just insisted that he needed to talk to you guys before you left for the hospital. So somebody go talk to him." One long finger pointed to the door into the dorm.

For a long second no one moved, and then Johnny sighed. His silence years ago made him responsible at least in part for Mike's condition; he might as well bear the brunt of the matter now. The other three men followed him into the dorm, Dwyer lingering in the locker room. Roy slumped against the wall beside the table and studied the tops of his shoes; Cutler sat on the foot of Cap's bed, his arms crossed tightly against his chest. Chet went around the brick half-wall that separated Cap's bunk from Mike's, as if to distance himself from the coming news. Leaning forward, his chin resting on his folded arms, he watched mournfully as Johnny took a deep breath and then lifted the receiver.

"Hey, Marco."

"He made it, Johnny, he made it!" Marco's voice spilled excitedly from the receiver.

"What?" Johnny was confused, his brain taking precious seconds to switch gears from expected to actual news. He shared a confused look with Roy. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Marco said, speaking slowly as if to an imbecile, "Mike made it! He's breathing better and getting more oxygen in his system, and his kidneys are working again. They think he's going to make it now!"

"Really?" Johnny said, not fighting the slow grin his face insisted on. The other three men all straightened as he asked to hear the good news again. "He's doing better? Really doing better?"

With an exasperated sigh, Marco repeated himself, this time adding some medical details it was clear he didn't quite understand. Johnny was too distracted to follow them entirely, something about PEEPS and peak pressures and blood gases, but what he did follow was the news that Mike had begun to improve, that doctors were now cautiously hopeful instead of sadly pessimistic. Marco's voice rose. "He'll be on the respirator for a couple more days, and he'll probably be in ICU for a week, but he's getting better, Johnny. He's going to make it!"

Johnny let the grin grow and he gave a thumbs up to his shiftmates. "He's going to make it," he repeated and felt his own heart lighten with Chet's delighted laugh, and Roy's pleased smile. Chet leaned forward to exchange a high five with Cutler, and Roy ducked out of the room, muttering about Captain Stanley. Johnny wasn't sure how much of his own relief was for Mike in general and his own guilty conscience in particular, but still, it was the news he'd been hoping--and praying--for. Someone, his mother's Spirits or Rayna's Goddess or maybe even Sister Tercella's Blessed Jesus, had heard their prayers. Mike was going to live. He'd have to dig the cigarettes from his locker and send his own thanks skyward.

"That's great, Marco, that's just great," he said.

"Yeah, it is," Marco said. "Look, Rosita and I are going to give Rayna a ride home, and Cap's wife is going to head out, too. You guys, Captain Stanley, we're all on his list for visitors, and Rayna," he paused, his voice growing serious. "Rayna's worried about Mike being here by himself."

It was routine to sedate patients who were on a ventilator, to keep them from pulling out the tube and injuring themselves. Johnny knew all the medical reasons why Mike was most likely unaware of any of the people who'd stood mournfully and hopefully beside his bed for those brief ten minutes during each of the last eternal hours. But he also understood all too well Rayna's fear. Years after Jeffrey's death, his mother remained convinced that if, in her absence, one of her other children had been allowed to sit with their brother, if she and his father had made it to their small son's side before it was too late, Jeffrey's spirit, his wanagi, would not have wandered so far from his physical body in its loneliness. For that reason, the Lakhota never left the ill alone; mothers in any culture he was familiar with never abandoned their dying children.

"Tell her not to worry, we'll make sure someone's there for him."

"Sounds good, amigo. I"ll see you here later today, then."

"Yeah, get some rest, Marco. We'll leave the overnight shifts for you lazy dogs." There was a snort in his ear.

"Hey, I start training for dispatch next week. I'm gonna be the one getting you guys out of bed in a month or two."

Johnny grinned. "Yeah, well, the only good part of that is that we'll know you're up all night instead of sleeping soundly like we are."

Marco snorted in his ear, and then goodbyes were said. Johnny hung up the phone almost dazedly, jumping when Chet slapped him on the back. Captain Stanley burst through the locker room door, followed by Roy and most of B-Shift. They all gathered about Johnny, everyone animated by the news. Mike was going to be okay. Johnny could rest easy about his friend, and as for Palmer, well, Captain Stanley would see to it that he was taken out of the picture, if not immediately, then soon. And maybe, just maybe a victory night celebration would be the ticket that finally convinced Jenny to allow him into her bed.

Grinning, Johnny turned to answer the excited queries his crewmates were throwing at him, shutting the door firmly on his conscience.

~*E!*~

Failure to make a well-coordinated attack on a fire can permit or allow the fire to gain headway and get out of control.

~~Essentials of Firefighting

"Oh, come on Garvey, you should have caught that one!"

Stoker's disgusted comment floated through the doorway of his hospital room just as Johnny pushed it open. He walked past the empty bed nearest the entrance and stopped next to the partially drawn privacy curtain.

"Maybe he had a bet riding on the score and has to throw the game to win," Johnny said, grinning at the disgusted glare his comment netted him.

"Yeah, and I could just remove you from the premises and make room for someone who appreciates the finer points of the game, too," Mike growled.

Johnny shook his head as he stood beside the bed.

"If you want me to take that threat seriously you're gonna have to wear something besides a pajama gown with air conditioned seating."

"Gage..." Mike scowled at him, but the game pulled his attention away. "Oh, yeah, Forster, that's the way to pitch the ball," he griped. "Why don'cha hit him in the nuts next time!"

Johnny laughed as the player on the small screen took his base. "I brought a bribe so you'd let me stay," he said, when the commercial replaced the chorus of boos from the Dodger fans. Stoker gave up on the television screen long enough to stare suspiciously at the pink and brown spotted bag Johnny set on the tray table in front of him. He made no move to open it.

"What is it?"

Hands on his hips, Johnny shook his head.

"What does it look like, Stoker? Man, you are getting suspicious in your old age."

Mike gave him another sour look.

"One too many visits to a helpless man from Chet Kelly have that effect on you."

Johnny grinned.

"Yeah? What'd he do this time?"

The engineer shook his head, reaching for the bag.

"I'm not telling, and if he ever says a word he's dead and he knows it. I have friends who will avenge me."

"Well, how can we avenge you if we don't know what he did?" When that question brought no response, Johnny tried again. "Aw, come on, Mike," he pleaded, leaning forward with one hand on the bed, the other tapping his chest. "This is me, you're talking to. The Phantom's favorite pigeon. Look, out of everyone at the station I'll understand. What'd he do? You know I can keep a secret."

Stoker looked up from inspecting the pint of ice cream he'd just pulled out of the bag.

"Did you really say what I think you just did?"

Johnny glared and Stoker smirked as he continued his careful inspection of the carton.

"You're too damned aggravating, Stoker, you know that?" Johnny pointed at Mike. "Everyone thinks you're just Mr. Nice and Clean and never cause any trouble, but you're just absolutely too damned aggravating." He grabbed the carton and opened it, handing it back to the other man before pulling a pink plastic spoon from the sack.

"Been reading the covers of the ladies' magazines at the stores again--Hey, strawberry cheesecake! Nice going, Gage." Mike forbore to finish his insult in favor of shoveling a large spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. Johnny crumpled the sack and tossed it into the garbage can next to the bed. The television went back to the game, and Stoker's gaze gravitated back to the screen while he dug into the ice cream.

"Yeah, well, you're welcome," Johnny said, disgust coloring his voice. Many years of experience told him he wasn't going to learn anything from the engineer. Chet, however, was another matter. Stoker's lips might be sealed with super glue, but Kelly could never resist bragging about his exploits--no matter how afraid he might be of Stoker's threatened revenge. One or two free beers and Chet would tell anyone anything he knew about anybody.

Grinning at his solution, Johnny pulled an empty chair over and settled back into it. He put his feet up on the end of Mike's bed.

"You want your own bed, Gage?" Stoker asked, quietly. "There's an empty one down the hall."

"Nah, there's an empty one right there, if I want it. Besides, who'd want to stay here? Even if you do get cute nurses, they keep poking you with needles and they sure as heck won't let you sleep through the night."

Stoker groaned and shivered. He concentrated on loading the small pink spoon with far too much ice cream.

"That's the truth. I think all nurses have to pass Sadism 401 before they'll give them a license."

Johnny laughed and shifted his feet on the yellow bedspread. Mike turned away from ice cream and baseball long enough to glower at him.

"I could just have Rayna put the evil eye on you--or on your feet. Not that you need any help tripping over them, but..."

Johnny grinned, leaning back in his chair and putting his hands behind his head.

"Like that scares me, Stoker."

Mike shrugged and licked the spoon.

"Scared Chet. Not that he'd admit it, but it did."

"Yeah, but what else would you expect from Chester B?"

Mike snickered and rescued a wandering drop of ice cream from his chin with the back of his hand. He stared at it for a second, then looked at Johnny before licking it off.

"You're a desperate man, Mike."

"Two weeks of hospital food will do that to you," was the retort from behind the ice cream carton.

Johnny laughed and removed his feet from the bed. Bracing his elbows on his knees, he leaned forward. On the television, Steve Garvey caught Davey Lopes' throw and tagged the base for the double play, and the teams switched places. Johnny had never understood the appeal of baseball. Why stand around in a grassy field and wait forever for a little white ball to maybe come your way when there were far more entertaining ways to spend your time?

"Thanks," Mike said a minute later, turning and dropping both empty carton and the spoon into the garbage. "They tried to tell me I had ice cream with supper last night, but I didn't see anything but some left over haz-mat foam on my tray."

"When are they springing you from this place?"

"Tomorrow," Mike said, relaxing back against the pillow. He fumbled for the control switch beneath his covers and turned the television volume down. "I can't wait to get home and get back to work."

"When you coming back?"

Mike grinned. "As soon as I can. I'm not leaving my engine in the hands of amateurs any longer than I absolutely have to."

Johnny snorted. He'd never quite understood the love affair between Mike and his engine. If and when Roy ever did move on to be an engineer, Johnny couldn't see his partner feeling the same passion for a hunk of metal that Mike did. And speaking of passion...

"Rayna, she's okay with this? With you coming back to work? I mean, she was pretty scared there when you were so sick." And it was your fault, his conscience whispered, but Johnny pushed aside the lingering whisper. He was here to make peace with that voice, if he could, but that didn't mean he had to ruin the entire visit.

Mike stared at Johnny blankly for a second, then shrugged. "It's what I do. She knows that." He scratched at the purple scar on his arm, just visible beneath the short sleeve of his hospital gown.

"Must be nice," Johnny said. "Jenny's already hinting that I should find a safer job." Mike made a face, and then the two men shared a grin. Yeah, like either of them would give up firefighting for a woman. Johnny sat back in his chair and pointed at Mike. "By the way, you lied about the sympathy effect."

Mike shrugged, his attention captured by the baseball game again.

"Maybe she just doesn't want to give you any...sympathy. Or else she wants a license first. Lots of women do."

Johnny stared at Mike. Roy had made that same observation the last time he'd tried to talk to his partner about how stuck outside the bedroom his relationship with Jenny seemed to be.

"You really think so? I mean... this is the 1980's. I just figured, well, you know, the sexual revolution and all. You know, no strings, no attachments, fun for everyone. Birth control takes care of any accidents; no one's going to get stuck in a relationship. Who needs to get married? I just want to have some fun. And heck, most of the other women I dated didn't mind, they enjoyed...uh.. Well, they enjoyed--" He smiled, but Stoker was shaking his head, looking slightly panicked.

"Gage, I really don't need the details on your dating life." Mike's gaze went back to the television; the other team had managed to end the inning with the Dodgers unable to score. "Damn, but that was a good play. Now we're out again." He sighed, then cast a glance at Johnny. "Maybe you could let Chet have a chance with Jenny. She'd probably be grateful to come back to you."

Johnny opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. He frowned as he thought that idea through, unappealing as it was. "You really think that would work?" he finally asked.

Mike shook his head.

"No, actually I think the combination of you and then Chet would cure her from ever dating a fireman again."

"Oh, very funny, Stoker."

Mike smiled and ignored Johnny's indignation in favor of watching the game again. The pitcher threw the ball, the batter didn't swing, the catcher threw the ball back to the pitcher. Big deal. There had to be more important things in life. Like how Mike made scores with the girls when he, Johnny Gage, obviously better looking and better date material, didn't.

"So come on, Mike, how many times did you make it..." Johnny's voice trailed off and his eyes narrowed as he stared at his friend. Mike was suddenly very interested in the ball game, and while it was hard to see in the sunlight warring with the florescent lighting of the hospital, a faint red flush seemed to be covering the other man's face. Johnny did some fast thinking, compared his results with certain details he knew about his friend's current relationship, and laughed.

"Rayna!" he crowed. "You were hurt in the building collapse with Marco! You used the sympathy effect on her!" Mike was definitely blushing now, refusing to look at Johnny. Johnny sat back in his chair and gloated. "Mike, Mike, Mike. Who would have guessed that you had it in you? You sly old dog, you." He grinned even larger at his friend's discomfiture. He pointed at Mike, "So, now all I have to do--"

"Is get yourself half-killed at a fire so your girl will finally sleep with you! Oh, and don't forget being responsible for your friend's career-ending injuries," Mike snapped, forgoing the game to glare at Johnny.

His mouth open, Johnny stared back, and knew by the warmth suffusing his face it was his turn to blush. Fortunately his darker complexion hid the emotion better than his friend's pale face. He crossed his arms tightly across his chest and stared out the window instead.

The late afternoon sunlight slowly faded from the room, and the baseball game echoed in the uncomfortable silence. Turning back to the Dodgers, Stoker appeared ready to sit in silence all night; Johnny couldn't stand it that long. He shifted in his seat, got up and stalked to the window to stare out at the traffic crawling along Sepulveda. He knew what he'd come here to do, and Stoker's...accusation? Comment? Johnny knew the outburst wasn't directed at him, but it was entirely too close to his own thoughts for comfort. He'd known better than to hope it would be easy to apologize, but even with the subject landing in his lap, Johnny wasn't sure how to start. After a second he turned around to find Mike watching him.

When in doubt, deflect.

Johnny took a deep breath and came forward to stand next to the bed. "What exactly happened with Palmer, Mike? I never did hear how it all went down. What happened?"

Mike rubbed one finger across the raised pattern of the bedspread, studied the bumps in the gold material like they were the secrets of the universe, in braille. Johnny had almost given up on getting an answer when Mike shrugged and looked up at him.

"Just like I told McConnike and Cap," he said. "I was on the nozzle, Palmer was behind me. I was fighting him almost more than the fire. He was holding the hose funny, pulling on it, making it damn hard to keep the water on the beast." Mike reached up and rubbed his head, scratched the scar again. "We almost had the damn thing knocked down when he dropped the hose completely. It nearly got away from me, but I held it, and then I looked over my shoulder to check on him, make sure nothing was wrong. The smoke had lifted; someone had ventilated the roof, so I could see him pretty much. He was on his hands and knees, coughing, hacking, and his air mask was off. I yelled at him to put it on or get out, but he didn't seem to hear me." Staring off into the corner now, Mike wasn't really seeing Johnny. "The idiot started crawling off, deeper into the building, closer to the fire. I kept yelling at him to come back, but he wouldn't listen, just kept going. So I shut off the hose to follow him, to try and get him out before he got lost." Mike met Johnny's eyes finally, but his grin was weak. "Funny, he found his own way out and I was the one who got turned around and lost in there."

"The ceiling fell on you," Johnny said, and Mike shrugged.

"Dumb luck, then, I guess."

He turned his attention back to the game; someone had just scored, but Johnny could tell that Mike didn't know which team it was either. Johnny waited a second, then took a deep breath. Time to confess his own part in all this...

"Mike..."

The blue eyes regarded him steadily, Mike's face stoic.

"I...uh..." Johnny grinned, weakly, then took the plunge. "It's...it's my fault too, you see..." Johnny rubbed one hand on the gold coverlet, then stuck it in his jeans pocket. Mike was looking slightly confused. Johnny took a deep breath. "See... there was a fire... ten years ago... and Palmer... he did the same thing, he lost control--Cap thinks he's got claustrophobia, gets it from the mask, and well... he got two good men hurt that day, and then he wandered off. I...we were making our way out and I found Palmer and brought him out too."

Mike was frowning now, but at least Johnny could tell he had his full attention. Another deep breath, and he could finish what he'd come to say.

"Palmer blamed Trujillo, and Fuller, our Captain, let him. But me and Trujillo, we both knew that Palmer was the one who'd screwed up. It's just no one would listen to us, on account of we were a probie and a rookie and we were..." Johnny's voice faded away, and he swallowed. Why share that part of the decision again? "And that's why Trujillo wouldn't work with him, and you got called in...Palmer...he's gotten more men hurt, and at least one man killed. He can't handle being in the fire and he freaks, and if I'd just left him there that first time there would be at least four good men still fighting fires and you wouldn't be here now."

Mike's frown was deeper, and he stared at Johnny for a long, tense minute. The TV volume went up, time for commercials. Stoker irritably fumbled for the remote and switched the television off, before turning back to Johnny. The paramedic braced himself for the rebuke. As he'd expected, it was quiet. Mike had never needed to raise his voice to make a point.

"Let me get this straight. You're apologizing to me because you rescued someone from a fire ten years ago? Not just someone, a fellow firefighter. A brother."

Johnny nodded, then frowned as he tried to follow Mike's logic. Then he shook his head.

"No, I'm apologizing to you because I'm the reason Palmer's still out there acting like a firefighter and getting his brothers killed and injured. Including you."

Mike sighed and gave Johnny a disgusted look.

"That's not your fault, none of it is. You tried, the brass wouldn't listen, and that's all you could do--" Mike raised his voice as Johnny opened his mouth to protest. "Come on, Gage, the Fire Department is one of the biggest old boy networks around. You haven't got connections, you can't get jack-shit done and you and I both know it. Incompetent men get promoted every year and that's the way it goes down. Things are getting better, but it's a long way from perfect, and with the right friends you can still get your butt covered for just about anything."

Johnny turned away, his lips tight. He hadn't come here for absolution, he'd... wait a minute. How did Mike know so much? He turned around and pointed at Mike.

"How'd you--"

Mike didn't have the grace to look ashamed. "Cap told me. He came by yesterday with McConnike to tell me the results of the inquiry. Look, Johnny, it's not your fault. You did what you could, and no man in this department will blame you for backing off when they threatened your career."

Johnny ignored the forgiveness for the more important detail.

"Results? What results? What inquiry?"

Mike scowled, and Johnny felt his stomach twist.

"They're not letting Palmer blame anything on you, are they? 'Cause if they are I've got news for them--" Mike was shaking his head, and Johnny put his hands on his hips. "Okay, so what inquiry? And what results?"

Mike sighed, and shifted restlessly in the bed. "They're not blaming anyone. Official report is that Palmer's regulator was messed up."

"What about--" Johnny started but Mike cut him off.

"After Palmer left I heard what sounded like someone calling for help, and went to investigate." His voice was bitter, and he refused to look up as he finished. "That's when the ceiling fell on me, and I was trapped and ran out of air."

A muffled page for Dr. Gutierrez floating through the hall was the only sound in the room for a moment.

"And what happens to Palmer?" Johnny asked quietly. The flash of fury across Mike's face was as strange as it was instantaneous. Johnny couldn't even be sure he saw it; now his friend just looked...uncomfortable, like a bug that wasn't quite dead on a pin.

"Look, I wasn't supposed to tell you this. Any of it. Cap was gonna--"

"What happens to Palmer?" Johnny insisted, stepping forward and bracing his hands on the bed. After a long second, Mike sighed, giving in.

"He's going to be transferred out of our battalion." The words fell into the silence between them, flat and ugly. Johnny waited a second, waited for the rest of the sentence, for Palmer's just desserts to be added to the news, but Mike said nothing. He just toyed with the remote, staring out the window at the sunset. Johnny leaned forward into his line of sight, forcing his friend to look at him.

"That's IT? Palmer gets transferred out of our battalion and that's IT?"

With obvious effort, Mike shrugged Johnny's incredulity away.

"They said he's got less than two years to retirement. He's got connections--"

"Yeah, yeah, connections in the department. I know that, hell, I know that." Johnny spun away, turned his back on his friend, tried vainly to stem the flood of anger. He wasn't sure who he was angrier with: Palmer, the Department that sheltered him in spite of everything, Captain Stanley for failing the trust Johnny had placed in him. Or Mike, for going along with this farce. After a second he gave up and just decided to be angry with all of them. Whirling around, he pointed at Mike. "Dammit, Mike, you nearly died! They were explaining Do Not Resuscitate Orders to your girlfriend!" Mike flinched and the remote fell clattering to the floor, but Johnny ignored both of them. He wasn't done yet, not by a long shot.. "What the hell else do they want? MacAdams and Nelson were crippled, and Sullivan DID die! What else do they want?" He was yelling now, but he didn't care. Let the whole world hear; maybe they could get something done then. "How many more sacrifices before they'll believe the Indian and fire the asshole?"

Mike slumped back against his pillows and shook his head. His gaze was bleak. "They do believe you, Johnny, at least McConnike and Cap do. I do. Hell, I saw the man, he was totally and completely freaked. Out of control. That's why he's being transferred out of our Battalion. McConnike refused to go along with the 'results' Division wanted until they removed Palmer. But Palmer's father-in-law and his uncle and a couple of cousins are high up brass in the department. There wasn't anything else the Chief could do, without putting--"

"His own career in the hopper, I know, I know." Johnny closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Why had he expected the system to help him this time, when it had failed him for the last ten years? But he had expected more of both Captain Stanley and Chief McConnike, and their failure was hard to swallow.

"No." Mike's rejoinder was quiet, and it took a moment to for the rebuttal to register. When it did, Johnny opened his eyes and stared at his friend. Mike was quiet, indefinable emotion rippling across his normally serene face. "It was my career. My decision."

His mouth open, Johnny stared at Mike, but the engineer obviously found the blank television screen more interesting. Johnny had a sudden picture of his friend, books open before him at the station, studying for the next exam on the career rung. Mike, out polishing the engine, checking the gauges yet again, making sure that everything and anything were in their place. Mike, helping out and taking charge at various rescues. The engineer's only goal in life beyond firefighting was to be Captain, have his own crew. He'd started studying for that test the week before this accident and everyone agreed he'd be a damn good Captain when he passed--not if. To have all that threatened, to maybe lose everything he'd worked for when Mike himself hadn't done anything to merit the action...it was a feeling that Johnny was all too familiar with.

He took a breath, but Mike beat him to the punch. He still wouldn't look at Johnny, and his voice was soft--sick. "It was the best deal I could get. Palmer transfers out; I don't say anything about...I wasn't supposed to tell you or anyone what really happened. But I figured of all people, you had a right to know." Under Johnny's scrutiny, Mike's face had slowly flushed again, and it dawned on Johnny suddenly that the expression on his friend's face the last few minutes was shame. He opened his mouth, but Mike wasn't finished. "Cap was gonna talk to you and Roy about all this tomorrow. If he or anyone asks, what I just told you is exactly what happened. And if anyone makes waves, me, or you, or Cap..."

Mike didn't have to finish the comment, Johnny knew the threat all too well.

"They can't do this..." Johnny said, but his voice trailed off and Mike's bleak look said they both knew better. Yes, they could, and did, and everyone knew it. Captain Stanley had tried, McConnike had tried. They believed him and, in the end, they had protected their own, made sure Mike's career was still on track, insisted Palmer get moved out to where he was no longer a threat to the men they were responsible for.

Johnny bent over and retrieved the remote from under the bed, standing up and handing it to Mike. The smile Mike tendered in return was a pale reflection of his usual good humor, but they both understood. Mike clicked the baseball game back on, and Johnny watched for a bit, shaking his head as Mike tried to explain the rational for bunts. At least the Dodgers had a winning season this year.

A few minutes later Johnny smiled and slapped Mike's shoulder as he said he needed to meet Chet for a few beers. Mike scowled at him, but Johnny grinned the threat away. He'd leave Mike to lose himself in the baseball game, allow his friend to try to forget the deal he'd made to save his career. He'd get over it, forgive himself like Johnny had after his own run in with Palmer's magical Departmental connections...eventually.

And maybe it mattered that this time the good man had kept his job, didn't get blamed for anything.

But as the door closed behind him, muting the baseball game, Johnny realized that maybe it didn't matter. Moving slowly down the hall, dodging a harried looking nurse, stopping and waiting behind a mother with a screaming four year old for the elevator, Johnny examined the results of Mike's deal with the brass, and what it meant for him, and no one else. The elevator door closed on the screaming child, and Johnny waited a second before he hit the button for the next car.

What it all meant was that while Mike's career was back on track, Palmer was still out there, still in someone else's battalion, still endangering other firefighters. And Johnny's conscience had just about had enough of being responsible for the man.

~* E! *~

Firefighters should keep in mind that applying water to smoke does not extinguish the fire...

~~Essentials of Firefighting

"Here, back here!"

Johnny lifted the biophone and turned sideways to edge through the half open door, taking care not to catch either the orange radio or the defibrillator on the crockery haphazardly stacked beside the door. Roy sidled in behind him, the trauma box held in front of him. As Johnny maneuvered between the laden shelves on either side of the door, the trauma box banged into the defibrillator which then hit Johnny's knee in a chain reaction.

"Ow!" Johnny hissed, and Roy shrugged apologetically before the two continued into the cluttered workshop. Waist-high tables dusty with powdered residue and shards of pottery filled the center of what once was a single-car garage. Still more shelves loaded with ceramics and pots in various stages of completion ranged around the edges of the room.

"Oh, please hurry! We're back here," the voice called again, just as Johnny rounded the last worktable. In a small space about half the size of Cap's office, a man lay crumpled before a large, silver kiln, its lid open and several fired pots scattered on the table nearby. Her jeans and chambray shirt coated with white dust so they were nearly the same snowy color as the man's hair, a slender, older woman cradled his head in her lap. Pieces of shattered china and a large splash pattern with the unmistakable look and smell of split peas spread out from beneath an overturned tray to cover most of the floor beside the pair.

Her long, silvering hair tucked behind her ears, the woman gave a sharp sigh of relief as Johnny and Roy's equipment thumped down beside her.

"Oh, thank goodness! You certainly got here quickly."

"Yes, ma'am. We were just down the street." Roy said, neglecting to tell her they'd left most of two coney dogs with all the trimmings sitting on the picnic table when the call came in. He opened the trauma box and removed his stethoscope and the blood pressure cuff. "How long ago did he collapse, ma'am?"

She blinked, and her eyes, large and violet-colored in the bright October sunlight spilling into the room, grew even larger. Trying to avoid the spattered soup, Johnny went down on one knee and flipped open the catches on the biophone.

"Desmond? Oh, he only fainted a minute or so ago. I should have warned him, but I was looking for a rag so I didn't hear him come in. I caught him, but it's easier to sit down with him than try to completely stop his fall." One muddy hand came up to brush a stray hair from her face and she smiled at them. "Nonna went to get the smelling salts."

Nonna must have been the dark-haired woman who had directed them back to the workshop from the street. Johnny, the biophone open and ready to transmit, exchanged a confused look with Roy, who just shrugged.

"Does he do this often, ma'am?" Roy asked, maneuvering between the kiln and the unconscious man.

The woman blinked, and then laughed. It was a pleasant, sound, warm and welcoming, inviting them to join in her mirth. Her face crinkling into sunny lines and her eyes sparkling, she said, "Oh, no. No, no, he doesn't. And he's absolutely mortified every time he does."

And then she winked at Johnny. Grinning back at her from where he knelt at the man's feet, Johnny decided that Desmond, unconscious or not, was a lucky guy.

Roy, pulling at one of Desmond's arms so he could put the blood pressure cuff around it, looked like he couldn't make up his mind whether or not be confused with the woman's lack of concern, or disgusted--at her and at Johnny's reaction to her. His look said 'we're professionals, do you mind?' But Johnny had had lots of practice ignoring Roy when he got stuffy. Besides, with her happy spirit and all those laugh lines, she was a lovely woman. Far be it from Johnny to ignore a pretty girl, no matter her age.

"Is he epileptic, or is there some medical reason he faints, Mrs...?" Roy asked pointedly, finally getting the blood pressure cuff set and pumping it up around Desmond's arm. Johnny shared another smile with the lady, and shifted over to take a pulse. The warmth spreading along his shin told him he hadn't been careful enough to avoid the soup. Damn.

"Elaine, dear. Just Elaine. And no, no medical reason. Just this." She moved her other hand beneath Desmond's head. Roy dropped the bulb and reached out to keep the man's limp head from hitting the concrete floor. And then both paramedics stared at the hand Elaine held up, wrapped in a rag the same indeterminate color as the unfired clay of her pots. Deep crimson blood soiled the cloth, the stain on the makeshift bandage growing alarmingly even as Johnny scrambled to help Elaine shift out from under Desmond's weight. Blinking as he settled her back against the leg of a nearby worktable, she smiled beatifically. "It's just the blood, you see. Poor man can't stand the sight of blood."

An hour later, Roy slipped the key into the ignition as Johnny slammed the passenger door of the squad. Just beyond them an ambulance backed in towards Rampart and the Emergency department doors, the attending squad hanging back to allow the boxy vehicle room to maneuver.

"Man, can you believe Elaine? Sitting there, taking care of Desmond when she was bleeding like that? That had to be murder on her hand." Johnny set the box of supplies on the seat between them. "And him, just fainting like that!"

Glancing at Johnny, Roy started the engine and put a hand on the gear shift. He shrugged. "It happens. Some people just can't take the sight of blood."

"Guess not. And the bigger they are, the harder they fall."

Roy chuckled and Johnny grinned at his partner before pulling the call slips for their last two runs out of his pocket. "Mortified" had been a good term to describe Desmond's reaction when he woke up just seconds after Johnny had unwrapped Elaine's hand to reveal two neatly avulsed fingers, white bone glinting beneath the red blood and shaved muscle. The pot that had shattered in her hands and separated the flesh from bone lay in shards on the table above her head.

"I might have to go back and get one of those pots for Joanne for Christmas, though," Roy said. "She had some nice stuff there. Joanne likes that stoneware look."

"Yeah?" Johnny made a last notation on the paper for this run, then tossed the slip into the jockey box with the rest. "I didn't notice."

"That's because you were too busy flirting with Elaine--and Nonna." Elaine's attractive, middle-aged niece had returned with smelling salts just after Desmond woke up, then had escorted the embarrassed man, his face lacking any color at all, from the room while the paramedics worked on Elaine. Roy glanced sideways at Johnny. "They're both too old for you, you know. Besides, I think Elaine and Desmond are...attached."

Settling back into the seat, Johnny grinned at his partner. Laying one hand on his chest for emphasis, he asked, "Age is a matter of mind, Pally. And can I help it if women just naturally recognize superior breeding, no matter how old they are?"

"You're unbelievable." Roy shook his head and concentrated on starting the Dodge. He waited for Squad 16 to finish backing in before putting their own vehicle in gear and pulling away from Rampart. Johnny started to wave at the driver of the other squad, then realized that it was Craig Brice. The other paramedic ignored his half-completed greeting entirely, and Johnny muttered, "Cezacikala." He grinned as Roy accelerated out of the parking bay, leaving a frowning Brice in their wake. Yeah, that was as good a word for Brice as any.

Johnny spent the next few minutes reviewing his store of swear words and nasty names, Lakhota and otherwise, just to see how many of them could be used to describe the anal-retentive paramedic from Squad 16. A satisfyingly large number of them did work.

"You calling Brice names again?" came Roy's quiet question as he came to a stop for a red light.

"Who, me? Now would I do something like that?" Johnny asked, knowing his partner wouldn't come close to buying the innocent act.

"Yes, you," Roy responded. "And yes, you would." Before Johnny could come up with a suitable retort, Roy evidently decided that a change of subject would be in order. "You know, Joanne still hasn't found a babysitter for Mike's party."

"Geez, Roy, that's only four days away. You'd better get a move on. What about Cap--"

"The last time we let Brad babysit we had to call Roto Rooter before we could use any of the toilets again. Cindy still has nightmares about decapitated Barbies."

"And none of your neighbors--?"

Roy shook his head, and opened one hand helplessly. "Do you know how hard it is to get a teenager to babysit on Halloween? They've all got better things to do on Halloween than ride herd on little kids."

"Well, Mike did say you could bring Chris and Cindy, if you wanted to."

"Johnny, the idea is for Joanne and I to have a little fun, not spend the entire evening trying to keep the kids out of the spiked cider."

Johnny snorted. "Yeah, I can see where that would put a damper on the festivities."

Roy sighed, then hit the turn signal. "Between my work schedule and the Cub Scouts, Brownies, peewee football and the PTA, it's been a long time since Joanne and I went out on a date. Too long, if you get my drift."

"Yeah, well they don't call it the old ball and chain for nothing, Roy."

Roy scowled at his partner, but didn't deny the sentiment. He shook his head, made the turn after the car behind them hit their horn. "Worst of it all is Joanne's so desperate for a night out she's thinking about calling her mother to come down and watch the kids."

There was dead silence in the cab for a moment.

"Her mother? As in your mother-in-law?"Johnny asked incredulously.

Roy nodded miserably. "Yeah." He took a deep breath. "The good news would be Joanne and I could stay out all night if she came down. All night."

Johnny stared. His partner looked positively blissful at that thought. Time to remind him of what the true state of affairs would be if his harridan of a mother-in-law came to stay.

"Yeah, but the bad news would be that she would be there when you got home in the morning, pally."

Another deep sigh. "Yeah."

After a second Johnny shook his head and turned away from his partner's misery. "Sounds like a real drag, pal. You're damned if you and damned if you don't. You know, there are good reasons my mother's people have a taboo against speaking to your mother in law--or her speaking to you."

Roy shook his head wearily.

"Must be nice." He slowed the squad, steering around a delivery van taking up most of one lane in the road. After a few moment's silence, he asked, "So, you taking Jenny to the party?"

Now it was Johnny's turn to scowl. "No," he replied staring out the window.

"No?" Roy asked.

Johnny didn't answer immediately. He slouched in the seat, drumming his fingers on the metal door. After a second, he turned to Roy.

"I broke up with her last night.."

"You broke up with her? You did?"

"Well, yeah, I did. Me, myself and I. I could not take another evening spent over at her sister's house, watching TV! That girl was not happy unless we were going somewhere or spending time with someone else. All we ever did was go out here and go out there--Oh, and in addition to making me watch TV at her sister's, she dragged me over to her parent's house for dinner at least four times in the last three weeks! Four times, Roy, four times! Never any time at home, never any time alone. And then last night, when I asked her why we couldn't watch TV at my place, or her place, she said she didn't trust me! Me!"

Johnny paused, staring closely at Roy to be sure his partner wasn't laughing. Roy paid very close attention to his driving for a moment, then looked over at Johnny and shook his head.

"Sounds like a real drag," he said. Enjoying the relief of venting at least some of his frustration concerning his relationship with Jenny, Johnny ignored the uncharacteristic use of slang by his partner.

"Yeah, well, that was the last straw. I mean, three months...no, four! Almost four months we've been dating and she never... she just...she wouldn't...well, you know," he finished, lamely. He looked over to see if Roy did indeed, know, and was satisfied with his partner's sympathetic nod. Johnny turned to the passing landscape of fields and manufacturing plants. "Roy, as stubborn as that girl, as stubborn as Jenny was, I think she'd have strung me along until--"

"Until the wedding?" Roy asked, smiling slightly as he steered the squad across the road, preparing to back it into the Station.

"Well, yeah--except I didn't want any wedding! And no mother-in-law!" He pointed at Roy to be sure he made his point, and was rewarded with another slight smile. Satisfied, he waved a hand in the air. "I just wanted to go on a few dates and have some fun, maybe...you know! You know what I wanted!"

Roy nodded again as he concentrated on backing up into the vehicle bay. The engine was in its usual place and Mike, polishing the rear side with a rag, stepped back out of the way until Roy came to a stop. Roy killed the engine and stepped out, and Mike returned to his work. His frustration with Jenny fluttering away, Johnny sat, watching Mike through the side mirror. In the two months since the engineer had been back with A-shift, Johnny's conscience had almost quit reminding him that he was at least partially responsible for the incident that had nearly killed him.

Almost quit. Johnny shrugged and twitched the accusing whisper away as he got out of the squad. He kept his back to Mike while he collected the run slips for the day from the jockey box, and by the time he'd gotten them all together Mike had made his way to the other side of the engine and Johnny could escape to the day room without facing either the engineer or his own condemning conscience.

The tones didn't go off again until after eight o'clock that evening. Johnny had finished the dishes, and Mike was up two pawns and a knight on Bobby Cutler. Roy and Cap sat at the table opposite the chess game, going over the log book. Henry was ignoring Chet's attempts to coax him off the couch with a leftover piece of Mike's fried chicken.

Everyone stopped and listened as the tones went off, going on and on. They finished, and Marco's voice floated out of the speaker, calling engines and stations to a fire on the other side of their district.

"Wow, that's gonna be a big one," Bobby commented. Mike nodded, as he took a rook and Bobby swore softly.

Cap shut the logbook with a snap. "And it probably means we'll be busy covering their territory for the night. Good thing it's been a slow day."

There were nods and agreement, and Johnny wiped down the counter before he wrung out the rag and started looking for a twist tie for the garbage. Half an hour later Roy was taking Mike on at the chessboard, Bobby offering advice over his shoulder. Chet was dozing beneath both Henry and an engineer's study manual on the couch, and Cap had disappeared into his office. Johnny put the lid on the coffee pot and set it carefully on the stove as the tones went off for the third time since the first alarm. This time the sound was familiar, and in less than five seconds the room was empty.

~* E! *~

Consideration must be given to which extinguishing agents are effective...

~~Essentials of Firefighting

Johnny Gage was in hell. Behind him, the narrow doorway glowed faintly, emergency beacons flashing by in red and yellow and white intervals. But, muddied by the escaping smoke, light and sirens couldn't penetrate the darkness with any believability. Crawling into that darkness, Johnny's consuming thought was that he wanted to push his face mask up and scratch his nose. He concentrated instead on progressing down the dark hall toward the fire, on ignoring the creaking, groaning walls and ceiling, the lukewarm water filling his gloves, soaking his knees. Sweat dripped from beneath his hatband, poured from under his arms.

In the half hour since 51 had responded to the third alarm, the paramedics had failed to rescue two unlucky janitors and treated a few minor burns and smoke inhalation cases amongst the fire crews who'd been battling the blaze. Part of the first alarm assignment, a weary and sooty Brice and Bellingham had been content to escort the few injured to Rampart. That had left only Johnny and Roy to answer when Battalion called for a search and rescue. The Chief had lost contact with one of their hose crews, and wanted them found before they pulled everyone out and settled into a surround and drown. Pulling their air masks on, the paramedics ran toward the building; the point spread was two-nothing in favor of the conflagration, and they had a score to settle.

Another minute, a few more feet crawled down the long, blackened hall. His air bottle was dead weight on his back, dead weight without which he'd soon be dead in the toxic fumes so innocently labeled "smoke." One of the first things a probie learned was to only expect twenty to twenty-five minutes of air from his SCBA, not the thirty minutes supposedly provided. Breathing hard and fighting panic as well as fire took its toll on many things. Could they get in, find the missing men, and get out in that time?

Small sounds and scuffles behind Johnny said Roy was at his heels. But those small sounds were soon lost in the greater, larger roar of the uncontained fire ahead of them. Fifty feet in front of Johnny the fire raged, unsatisfied with all it had fed on so far. Devouring wood and plaster and anything else in its path, the monster consumed the century-old office building from the inside out. Roaring, perhaps in pain, it reared up and threw flame and viscous smoke at the firefighters kneeling before it. Water from their myriad hoses sprayed up and out, a lethal sacrifice seeking the fire's heart. The moisture that survived the heat collected on the cement flooring before making its escape. Johnny and Roy crawled through the small flood, dark water reflecting the flames beneath them.

But this beast was a long way from mortally wounded, and for now the battle was going badly for the LA County Fire Department.

It was a small eternity of sweat in his eyes and the stale, enclosed smell and taste of his SCBA mask. At last Johnny reached a point just in front of the encroaching flames, the narrow hall held by a small group of desperate firefighters. He touched the nearest man's back, and didn't recognize the face behind the flickering reflection when the mask turned toward him. The third alarm must have called in more units from another Division.

"Where--" he started to yell, and the other firefighter took a hand from the hose and waved to his right. Johnny followed his motion, and stared at an adjoining hallway. The yawning entrance half hidden in the smoke, the orange glow of flames illuminated beams and ceiling joists fallen like pickup sticks across the opening. A single fire hose snaked through the debris and disappeared beneath the debris. Smoke oozed out along the ceiling to join the fumes seeking an exit in the outer passageway held by the firefighters.

Johnny nodded. "How far?" he yelled.

The only response was a shake of a head, the man's attention already on the slight shift of firefighters in front of him. Flames were licking up the walls and starting to roll on the ceiling above them. The unknown fireman sidled sideways a step or two with his crew, picking up the hose and humping it with him as they fought to block the enemy's advance, to give Johnny and Roy time for their search and rescue.

Movement behind Johnny translated into Roy, crawling up next to him. Johnny pointed at the side hallway. His partner's nod was grim as both men moved forward, leaving the other men to hold the exit open for them. Johnny glanced back as Roy edged through the tangled mass in front of them. His unknown informant was looking over his shoulder, and this time Johnny didn't need to hear to know what the message was.

Hurry, the man's eyes said, before turning back to the beast that was slowly, but surely, advancing on their position.

Following the hose, Johnny and Roy crawled through the maze of posts, joists, crumbled masonry, insulation, all the things that create the heart of a building. Easing between two fallen beams and past a closed door; Johnny laid a hand on the wood. The heat emanating from behind it only added to the urgency of their quest.

Ducking beneath one more beam and clambering over two, they found themselves in a relatively clear area of the hall. They hesitated at the edge of the space while Johnny shone his flashlight down the hall. Small, scattered pieces of building material, the lone hose, and its attendant trail of water were revealed in the swirling beam of light. Twenty feet further down, the canvas hose bent and disappeared around a corner. Smoke drifted in from the adjoining corridor, growing thicker and following the drafts already seeking the ventilation holes cut by firefighters.

"Let's hope that's all the further they got," Roy shouted. "Those guys behind us aren't going to be able to hold out much longer."

Johnny nodded. It wasn't easy to hurry when the only gait was a duck-walk, but the paramedics made their way down the hall, Johnny's light flashing over debris and smoke and water. Roy reached the turn and was just about to start climbing through the mess in the branching corridor when something caught the edge of Johnny's light. He grabbed Roy's arm.

"There!"

Again, the face behind the SCBA mask was one Johnny didn't recognize. The firefighter sprawled just beyond the intersection of the corridors, his helmet askew and one leg bent grotesquely. It took seconds to lift the debris that pinned him. Kneeling in the water that covered the concrete floor, Johnny pulled off one soaking glove.

"He's breathing, and his pulse is steady," he announced, seconds later. Roy, examining the broken leg, nodded, and they shared a moment of relief. One man found, two more to go. "That leg looks nasty," Johnny said. "You wanna stay here and I'll go find the other two?"

Roy nodded, pulling the handy-talky from his turnout coat as Johnny returned to the search. He tuned out Roy's request for help, focused instead on the ruined material blocking the passageway ahead of him. The man they'd found must have been the last man on the hose; the other two men should be just a bit further down the hall, if they were lucky.

He began crawling, wiggling his way further into the tangled debris, his light bouncing off walls and two by fours before being absorbed by the smoke above him. Johnny tried not to think about what the smoke hid, about the half burnt flooring above his head and surrounding him. There were no weakened joints where the floor joists met wall. The fire was not still burning through the cavities between the floors, loosening more wood and tile and plaster...

About seven or eight feet in, he heard a strange, thumping noise. His left arm was suddenly wet to the elbow.

"What the--" he started, and then his flashlight revealed the canvas hose, trapped beneath criss-crossing beams. Water gushed from the open nozzle. Johnny frowned. The men must have still had the hose open when they were knocked down by the ceiling collapse. That meant that both of the other men on the hose should be nearby.

But a careful search of the rubble near him revealed no more turn-out clad figures. Leaving the hose to its impotent spray, Johnny made his way further into the debris. The growing orange glow gradually eliminated the need for his flashlight. He was calculating that he'd probably crawled about twenty feet further down the hall when movement caught his eye. This time a hand came up in reflex when his light flashed across the firefighter's face mask.

Seconds later, Johnny knelt beside the man. "Take it easy, we're gonna get you out. Can you tell me where you're hurt?" The roaring fire in the room beyond rendered Johnny's queries almost inaudible. He set his light down, and studied the charred posts pinning the other man's legs to the floor.

The firefighter, 149 barely visible on his skunk-striped helmet, shook his head and grabbed for Johnny's shoulder. Johnny shrugged him off, already focused on the one piece of rubble he'd need to move to free the man.

"Okay, I'm going to move this timber here. Can you pull yourself out when I do?"

The other man nodded. Johnny gathered himself and lifted, holding the post while the firefighter rolled laboriously to his stomach and pulled himself free with one arm. Dropping his burden, Johnny scooted over to where the man lay panting, an arm tucked tight against his ribs. Pulling one glove off with his teeth, Johnny did a quick check of the man's arms and legs. The arm braced against his chest told most of the story; nothing else seemed to be broken. As Johnny finished his examination, the firefighter grabbed his hand, shaking his head when their eyes met.

"Down there!" The face mask muffled the man's cry; the fire roared over it. He dropped Johnny's hand to point down the hallway. "Couldn't get...down there!"

"Your other man? He's down there?"

This time the firefighter nodded, gasping and clutching tightly at his side before shifting and trying to sit up. Johnny reached out to assist him, settling him carefully back against an upraised piece of sheetrock.

"Take it easy, now, just take it easy. I'll get you out of here and then we'll come back--"

The firefighter shook his head again.

"No time...turned around, I followed....come back, but...didn't hear. Ceiling came down...get him..." The last plea trailed off into a whisper, and the firefighter hunched forward, arm still held tightly against his ribs. "...'m fine, get...get him..."

Pulling his glove back on, Johnny frowned at the firefighter. Glancing down the hall to where the other man had pointed, he realized the captain was right. They were running out of time. If Johnny was going to have a chance to save the other man, he needed to go now.

"Can you get out on your own?"

A nod, another cough, and the man shifted forward, gathering his legs beneath him and his strength for the trip. Johnny put a hand beneath his elbow, and helped get up on his heels. Squatting beside the man, he checked his air tank. Fifteen minutes left; they must have barely opened up with their hose before all hell broke loose around them.

"Okay, my partner's back that way with your other man. He's waiting for the help we called in. You go ahead and start, and we'll be right behind you, okay?"

Another nod, and the man moved back the way Johnny had come. He made it over the first obstacle, using the wall as leverage to keep himself from falling over. Johnny wasn't certain how far the man would get on his own, but at least he could get somewhere. Hopefully help would meet him on the way, and they would get him out before Johnny had to cope with two injured men.

Once he was certain the firefighter was actually making progress through the twisted mess, Johnny turned to examine the rubble in front of him. Large chunks of plaster and sheetrock were cracked over trusses and two by fours. Paint was bubbling and boiling on the walls of the hallway; flames licked out from a room just beyond the collapsed section of ceiling. Dark smoke billowed out with the fire into the corridor, rising through the breach in the ceiling and masking the fire's efforts there.

They were all running out of time.

Johnny climbed carefully through the jumble of building material, stopping to lift pieces here and there, digging down as quickly as he could to shine his light into the voids, trying to be certain he was seeing the floor before he moved on. A large truss slipped and cracked beneath him, and Johnny barely caught himself before he landed astraddle. Heaving a deep sigh of relief, he leaned over and retrieved his flashlight. The beam of light swung crazily and caught something. Johnny held his light still and stared. Turnout pants and most of one boot. protruded from beneath several pieces of broken sheetrock and older plaster and lathe construction.

Scrambling over the tangled wreckage, Johnny his best to ignore the orange flames that had leaped from their doorway and were now caressing the walls just ahead of where the trapped firefighter lay. He wormed his way under the sheet rock next to the man's leg, shone the light down the void, and froze.

Eddie Palmer, his SCBA gear tangled beneath his chin, lay unconscious beneath the rubble.

Seconds later, training took over, Johnny wriggled in far enough that he could reach Palmer's hand. There was a pulse, faint and slow. He froze in place as Palmer coughed and wheezed, but the other man's eyes never opened. Blood trickled down his forehead, and a livid bruise marked his face. A large piece of plaster was crumpled over him, hiding all but his face, arm and foot from Johnny's view.

His stomach in knots, Johnny backed out of the void. Flames had jumped further out into the hall, rolling across the ceiling toward his position. He moved one beam, threw some plaster out of the way. Made a half-hearted attempt to shift another beam off of the pile above Palmer, then stopped. He stared at the fire for another moment, then looked back over his shoulder.

No one was there to assist him; there was no sign of the man he'd sent out to make his way toward help. Palmer was his responsibility, and his alone.

Something sharp and hot was digging into his knee, and the inside of his turnouts were clammy and sticky. The outside of his coat steamed in the heat, and he had a wrinkle in one wet sock that was probably going to leave a quarter sized blister. Heat from the fire buffeted and pulled at him, but still, Johnny stared. His conscience screamed at him, his rescue instincts screamed at him, and he just squatted there, staring.

Staring back into the past, Johnny saw Fuller's limp body, Cesar's broken arm, Cesar's face a month after he'd been transferred out of 31s. Nelson sat in a wheelchair, baseball glove cradled in his lap. Then Sullivan's funeral, the bright red line of fire trucks interspersed with firefighters from the entire county, and across the state, their blue uniforms dark accents of sorrow in the procession. Many, like Johnny, had hardly known the man, but came to honor the fallen brother at his funeral none the less.

He saw Cap, haggard with worry and grief, his shoulders slumped and weary under the responsibility of two of his men almost killed in the line of duty in less than six months. Roy and Joanne, wrapped in each other's arms and their fear. Mike's girlfriend, his lover, her face pinched and red with sorrow, her body sagging with the possibility of his death. Mike, lying too still under the respirator and then flushed with shame as he confessed the depths to which he'd sink to keep his job.

And Johnny's own face stared back at him, the hollow anger he'd felt when Fuller refused to listen to him, his impotent rage at both the LA County Fire Department and his willingness to sacrifice Cesar for his own career, the sick disappointment in himself that it had taken years to live beyond.

But he'd chosen to save Palmer, all those years ago. His hesitation then had been brief, minute, born more of anger than ill-will. There had been no thought that he wouldn't at least try.

"Shit!" Taking a deep breath, Johnny shoved the second beam aside and began pulling at the broken plaster. It came apart in his hands; he lofted the chunks behind him as he worked, racing the fire and the creaking, groaning building. Paint on the wall beside him was blistering, heated bubbles multiplying down the wall. Breathing hard, Johnny sat back on his heels and released the two by four he'd been attempting to jiggle loose. Oily orange flames mixed with fiery black smoke above his head as the fire rolled on, lapping at the edges of the debris above Palmer, reaching out for Johnny.

The decision to save Palmer last time had been easy. But for what? The men Palmer had worked with for the last ten years had been paying for Johnny's decision ever since. Now there were two more to add to Cesar's list of injured, crippled and dead, to Palmer's tab, and by fiat, Johnny's. If he included Mike, that was three men injured in three months. All because they had the unlucky draw of Palmer on the hoses with them. Mike had said Palmer had two years to go until retirement. If Johnny pulled Palmer out, again, how many more brothers would be sacrificed in that two years? How many more brothers would be on Johnny's conscience?

How many more?

When Johnny crawled out of the debris into the other hall minutes later, Chet and Cutler were just leaving, the firefighter with the broken leg draped limply between them. Crawling and waddling through the obstacle field of smoke and debris, they carried their burden carefully through the rubble. They all knew there was no guarantee yet any of them would make it out of the belly of this beast alive. But they had to try, and Johnny loved them for it.

Kneeling by the wall, Roy knotted a grimy bandage, strapping the other injured firefighter's arm tightly to his chest. The skunk-striped helmet lay on the floor, and the man's hand lifted toward Johnny. There was resounding crash as yet more of the interior of the building collapsed behind him. He met Roy's gaze bleakly, before scrambling over to kneel by the Captain's side and grasp his hand.

The answer to the question was one, the final one, but he couldn't ever tell anybody else that. Johnny took a deep breath, and steeled himself to meet the man's eyes.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't find him."

~* E! *~

Performing proper salvage and overhaul is one of the most effective means of building goodwill within the community.

~~Essentials of Firefighting

The morning light softened to pearl by a layer of marine clouds, its grey light reflected the somber mood in the locker room. Traffic hummed by on either side of the station, the noise drawn in through the bay doors B-shift had left open when they rolled on their first run of the shift. But the noise was muted by the pall that cut off the normal give and take between the men, the banter over how they'd spend their days off, the discussion about Mike's party later this week, razzing about dates made and lost. Death in the line of duty was something they acknowledged, but, superstitious as firefighters were, no one liked to talk about it at the station.

However, Johnny had the distinct feeling that the quiet in the locker room this morning was more for the idea of a firefighter dying in the line of duty, rather than news of this particular firefighter's death.

A fire department grapevine was the fastest news service in any town. Johnny didn't know who had told Cap last night that the man he "couldn't find" was Eddie Palmer, but he knew Chet was the one who'd blabbed it to the entire A-shift crew. Still toweling his hair dry, Johnny had walked into the suddenly quiet day room, and looked up to find everyone staring at him. His heart had leaped into his throat, fearing that they knew the decision he'd had to make. The fear wasn't quite dispelled, even after Cap had hesitantly told him the news.

No one had asked if he'd known who it was he left behind; hopefully they'd misinterpreted his quiet reaction to the news as stunned indication he hadn't. His knees weak and unwilling to lie any more than he had to to his crewmates, Johnny had simply walked out of the room and left his comrades to whatever their assumptions might have been.

And he was hardly off the hook yet. Eddie Palmer's body had been pulled from the steaming and blackened rubble just an hour before the shift change. Palmer's death in battle meant he would receive a large, department-orchestrated funeral, a procession of fire trucks and uniformed personnel, and flags at half mast throughout Los Angeles County. There would be an official wake, a flag would be presented to Palmer's family, and just a general big to-do would be made. Unless he was on duty, Johnny would be expected to attend some if not all the events.

Maybe he could schedule some overtime this week, start making up the money he still owed Ina, pad his down payment account a little more. Johnny glanced over at Mike, buttoning up one of those plaid shirts of which he seemed to have an endless supply. Would the engineer be seeking overtime this week as well? Disability pay wasn't going to cover everything a month's lost wages would have.

Lost in his reverie, Johnny was startled when Chet slammed his locker door. Everyone in the room focused on the short firefighter. Jacket over one shoulder, Chet tossed his keys up and caught them in one hand. Eyebrows waggling up and down, he smirked at Johnny.

"So, Gage. When are you going to give me Jenny's phone number? I'm sure by now she's tired of hanging out with a sorry excuse for a firefighter like you."

Chet's grin was as obnoxious as ever, but he'd effectively broken the pall that held the room. His uniform shirt unbuttoned and half pulled out of his pants, Johnny stared at Chet open-mouthed for a second, before he got his thoughts to switch gears.

"I don't think so--" he started, but Mike interrupted.

"Here." The engineer pulled a pink slip of paper out of his locker and held it out. Chet grabbed the note before Johnny could ascertain anything other than it was another phone number, written in what looked like the same, loopy feminine hand as the note Mike had given him several months ago.

"Hey!" he objected, frowning at Mike. "What do you think you--"

"Stow it, Gage," Kelly said, making a big show of reading the number and then putting it safely in his wallet. "I have it on good authority that you broke up with Jenny, and I need a date for Mike's party."

His mouth open, Johnny turned to glare at Roy, who was absolutely engrossed in folding dirty uniform shirts into his bag. He at least had the grace to look embarrassed. Johnny then directed his ire at Mike, who simply shrugged, nonplussed. Johnny stared between them, stung by the betrayal--and ignoring Chet, whose gloating grin was more insufferable by the second.

"Mi--" Johnny tried again, sure that he would never live this one down, but once again Chet interrupted his objection.

"Just goes to show that any girl Gage can't keep, I can catch," Chet said, slapping Johnny on the arm before heading for the door. Cutler chuckled, shutting his locker and following Chet out of the room.

Before the door could swing shut, Mike called after Chet. "Hey, Kelly! That's her work number! Tell them who you are and ask for Jenny!"

Chet stuck an arm back through the doorway and waved his understanding. Then he and Cutler disappeared into the empty vehicle bay, Chet cheerfully whistling "Bolero."

Johnny, on the other hand, was fuming. Pulling his uniform shirt off and throwing it at the bench, he scowled at both men. "I can't believe you two! I cannot believe you! Roy, why did you have to tell him I broke up with her? And you, Mike!" Johnny shook his finger angrily at the engineer. "Where do you get off, giving Chet Jenny's phone number like that? You should have at least had the courtesy to as--what's so funny?" Johnny demanded as Mike sat abruptly on the bench, his shoulders shaking as he dissolved into silent laugher. Johnny spun around and found Roy, his ears red, looking about as embarrassed as Johnny had ever seen him. First Johnny checked his feet, then looked down his back as best he could, trying to be sure there wasn't any toilet paper or anything else incriminating hanging from his shoes or his pants. Satisfied, he turned to his friends, put his hands on his hips and glared at both men.

"Will one of you two please tell me what the hell is going on?"

Still smiling, Mike stood and reached into his locker, pulling out his wallet and keys. Pocketing those, he pulled out his gym bag and set it on the bench.

"Don't worry, Johnny," Mike chuckled, retrieving the blue shirt he'd just discarded from the floor. "I didn't give Chet Jenny Caraveggio's work number."

Johnny frowned in confusion, then looked at his partner for clarification. Roy shook his head and smiled thinly.

"He gave Chet another phone number, for a different Jenny. This one's a..." Roy hesitated, and met Mike's eyes for a second, before finishing, "working girl." His ears were purple.

"Escort," Mike clarified, still grinning. He folded his uniform carefully into the bag at his feet. "The service she works for will make the date with Chet, then get his credit card number and charge him $100 before she'll go anywhere with him."

Agog, Johnny stared at his friends.

"ONE HUNDRED dollars?" Johnny rubbed a hand over his face while he considered the idea of how much that would sting his already tight budget. Shaking his head, he stared at Mike. "A hundred dollars?"

Mike nodded, a satisfied smirk on his normally stoic face.

His anger at Mike's duplicity gone as quickly as it had arisen, Johnny stepped over and jabbed a finger at Mike. "You're telling me you set up a date for Chester B that's gonna cost him a hundred dollars?" Decidedly unrepentant, Mike nodded again, and Johnny stared at him in disbelief for a moment. Leaning an elbow against the locker next to Mike's, Johnny rubbed his chin as he thought about the idea. "That's an awful lot of money! I mean... okay, it is Chester B.," Johnny waved a hand in acknowledgment of that fact and leaned towards Mike. "But don't you think a hundred dollars is just a bit harsh?"

Behind Gage, Roy looked uncertain, but Mike shook his head. He shut his locker and glared at Johnny.

"Consider it Chet's just deserts." Grabbing his gym bag, Mike took a step away from the lockers, but Johnny grabbed his arms. He stared at the engineer for a minute, then grinned.

"Wait a minute. Does this have something to do with whatever it was Chet did to you in the hospital?" Mike's bed-ridden threat about Rayna's "evil" eye had evidently worked; Chet Kelly had been unusually close-mouthed about whatever prank he'd pulled on the engineer. Johnny's efforts to loosen the man's lips had gained him nothing but a substantial bar tab.

Jerking away from Johnny's grip, Mike scowled. "It has everything to do with that. And Chet deserves whatever he gets."

"So, what'd he do?" Still standing directly in front of Mike, Johnny grinned invitingly, but Mike just glared in return. Glancing his shoulder at Roy, Johnny found his partner looking just as mystified as he was...except for what might have been a suspicious gleam in Roy's eye.

"Don't ask me, I'm just in on Mike's end of the gag," his partner said, shrugging when Johnny lifted an eyebrow inquiringly. Then Roy was suddenly very interested in whatever was left in his locker. Johnny turned back to Mike, but the other man simply shook his head and grabbed his own equipment bag. Stepping around Johnny, he left without another word.

"Was it something I said?" Johnny held his hands out and asked the room in general after the door swung shut behind the engineer.

Roy held a finger up to his lips. "Shhh..." He went to the locker room door, pushed it open and peered outside. Evidently satisfied with the view of the empty vehicle bay, he shut the door carefully and returned to where Johnny waited, arms akimbo. Straddling the bench in front of their locker, Roy sat down and waved Johnny in close.

"You have to understand, if you tell anyone, if this gets out at all, Dixie will have your head. Not to mention you'll be first up on Mike's short list of vengeance."

"Hey, I'm good, I'm good." Johnny laid one hand on his chest. "I can keep a secret, unlike Chester B." He waved off Roy's "yeah, right," look. "Tell me, what does Dixie have to do with this?"

Roy grinned.

"She's my source. I finally got it from her last night, when you were in with our frequent flier, Mrs. Olsen." He didn't need Johnny's nod; he kept right on going. "I knew Dixie knew what happened, but it's taken me this long to get her to tell me. She swore me to secrecy. I'm not kidding, if this gets out, we'll all three be in Mike's sights, and after what he's doing to Chet--"

"Our asses would be grass," Johnny finished for him. He planted his foot on the bench and leaned an elbow on his knee. Bending over, he motioned for Roy to continue. "I got it, I got it. My lips are sealed. So, what happened?"

Roy smiled. Even though they were alone in the station, Johnny had to lean in to hear his whispered explanation. "After we knew Mike was going to be okay, but before he was moved out of ICU, Chet was sitting with him. Mike was still pretty out of it, pretty doped up."

Johnny nodded, not really wanting to think about what Mike had looked like, out of it and doped up. Roy took a deep breath, his smile spreading.

"Well, I guess Chet found some betadyne the nurses had left out, and he--" Roy choked and laughed, unable to finish his sentence.

"What? What?" Johnny hissed. He grabbed Roy's arm as, finally, Roy got himself under control.

"He painted a target on Mike. With his...you know...as the bull's eye." Roy pulled his arm from Johnny's grasp and made a circular motion above his lap with one hand.

Johnny frowned, then suddenly grinned.

"No. He didn't."

"He did." Roy nodded.

Mouth open, Johnny stared at Roy.

"You've got to be kidding. Mike? Chet really did that to Mike? Oh man!"

Tears in his eyes, his face nearly purple he was so choked with laughter, Roy nodded.

"The nurses weren't going to tell Mike, but I guess he saw it that morning when they were removing his catheter. He was furious, not to mention embarrassed, and they promised him no one would find out. But... well, word did get out. The way Dixie heard it, he woke up that night and found three student nurses... uh... checking out the uh... the target."

The locker room rang with their laughter for the next several minutes. Finally, Roy wiped his eyes, and started pulling his badge and nametag off his dirty shirt. Johnny shook out the paper sack he kept in the bottom of his locker. Catching Roy's eye, he grinned.

"Well, I have to hand that one to Chet. I would never have dreamed he'd have the balls to pull something like that off. In my opinion, he's lucky to get off with only a $100 date." Pulling his dirty uniforms from his locker and stuffing them into the sack, Johnny pointed at Roy. "Remind me not to piss Mike off, ever."

Roy laughed. "You got that right." He zipped his bag, and fiddled with the zipper. "Johnny..."

"Yeah?"

"You...you're all right? About Palmer and all..." Roy's voice faded, and he stared at Johnny from beneath his bangs. For a second, Johnny froze, the entire story bubbling up to his lips. But he couldn't tell anyone, not yet--and probably never.

"Yeah," Johnny said finally. He shrugged off his friend's concern. "I guess I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

Roy shook his head. After a second he smiled. "Well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow? UCLA kicks off at noon."

"You got it, pally. I'll bring the steaks."

Roy nodded, then departed. Johnny turned to his locker, retrieving his coat and shrugging into it. The cigarettes were where he had left them two months ago, at the very back of the top shelf. Johnny tucked them into his jacket pocket. Tapping Smokey's nose, he shut the locker, grabbed his sack, and headed out the door.

~* E! *~

Pre-incident planning has several characteristics that make the process a positive, effective tool in reducing fire and life loss.

~~Essentials of Firefighting

Shivering in the autumn chill, Johnny zipped his jacket and squatted on the minuscule patio behind his apartment. To his right, the sun was beginning to burn through the low-hanging clouds. But the mid-morning breeze was soft and cool; the mingled scents of asphalt and the nearby dumpster would be muted by the ocean smells for yet another hour or so. That moist, Pacific air was one of the things that kept Johnny in Southern California, close to the coast. His family lived further inland, in the drier farmlands north and east of the coastal mountains. But Johnny had grown to love the soft caress of ocean breezes and the sun, the year-round warmth. Not to mention all the Los Angeles beaches with all the beautiful girls in their bikinis. The Beach Boys had it right; nothing beat California girls.

Thinking of the various women he'd dated, in their bikinis, Johnny grinned. Pleasant recollections, even if the relationships themselves hadn't lasted. Grit grated beneath his boots as he shifted, and the contents of his pocket crinkled. His grin faded and he pulled the package of cigarettes out. He stared blankly at the red letters, the torn cellophane, and the faint hint of ocean was lost in the memory of smoke. Tires rushing on the thoroughfare became the roar and hiss of fire, belching ash and flame and bringing hell's fury crashing down about their ears.

No, Johnny amended, catching himself just before he clenched his fist around the cigarettes. It hadn't come crashing down about their ears. It came crashing down after they made it out, he and Roy with Captain Robinson limping between them. Once they exited the side hall, the other crew had been freed from their holding action, all of them scrambling to get out of the building. They'd made it, just; dust and smoke billowing from the doors and shattered windows and grabbing at their feet as the building caved in on itself behind them.

Despite the fact that there had been well over two dozen men inside, fighting the fire and searching for the missing and injured, when the building finally collapsed there had only been one Fire Department fatality for the night.

Eddie Palmer.

Shaking out a cigarette and sticking it between his lips, Johnny set the rest of the pack down and fumbled in his pocket for a match. Striking it, he cupped both match and cigarette in his hands, then shook the match out and dropped it to the ground. Nursing the embers to life, he held the cigarette out in front of him. The smoke ascended, thin and grey, making a slightly darker wrinkle on the back-lit clouds above.

Johnny stared up into the cotton-swathed sky until he couldn't separate his contributions to LA's smog from anyone else's, God or commuter. Taking a drag on the cigarette and blowing more smoke out, he realized he wasn't sure why he was lighting this cigarette, any more than he'd been sure two months ago, behind the station. Though, looking back, that time he'd been seeking help, any kind of help he could get. While the fact that Mike had not died had been a very nice conclusion, Johnny had to admit that a large portion of his plea had simply been because he didn't want any more lives on his conscience.

But now, in spite of everything, he had one more.

Johnny took a drag on the cigarette, let the smoke fill his lungs, felt the familiar mild buzz of nicotine hitting his system.

Things had been too busy last night for him to think much about his decision. Still half fearful that his thoughts would give him away, he hadn't wanted to think about anything this morning at the station, with his friends, with the men who respected him, trusted him. But now he was home, alone with his conscience. And he still couldn't decide if he had any morning-after regrets, about either Eddie Palmer's death, or his own role in it.

Pain flamed on his fingers, and Johnny yelped, the cigarette flying as he jerked his hand away from the heat. He carefully followed its trajectory, and then walked over to grind the butt out in the dew-damp grass before returning to his spot by his dirt-spattered patio door. He inspected his fingers, but other than a slight redness there wasn't any sign of a burn.

Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord, intoned a voice from his memory, and Johnny shivered. He could see Father Dengler's horse-like face now; his sad disappointment had always been harder to deal with than Sister Tercella's righteous anger. No amount of Hail Marys and Our Fathers would get him off their hook this time. He'd probably have to buy an indulgence, donate the down payment he had saved up to the Fallen Firefighters Association or something, and that might not even do it. In their dogma, he'd greatly overstepped his bounds. Murder was a mortal sin, they would say.

Murder. Johnny went cold at the word, and on the road beyond the yellow apartments a siren wailed. Was it murder, what he'd done yesterday? After a moment's thought, Johnny shook his head. No, it wasn't. He'd been given a choice, and he'd made that choice, Palmer's life for the lives of the men he'd be working with for the next two years. He could even say it was a choice between Palmer's life and his own. It had been close at the end, very close, and had Johnny stayed behind to dig Palmer out, neither of them might have made it out.

Johnny pulled another cigarette from the pack and turned it over in his fingers. Compared to the Christian God, Lakhota spirits were far less grabby with the power. They were more likely to respond to a request for help by giving the person tools and temporary skills, not by taking over entirely. They might set the situation up, but it would be left to the individual to actually make the decisions and take care of whatever needed taking care of.

The cigarette stopped its tumbling motion through his fingers. So, if he went with his mother's beliefs, and even his father's, whose lackadaisical Catholicism had been tempered by a Lakhota grandmother, he had acted properly. The Powers had set the situation up for him, and he had made the most responsible decision under the circumstances. Choosing not to risk his own life--or the lives of Roy and Captain Robinson--to save Palmer's, was more than acceptable. Ultimately, he was looking out for his tiospaye, his tribe, the brothers he worked with and depended on every shift. He had acted responsibly to safeguard their lives when he'd been given the second chance to do so.

Not to mention allowing some well-deserved divine justice to claim Eddie Palmer.

Johnny quickly pulled a match from the book and struck it. The ritual of lighting the cigarette and offering the smoke--west, north, east and south, then washing it over his face and arms--took seconds. After that, he puffed on the cigarette until it was glowing brightly. He held it out in front of him, and let it all go up with the smoke. Ten years worth of demons and anger and shame. What he'd felt toward Palmer, the guilt he'd carried for Cesar and Mike, and, more briefly, for Sullivan and all the others. His nagging, whining self-pity and self-disgust. All of it gone, flowing from his fingers, burned away with the tobacco. He sucked yet more smoke from the cigarette, and breathed in deeply. Exhaling, the fear that he may have made another mistake yesterday fluttered away as well. Johnny had done only his best, done only what he had to do.

"Pilomayo yelo," he whispered, watching his offering ascend into the sky. "Thank you."

~* E! *~

Finit est.