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Entry tags:
FIC: Run (Emergency, Gen, PG 9/10)
Title: Run
Pairing: non, gen, friendship fic
Summary: A call that turned out not to be a call after all, but someone still needed help…
Spoilers: Set just after first season.
Notes: We saw on many episodes that Johnny Gage really didn't like guns. I thought it might be fun to figure out why.
Previous Parts: 1/10, 2/10, 3/10, 4/10, 5/10, 6/10, 7/10, 8/10
"Well?" Dix asked as soon as she reached the rescue station. A panicking mother-to-be in Two had drawn her away. By the time she returned, Kel was talking to Nancy about an ice bath.
"Thirty minutes," Kel said evenly.
"Thirty minutes?" Dix stared at Kel in dismay.
"And that doesn't include getting Johnny back here." Kel clicked his pen shut and stared at the pen in his hand. He looked sorely tempted to throw it. "They're too far away."
"Harbor?" Dix managed.
"Even farther." Kel's brow furrowed. "He's seized already."
"Oh no. Isn't there—" Dix felt a light hand brush against her arm and she looked up to Joe's concerned face.
"They found him?" Joe guessed.
Dix could only nod as Kel explained about the ambulance.
"I already have Roy start Johnny on two IV lines but they couldn't find ice. Not even cool water in that dump."
Dix glanced over to Joe. She needed the doctor's usual optimism right now. "Thirty minutes there and back? Joe…"
"They've surprised us before," Joe replied without hesitation. He offered her a smile. "And Roy's not the type of paramedic who gives up so easily on his patients. And this is Johnny we're talking about here."
"Rampart. Squad 51 will be transporting the patient themselves. ETA twenty minutes." Hank Stanley's terse voice crackled through.
"See?" Joe patted Dix on the arm. "Sounds like the rest of them don't give up that easy either."
Kel's small smile was reassuring to see as he punched the panel to speak into the radio.
"10-4, 51."
Spilled saline on the seats soaked into the seat of Chet's pants. But he didn't care. Not really. He tapped his hands on the steering wheel. He opened his mouth, wanting to holler, "Come on, come on" because the ladies were taking their time. But then Roy shuffled into the passenger seat, tossed in the rest of the saline bottles next to Chet and held his arms out towards the open door in silent plea for the guys to hand John over.
Chet held back his tongue. His fingers wouldn't stop drumming on the wheel though.
"Easy, watch his knees. Marco, hang the IV bags—yeah, over there. That's good."
Cap popped up by the driver's window. Chet jumped.
"Vince is going ahead to clear any traffic," Cap barked but Chet knew he wasn't really yelling at him. It was just that shouting made you feel like something was being done.
"Full sirens. Don't worry about leaving us behind. Engine's not going to be able to keep up." Cap rapped the door. "Get there in one piece, Kelly."
"You got it, Cap!" Chet promised.
"We're ready," Roy said as he pulled John in. With Chet's help, they settled John between them. John sagged and slumped against Roy, limp and breathing harshly between them.
"Go, Chet!" Marco hollered as he slammed the door shut.
Vince's patrol car suddenly wailed, red and blue sirens spinning in front of him.
Chet stomped his foot on the gas and chased after Vince like one of those skinny racing greyhounds running after a rabbit.
"LA, Squad 51. Notify Rampart we are on route. ETA twenty minutes," Roy shouted to be heard above the squad's own sirens as he called up dispatch.
"Squad 51," LA acknowledged.
Get out of the way, get out of the way, Chet growled in his head as cars edged to the side of the road to first let Vince past then the squad.
"Can we get him to drink something?" Chet asked because even dodging idiotic drivers, miles rolling closer to Rampart, it still felt like they weren't doing enough.
Roy shook his head. "If he was conscious. He'll choke if I try to give him anything now." He drew John closer until the dark head lolled into his shoulder. "The IVs will hopefully replenish what he's lost. He had already loosened up his shirt when we found him. He must have prepared himself for the possibility that he was trapped." Roy audibly swallowed.
"The taillight on the left was kicked out, too," Chet remembered.
"He was trying to get some ventilation," Roy said. "It wasn't a lot but it might have been what saved his life."
"Don't worry." Chet shook a fist as they zipped past a sedan making an illegal U-turn. "You and Gage are the best paramedics in this county. Sounds to me he did everything possible to hang in there." Chet paused. His mouth twisted but he didn't dare look over.
"But don't tell him I said that."
Roy sputtered a laugh. "He wouldn't believe me if I tell him."
"Oh, he'll believe it all right, Roy. He would believe smoke tastes like licorice if you tell him."
Roy grunted. He fumbled for one of John's wrists, two fingers pressed against reddened, almost sunburned looking skin.
"How much farther?" Roy asked after a beat.
Chet flicked a glance to the overhead highway signs. "Thirteen minutes."
There was a long pause before Roy's voice came back hoarse, barely audible.
"Can you make it in ten?"
Chet slammed the heel of his hand on the horn to scatter the cars in front of him and sharply cut in front of a delivery van.
"You got it."
The saline soaked gauze felt too warm, woefully inadequate when Roy pressed it against the back of John's neck. If only they had found ice; even water cooler than lukewarm would have helped.
An ice bath waited for his partner in Rampart. A process Roy knew might not necessarily save John. If he didn't get the body temperature down low enough, the sudden shock of the abrupt temperature drop could kill him.
Roy curled a hand over John's forehead, bracing him as Chet made a turn that felt like it sent his heart slamming into the other side of his ribcage. Chet was truly trying to get to Rampart in ten.
As soon as the squad straightened, barreling down the path Vince made, Roy pressed two fingers on John's carotid again. He swallowed, eyes blurring as the beats under his touch thumped almost too fast to count. The rapid panting, gasping John made sounded like it was trying to catch up to his racing heartbeat.
Saline spilled sloppily over his lap as he drenched more gauze and slipped it under the undershirt to rest on Johnny's belly. Roy replaced the pads on John's throat, the top of his head, under his arms, over his groin. John was getting soaked, water dripping off the bangs messily plastered to his brow and the tip of his nose. But pneumonia was the least of Roy's problems. Despite the wipe downs, the skin still too hot, the heat felt even through his own shirt. It was hot enough to cook the damp gauze, that when he peeled them away, they came off warm.
Getting a BP was hard in the jostling squad. Chet was more concerned with speed than comfort yet Roy wasn't about to ask him to slow down. It took Roy two tries before he could wrap the cuff around the elbow, his stethoscope slipping off his ears each time the squad hopped over bumps. One was hard enough Chet had whipped out an arm across John's chest to combine with Roy's to stop John from slamming face first into the dashboard.
"Sorry," Chet muttered but he didn't let his foot off the gas pedal. He kept his arm over John until he needed both hands on the wheel to swerve away from a motorcycle that cut across in front of the squad.
Johnny's head rolled and lightly butted Roy's chin. Roy snaked an arm around John's middle to keep him from sagging down the seat. He sighed.
"And to think I was worried about you eating the chicken," Roy muttered into the soaked hair.
"What?" Chet pounded on the horn, honking it repeatedly at the blue convertible taking too long to change lanes.
Aloud, Roy said, "I was worried he was gonna get sick again from the chicken."
"Chicken?" Chet parroted. Eyes front, his face scrunched up. "What are you talking about?"
"I had to drag him away from the kitchen this morning." Roy squeezed a trembling shoulder in apology. "Last thing he needed was to get sick again like before."
"Before?"
"You know, last month? After Mike got his head stuck trying to grab that cat in the pipe? You and Johnny here decided a midnight snack was in order and ate the chicken. You two clowns were sick for the rest of the shift. You even missed the next shift."
"Last month?" Chet frowned for some reason. "Roy, that was Mike's chicken. You can't get sick on Mike's chicken."
It was an odd echo. Roy checked his partner to see if maybe John had roused to defend Mike's fried chicken once again. But John remained slumped against him, his face still flushed with unnatural heat, mouth partially opened as he gasped. Roy closed his eyes briefly and dropped his chin on top of the damp head.
"I'm pretty sure it was the chicken," Roy argued half-heartedly.
"Nah. It was the meatloaf." Chet nodded to himself.
Roy darted him a look. "Meatloaf?"
"Yeah. Marco's sister was taking that home correspondence course on catering. Remember?" Chet grimaced in memory even as he gestured at the windshield, motioning drivers to get out of their way. "She had some dumb recipe for meatloaf but it wasn't really meat. It was turkey, of all things." Shaking his head, Chet snorted. "Who ever heard of using turkey for meatloaf? Anyway, she brought it over but no one would touch it. So we finished off that meatloaf." Pretending to gag, Chet spared Roy a look.
"I'm pretty sure it wasn't the chicken." Chet shook his head. "Turkey. What a crummy idea…"
Roy's face twisted and there was the strangest sensation to laugh even though he didn't find it funny. He drew John closer, fingers to the pulse. His eyes burned at what he found.
"Guess you were right," Roy murmured. He gave the rigid, spasming fingers a squeeze. "Sorry." Roy tried to clear his throat but the lump there wouldn't go away. "I'm really sorry, Johnny." His voice cracked.
Roy could see Chet past John's head, his jaw set, eyes resolutely fixed to the front, hands curling and uncurling on the steering wheel. Vince's lights were visible in front of them. The highway was cleared out but the emptiness did nothing to ease the churning in Roy's stomach. If anything, it served only to fill his mouth with bile.
"How much further," Roy croaked. He kept one hand on John's stomach to count the respirations. "How much more?"
"Not much," Chet answered gruffly. "Almost there."
Johnny seized one more time.
The kick to his hip had him turning around to tell John to quit fooling around. But when he turned, he caught sight of Roy and Chet snapped his eyes back forward.
Roy was bent doubled over John, who was curled, his limbs gnarled and jerky within Roy's protective hold. Chet knew enough first aid to know that probably wasn't the right way to treat the convulsions but the squad gave them no room to do anything rig—where did these drivers get their licenses?
The horn blared resentfully when Chet thumped on the steering wheel. Briefly, he wished for the engine and its bellowing horn, loud enough to carry, loud enough for everyone to know they needed to scatter.
"…easy…No, no, no, come on. Don't do this. Sh, sh, sh. Relax. You're gonna be okay. Johnny, please."
Chet blinked rapidly, trying to keep Vince's patrol car in focus. He squeezed the steering wheel. Where was it? He could have sworn they took the right off-ramp. Did…did they take the wrong exit?
Ice rushed down his arms and Chet's head swam like he inhaled too much smoke. He could feel his own chest heaving in time with the harsh sawing next to him. No one was kicking him anymore but he didn't feel good about that.
"We're here," Chet said needlessly when he sighted the tall sterile structure rising up into the horizon. "Roy, we're he—" He glanced over, his words dying at the pinched look on Roy's face. The paramedic had a death grip on John's wrist, knuckles white as if Roy was willing a pulse into the hand he held.
"Just get us there," Roy breathed out between his teeth. Chet numbly nodded.
There was a smokescreen over his memories. If Chet was to sit down later and really think about it, he would have realized the next few minutes were just a mess of images, like a window pane, shattered to ventilate an inferno. He remembered seeing the Receiving doors. He remembered Vince standing there, yanking open the squad door even before the squad completely stopped.
Saline spilled all over the well of the cab and sloshed under his boots. Roy had accidentally kicked the last remaining bottle when he slipped on the mess trying to carry John towards Vince and the stretcher. Roy snapped at Chet—he had never done that before—when Chet said he would help. Roy said something about no time, there was no time, damn it. Chet suddenly found himself alone in the cab, staring at Roy climbing onto the stretcher, straddling Johnny and starting CPR. The orderlies who waited by Receiving—he thought he saw both Dix and Brackett too—didn't bat an eye at Roy on the gurney. In fact, everyone seemed to move faster at the sight. In a burst of "Get the deliberator ready" and "We need that hallway cleared, Vince" and the sounds of hands slapping on doors, the whole crowd disappeared behind the doors. All that was left was the yellow burn blanket left as a wet slop on the ground, two candy strippers staring wide-eyed at the double doors and a squad parked with one wheel up the curb.
There was a knock on the driver's side window. Chet turned a heavy head towards it and rolled down the window so he could hear Cap.
"How is he?"
Chet opened his mouth then closed it. He looked down at the steering wheel and discovered he had sweated into the leather and now he couldn’t seem to be able to pry his palms off.
"I…" Chet gulped. "I don't know."
The first contact of what felt like needles on his skin made him scream. He arched his back off the sling but hands everywhere held him down.
He thrashed; he realized he could move more.
Out. He needed to get out.
Out!
"Easy! Easy! John, you're okay! Calm down!"
The trunk was cooking; he could feel its heated air like an oil slick on his skin. He needed more air. He kicked and contacted metal that wouldn't give under the force. He writhed and felt metal walls blocking him.
"Doctor, heart rate is now—"
"John, you're fine! Take it ea—"
It felt like he struck something. Something heavy sounding fell. An arm locked around his head and he thought he could now feel the cool round muzzle of a gun pressed into his cheek.
"Get me another IV! Keep his head above—"
A beeping thrummed into a maddening endless stream of high-pitched squeals.
"Do we administer a sedative?"
"John, you're all right! You're—Get Roy back in here!"
He lashed out, heard a grunt and the vise around his head released. Suddenly, he found himself drowning.
He tried to open his eyes but they felt heavy. He could feel himself rocked from side to side by whatever it was that surrounded him. He felt cold. Yet he also felt hot. He couldn't understand.
And then…
He felt hands reaching from above, under his arms and lifted.
Air.
"Turn his head. Over here."
He coughed. Why did it hurt to cough? He could feel the cool, thin edge of whatever fenced him in, pressing into his ribs. He flailed and vomited, his head guided by that hand again, over a kidney shaped dish he could vaguely make out with burning eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut as his stomach roiled over and over.
When nothing more would come out, he felt himself rolled onto his back and he was…floating?
"What are you doing making such a fuss?" It was a voice that echoed of something he knew, a name just teasing the edge of his jumbled thoughts.
"Look at this mess." The gentle chide floated in and rearranged the inside of his head. A heavy hand settled over his heart. "Calm down before they make both of us mop this up."
He panted, too drained to move his limbs anymore. But he tried to lift a hand towards the voice.
Warmth and strength captured it, held it tight and anchored him.
"I'm right here, partner," the voice soothed. "You just gotta stay in the tub for a few more minutes. Okay? Try not to move around."
But he couldn't move before. The idea of staying frozen, trapped in a suffocating oven that shrank around him with each passing minute, shook his body. A sound in the back of his throat broke free.
A hand brushed back the bangs clinging to his forehead. "You're out. It's over. Just relax. It'll be finished soon and they'll take you out of there." The hand gripping his guided him to curl around the edge he felt before. "See? You're not locked in. Few more minutes and we'll get you out of it." A brief squeeze over his knuckles. "It's all right, Johnny."
A name finally formed. He felt like he was wrapped in cotton, his tearing eyes only able to comprehend the brightness around him, blurry faces and vaguely familiar machines looming over him like shiny monsters. But the hand clasped over his was as familiar as his own.
"'oy," he croaked.
The hand over his flinched, pausing before giving his hand another squeeze.
"I'm right here. Relax."
Coolness lapped under his chin. He squinted blearily up towards where he thinks Roy was. A hand rested on top of his head. Roy whispered something that was lost in the flurry of voices surrounded them. He nodded sleepily, just glad to no longer feel the cloak of heat crushing him.
He felt a prick into his arm and then he knew nothing more.
Splintered metal coiled around him and squeezed out his air. As he gasped, the metal grew red hot and he began to burn…
"It's okay! You're okay!"
John roused mid-cry, body slumped over the bed rail in an effort to break free of a coffin he could still feel around him. He clutched the thin rail with both hands and repeatedly told himself it wasn't a wall; it wasn't the inside interior of a trunk.
But…it was so dark.
Hands loosely wrapped around his shoulders eased him back down to the center of the bed. John wheezed, dizzy even though the other person did all the work. His limbs felt leaden, foreign to him as if someone had clipped sandbags to his lifebelt.
On his back, John was more acutely aware of how dark it was, how narrow the bed felt, how the air felt thick and sluggish in his lungs.
"'ould…" John rasped. "T-the 'ights…p'ease…" He flinched at the plea he could hear and wished he could add some funny comment after it. His throat felt scoured. He couldn't get the words out right.
There was a pat on his chest and a tiny light winked into existence from a lamp on a bland end table cluttered with pitchers and cups.
"Better?" Roy came into view. He smiled faintly at John, his eyes empty of reproach. He didn't wait for a response; only reached over to offer him a spoonful of ice chips.
Quiet crunching filled John's ears and he wondered why Roy was just looking at him, his expression unreadable. When John coughed though, he caught a flicker in Roy's eyes.
John cleared his throat. "Thanks for finding me," he croaked.
An odd sort of grimace flashed across Roy's face.
"'oy?"
Roy shook his head. "Nothing. Get some rest."
John swallowed and couldn't stop a shaky hand from curling around the bed rail. It wasn't a wall. It was just a bar. He could get out if he wanted to (sort of).
There was a scrape of chair legs over linoleum. John turned his head and blinked heavy lidded at Roy settling down in a chair by his head.
"Mind if I keep the light on for a bit?" Roy asked casually. He lifted up a Life magazine. "Want to finish reading it."
"'ure," John said thickly. "'nteresting?"
Roy shrugged. He rolled the magazine up and lightly tapped John's head with it.
"Get some sleep, Junior. The guys want to come by tomorrow. Joanne, too."
John nodded, his eyes already sliding shut. The reddish hue behind his eyelids from the light soothed the churning in his stomach. He felt himself growing heavy, his fingers slipping off the cool rail. His heart thudded. No wall. Bedrail. No wall. Bed—
A hand wrapped over his fingers before they could complete drop off. Strong, it gave his fingers a careful squeeze, easing his hand back up to wrap around the bedrail.
With the sensation of open air around him, the railing frail and thin in his hand, the walls of his room retreated. John took a deep breath.
"Thanks," he murmured sleepily as he drifted.
The last thing he remembered was the tiny crinkle of a turning page in response.
Conclusion-->
Author's Acknowledgment:This never would have been finished without my beta![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ldyanne, who's has to endure grammar tenses, rewrites, major delays and "what if" questions from me. Thank you, babe!
Feedback is like cookies. I like cookies. -lol-
Pairing: non, gen, friendship fic
Summary: A call that turned out not to be a call after all, but someone still needed help…
Spoilers: Set just after first season.
Notes: We saw on many episodes that Johnny Gage really didn't like guns. I thought it might be fun to figure out why.
Previous Parts: 1/10, 2/10, 3/10, 4/10, 5/10, 6/10, 7/10, 8/10
"Well?" Dix asked as soon as she reached the rescue station. A panicking mother-to-be in Two had drawn her away. By the time she returned, Kel was talking to Nancy about an ice bath.
"Thirty minutes," Kel said evenly.
"Thirty minutes?" Dix stared at Kel in dismay.
"And that doesn't include getting Johnny back here." Kel clicked his pen shut and stared at the pen in his hand. He looked sorely tempted to throw it. "They're too far away."
"Harbor?" Dix managed.
"Even farther." Kel's brow furrowed. "He's seized already."
"Oh no. Isn't there—" Dix felt a light hand brush against her arm and she looked up to Joe's concerned face.
"They found him?" Joe guessed.
Dix could only nod as Kel explained about the ambulance.
"I already have Roy start Johnny on two IV lines but they couldn't find ice. Not even cool water in that dump."
Dix glanced over to Joe. She needed the doctor's usual optimism right now. "Thirty minutes there and back? Joe…"
"They've surprised us before," Joe replied without hesitation. He offered her a smile. "And Roy's not the type of paramedic who gives up so easily on his patients. And this is Johnny we're talking about here."
"Rampart. Squad 51 will be transporting the patient themselves. ETA twenty minutes." Hank Stanley's terse voice crackled through.
"See?" Joe patted Dix on the arm. "Sounds like the rest of them don't give up that easy either."
Kel's small smile was reassuring to see as he punched the panel to speak into the radio.
"10-4, 51."
Spilled saline on the seats soaked into the seat of Chet's pants. But he didn't care. Not really. He tapped his hands on the steering wheel. He opened his mouth, wanting to holler, "Come on, come on" because the ladies were taking their time. But then Roy shuffled into the passenger seat, tossed in the rest of the saline bottles next to Chet and held his arms out towards the open door in silent plea for the guys to hand John over.
Chet held back his tongue. His fingers wouldn't stop drumming on the wheel though.
"Easy, watch his knees. Marco, hang the IV bags—yeah, over there. That's good."
Cap popped up by the driver's window. Chet jumped.
"Vince is going ahead to clear any traffic," Cap barked but Chet knew he wasn't really yelling at him. It was just that shouting made you feel like something was being done.
"Full sirens. Don't worry about leaving us behind. Engine's not going to be able to keep up." Cap rapped the door. "Get there in one piece, Kelly."
"You got it, Cap!" Chet promised.
"We're ready," Roy said as he pulled John in. With Chet's help, they settled John between them. John sagged and slumped against Roy, limp and breathing harshly between them.
"Go, Chet!" Marco hollered as he slammed the door shut.
Vince's patrol car suddenly wailed, red and blue sirens spinning in front of him.
Chet stomped his foot on the gas and chased after Vince like one of those skinny racing greyhounds running after a rabbit.
"LA, Squad 51. Notify Rampart we are on route. ETA twenty minutes," Roy shouted to be heard above the squad's own sirens as he called up dispatch.
"Squad 51," LA acknowledged.
Get out of the way, get out of the way, Chet growled in his head as cars edged to the side of the road to first let Vince past then the squad.
"Can we get him to drink something?" Chet asked because even dodging idiotic drivers, miles rolling closer to Rampart, it still felt like they weren't doing enough.
Roy shook his head. "If he was conscious. He'll choke if I try to give him anything now." He drew John closer until the dark head lolled into his shoulder. "The IVs will hopefully replenish what he's lost. He had already loosened up his shirt when we found him. He must have prepared himself for the possibility that he was trapped." Roy audibly swallowed.
"The taillight on the left was kicked out, too," Chet remembered.
"He was trying to get some ventilation," Roy said. "It wasn't a lot but it might have been what saved his life."
"Don't worry." Chet shook a fist as they zipped past a sedan making an illegal U-turn. "You and Gage are the best paramedics in this county. Sounds to me he did everything possible to hang in there." Chet paused. His mouth twisted but he didn't dare look over.
"But don't tell him I said that."
Roy sputtered a laugh. "He wouldn't believe me if I tell him."
"Oh, he'll believe it all right, Roy. He would believe smoke tastes like licorice if you tell him."
Roy grunted. He fumbled for one of John's wrists, two fingers pressed against reddened, almost sunburned looking skin.
"How much farther?" Roy asked after a beat.
Chet flicked a glance to the overhead highway signs. "Thirteen minutes."
There was a long pause before Roy's voice came back hoarse, barely audible.
"Can you make it in ten?"
Chet slammed the heel of his hand on the horn to scatter the cars in front of him and sharply cut in front of a delivery van.
"You got it."
The saline soaked gauze felt too warm, woefully inadequate when Roy pressed it against the back of John's neck. If only they had found ice; even water cooler than lukewarm would have helped.
An ice bath waited for his partner in Rampart. A process Roy knew might not necessarily save John. If he didn't get the body temperature down low enough, the sudden shock of the abrupt temperature drop could kill him.
Roy curled a hand over John's forehead, bracing him as Chet made a turn that felt like it sent his heart slamming into the other side of his ribcage. Chet was truly trying to get to Rampart in ten.
As soon as the squad straightened, barreling down the path Vince made, Roy pressed two fingers on John's carotid again. He swallowed, eyes blurring as the beats under his touch thumped almost too fast to count. The rapid panting, gasping John made sounded like it was trying to catch up to his racing heartbeat.
Saline spilled sloppily over his lap as he drenched more gauze and slipped it under the undershirt to rest on Johnny's belly. Roy replaced the pads on John's throat, the top of his head, under his arms, over his groin. John was getting soaked, water dripping off the bangs messily plastered to his brow and the tip of his nose. But pneumonia was the least of Roy's problems. Despite the wipe downs, the skin still too hot, the heat felt even through his own shirt. It was hot enough to cook the damp gauze, that when he peeled them away, they came off warm.
Getting a BP was hard in the jostling squad. Chet was more concerned with speed than comfort yet Roy wasn't about to ask him to slow down. It took Roy two tries before he could wrap the cuff around the elbow, his stethoscope slipping off his ears each time the squad hopped over bumps. One was hard enough Chet had whipped out an arm across John's chest to combine with Roy's to stop John from slamming face first into the dashboard.
"Sorry," Chet muttered but he didn't let his foot off the gas pedal. He kept his arm over John until he needed both hands on the wheel to swerve away from a motorcycle that cut across in front of the squad.
Johnny's head rolled and lightly butted Roy's chin. Roy snaked an arm around John's middle to keep him from sagging down the seat. He sighed.
"And to think I was worried about you eating the chicken," Roy muttered into the soaked hair.
"What?" Chet pounded on the horn, honking it repeatedly at the blue convertible taking too long to change lanes.
Aloud, Roy said, "I was worried he was gonna get sick again from the chicken."
"Chicken?" Chet parroted. Eyes front, his face scrunched up. "What are you talking about?"
"I had to drag him away from the kitchen this morning." Roy squeezed a trembling shoulder in apology. "Last thing he needed was to get sick again like before."
"Before?"
"You know, last month? After Mike got his head stuck trying to grab that cat in the pipe? You and Johnny here decided a midnight snack was in order and ate the chicken. You two clowns were sick for the rest of the shift. You even missed the next shift."
"Last month?" Chet frowned for some reason. "Roy, that was Mike's chicken. You can't get sick on Mike's chicken."
It was an odd echo. Roy checked his partner to see if maybe John had roused to defend Mike's fried chicken once again. But John remained slumped against him, his face still flushed with unnatural heat, mouth partially opened as he gasped. Roy closed his eyes briefly and dropped his chin on top of the damp head.
"I'm pretty sure it was the chicken," Roy argued half-heartedly.
"Nah. It was the meatloaf." Chet nodded to himself.
Roy darted him a look. "Meatloaf?"
"Yeah. Marco's sister was taking that home correspondence course on catering. Remember?" Chet grimaced in memory even as he gestured at the windshield, motioning drivers to get out of their way. "She had some dumb recipe for meatloaf but it wasn't really meat. It was turkey, of all things." Shaking his head, Chet snorted. "Who ever heard of using turkey for meatloaf? Anyway, she brought it over but no one would touch it. So we finished off that meatloaf." Pretending to gag, Chet spared Roy a look.
"I'm pretty sure it wasn't the chicken." Chet shook his head. "Turkey. What a crummy idea…"
Roy's face twisted and there was the strangest sensation to laugh even though he didn't find it funny. He drew John closer, fingers to the pulse. His eyes burned at what he found.
"Guess you were right," Roy murmured. He gave the rigid, spasming fingers a squeeze. "Sorry." Roy tried to clear his throat but the lump there wouldn't go away. "I'm really sorry, Johnny." His voice cracked.
Roy could see Chet past John's head, his jaw set, eyes resolutely fixed to the front, hands curling and uncurling on the steering wheel. Vince's lights were visible in front of them. The highway was cleared out but the emptiness did nothing to ease the churning in Roy's stomach. If anything, it served only to fill his mouth with bile.
"How much further," Roy croaked. He kept one hand on John's stomach to count the respirations. "How much more?"
"Not much," Chet answered gruffly. "Almost there."
Johnny seized one more time.
The kick to his hip had him turning around to tell John to quit fooling around. But when he turned, he caught sight of Roy and Chet snapped his eyes back forward.
Roy was bent doubled over John, who was curled, his limbs gnarled and jerky within Roy's protective hold. Chet knew enough first aid to know that probably wasn't the right way to treat the convulsions but the squad gave them no room to do anything rig—where did these drivers get their licenses?
The horn blared resentfully when Chet thumped on the steering wheel. Briefly, he wished for the engine and its bellowing horn, loud enough to carry, loud enough for everyone to know they needed to scatter.
"…easy…No, no, no, come on. Don't do this. Sh, sh, sh. Relax. You're gonna be okay. Johnny, please."
Chet blinked rapidly, trying to keep Vince's patrol car in focus. He squeezed the steering wheel. Where was it? He could have sworn they took the right off-ramp. Did…did they take the wrong exit?
Ice rushed down his arms and Chet's head swam like he inhaled too much smoke. He could feel his own chest heaving in time with the harsh sawing next to him. No one was kicking him anymore but he didn't feel good about that.
"We're here," Chet said needlessly when he sighted the tall sterile structure rising up into the horizon. "Roy, we're he—" He glanced over, his words dying at the pinched look on Roy's face. The paramedic had a death grip on John's wrist, knuckles white as if Roy was willing a pulse into the hand he held.
"Just get us there," Roy breathed out between his teeth. Chet numbly nodded.
There was a smokescreen over his memories. If Chet was to sit down later and really think about it, he would have realized the next few minutes were just a mess of images, like a window pane, shattered to ventilate an inferno. He remembered seeing the Receiving doors. He remembered Vince standing there, yanking open the squad door even before the squad completely stopped.
Saline spilled all over the well of the cab and sloshed under his boots. Roy had accidentally kicked the last remaining bottle when he slipped on the mess trying to carry John towards Vince and the stretcher. Roy snapped at Chet—he had never done that before—when Chet said he would help. Roy said something about no time, there was no time, damn it. Chet suddenly found himself alone in the cab, staring at Roy climbing onto the stretcher, straddling Johnny and starting CPR. The orderlies who waited by Receiving—he thought he saw both Dix and Brackett too—didn't bat an eye at Roy on the gurney. In fact, everyone seemed to move faster at the sight. In a burst of "Get the deliberator ready" and "We need that hallway cleared, Vince" and the sounds of hands slapping on doors, the whole crowd disappeared behind the doors. All that was left was the yellow burn blanket left as a wet slop on the ground, two candy strippers staring wide-eyed at the double doors and a squad parked with one wheel up the curb.
There was a knock on the driver's side window. Chet turned a heavy head towards it and rolled down the window so he could hear Cap.
"How is he?"
Chet opened his mouth then closed it. He looked down at the steering wheel and discovered he had sweated into the leather and now he couldn’t seem to be able to pry his palms off.
"I…" Chet gulped. "I don't know."
The first contact of what felt like needles on his skin made him scream. He arched his back off the sling but hands everywhere held him down.
He thrashed; he realized he could move more.
Out. He needed to get out.
Out!
"Easy! Easy! John, you're okay! Calm down!"
The trunk was cooking; he could feel its heated air like an oil slick on his skin. He needed more air. He kicked and contacted metal that wouldn't give under the force. He writhed and felt metal walls blocking him.
"Doctor, heart rate is now—"
"John, you're fine! Take it ea—"
It felt like he struck something. Something heavy sounding fell. An arm locked around his head and he thought he could now feel the cool round muzzle of a gun pressed into his cheek.
"Get me another IV! Keep his head above—"
A beeping thrummed into a maddening endless stream of high-pitched squeals.
"Do we administer a sedative?"
"John, you're all right! You're—Get Roy back in here!"
He lashed out, heard a grunt and the vise around his head released. Suddenly, he found himself drowning.
He tried to open his eyes but they felt heavy. He could feel himself rocked from side to side by whatever it was that surrounded him. He felt cold. Yet he also felt hot. He couldn't understand.
And then…
He felt hands reaching from above, under his arms and lifted.
Air.
"Turn his head. Over here."
He coughed. Why did it hurt to cough? He could feel the cool, thin edge of whatever fenced him in, pressing into his ribs. He flailed and vomited, his head guided by that hand again, over a kidney shaped dish he could vaguely make out with burning eyes. He squeezed his eyes shut as his stomach roiled over and over.
When nothing more would come out, he felt himself rolled onto his back and he was…floating?
"What are you doing making such a fuss?" It was a voice that echoed of something he knew, a name just teasing the edge of his jumbled thoughts.
"Look at this mess." The gentle chide floated in and rearranged the inside of his head. A heavy hand settled over his heart. "Calm down before they make both of us mop this up."
He panted, too drained to move his limbs anymore. But he tried to lift a hand towards the voice.
Warmth and strength captured it, held it tight and anchored him.
"I'm right here, partner," the voice soothed. "You just gotta stay in the tub for a few more minutes. Okay? Try not to move around."
But he couldn't move before. The idea of staying frozen, trapped in a suffocating oven that shrank around him with each passing minute, shook his body. A sound in the back of his throat broke free.
A hand brushed back the bangs clinging to his forehead. "You're out. It's over. Just relax. It'll be finished soon and they'll take you out of there." The hand gripping his guided him to curl around the edge he felt before. "See? You're not locked in. Few more minutes and we'll get you out of it." A brief squeeze over his knuckles. "It's all right, Johnny."
A name finally formed. He felt like he was wrapped in cotton, his tearing eyes only able to comprehend the brightness around him, blurry faces and vaguely familiar machines looming over him like shiny monsters. But the hand clasped over his was as familiar as his own.
"'oy," he croaked.
The hand over his flinched, pausing before giving his hand another squeeze.
"I'm right here. Relax."
Coolness lapped under his chin. He squinted blearily up towards where he thinks Roy was. A hand rested on top of his head. Roy whispered something that was lost in the flurry of voices surrounded them. He nodded sleepily, just glad to no longer feel the cloak of heat crushing him.
He felt a prick into his arm and then he knew nothing more.
Splintered metal coiled around him and squeezed out his air. As he gasped, the metal grew red hot and he began to burn…
"It's okay! You're okay!"
John roused mid-cry, body slumped over the bed rail in an effort to break free of a coffin he could still feel around him. He clutched the thin rail with both hands and repeatedly told himself it wasn't a wall; it wasn't the inside interior of a trunk.
But…it was so dark.
Hands loosely wrapped around his shoulders eased him back down to the center of the bed. John wheezed, dizzy even though the other person did all the work. His limbs felt leaden, foreign to him as if someone had clipped sandbags to his lifebelt.
On his back, John was more acutely aware of how dark it was, how narrow the bed felt, how the air felt thick and sluggish in his lungs.
"'ould…" John rasped. "T-the 'ights…p'ease…" He flinched at the plea he could hear and wished he could add some funny comment after it. His throat felt scoured. He couldn't get the words out right.
There was a pat on his chest and a tiny light winked into existence from a lamp on a bland end table cluttered with pitchers and cups.
"Better?" Roy came into view. He smiled faintly at John, his eyes empty of reproach. He didn't wait for a response; only reached over to offer him a spoonful of ice chips.
Quiet crunching filled John's ears and he wondered why Roy was just looking at him, his expression unreadable. When John coughed though, he caught a flicker in Roy's eyes.
John cleared his throat. "Thanks for finding me," he croaked.
An odd sort of grimace flashed across Roy's face.
"'oy?"
Roy shook his head. "Nothing. Get some rest."
John swallowed and couldn't stop a shaky hand from curling around the bed rail. It wasn't a wall. It was just a bar. He could get out if he wanted to (sort of).
There was a scrape of chair legs over linoleum. John turned his head and blinked heavy lidded at Roy settling down in a chair by his head.
"Mind if I keep the light on for a bit?" Roy asked casually. He lifted up a Life magazine. "Want to finish reading it."
"'ure," John said thickly. "'nteresting?"
Roy shrugged. He rolled the magazine up and lightly tapped John's head with it.
"Get some sleep, Junior. The guys want to come by tomorrow. Joanne, too."
John nodded, his eyes already sliding shut. The reddish hue behind his eyelids from the light soothed the churning in his stomach. He felt himself growing heavy, his fingers slipping off the cool rail. His heart thudded. No wall. Bedrail. No wall. Bed—
A hand wrapped over his fingers before they could complete drop off. Strong, it gave his fingers a careful squeeze, easing his hand back up to wrap around the bedrail.
With the sensation of open air around him, the railing frail and thin in his hand, the walls of his room retreated. John took a deep breath.
"Thanks," he murmured sleepily as he drifted.
The last thing he remembered was the tiny crinkle of a turning page in response.
Conclusion-->
Author's Acknowledgment:This never would have been finished without my beta
ldyanne, who's has to endure grammar tenses, rewrites, major delays and "what if" questions from me. Thank you, babe!Feedback is like cookies. I like cookies. -lol-
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Seriously, I keep repeating it, but nice work with the pacing and tension. A lovely touch bringing up the chicken conversation again, and the shock of Johnny reentering consciousness in a confusing, frigid mess was very well done.