Author's notes: I borrowed a joke from the internet for this story. This story was written for fun and no copyright infringement is intended.
Smoke filled the bakery, flaming timbers crackling adding their lung-burning plumes to the confusing smell of fresh baked bread and cookies. The bread and cookies were safe from the flames, toasting away in their three hundred and fifty degree smokeless paradise for now. John and Roy groped around baker's shelves and stainless steel mixers and proofers searching for victims while Chet and Marco looked for the shut off for the power as they led the way with a hose.
A banging noise caught their attention and they stopped to listen for its source. A few feet ahead through the dense smoke Roy spotted a huge steel door with a timed tumbler lock the size of a steering wheel. A panicked face appeared in the window briefly before disappearing.
"Johnny, we have a victim in the proofing closet," Roy called.
John stood on his tip-toes peering through the tiny window to see if he could spot their victim. White soled shoes and white cotton clad legs were all he could make out. He gripped the tumbler wheel and turned to no avail.
"There's a timer. It's not set to open for another forty minutes," John called out.
"Let's see if we can re-set it to open now." Roy fiddled with the timer but it stubbornly stayed set. He lifted the HT to his face. "HT fifty-one to engine fifty-one."
"Go ahead HT fifty-one."
"Uh, Cap, it's Roy. We have a victim who seems to have tried to escape the flames and smoke by locking himself into the proofing closet. He must have set the timer but there's no instructions on how to bypass the proofing time or open the door in case of emergency. Is there anyone out there who knows?"
"I'll find out. In the meantime keep trying."
"Ten four. HT fifty-one out."
Roy and John removed one huge hinge from the door. The screws rolled away and disappeared into the smoke. Chet and Marco used pry bars to pop stubborn hinges away from the wall making it easier to unscrew the massive pins holding the heavy door in its frame. It was slow going.
Marco tapped the walls around the door cursing in Spanish upon finding that they were cinder block.
"HT fifty-one. Be advised the fire is heading toward the proofing room."
"Ten four, Cap," Roy said anxiously. They were going as fast as they could as the smoke got thicker making finding the hinges near impossible.
Chet groped around with his gloved hands finding the round, smooth edges of the tops of hinges as each was popped out.
"Okay, it's gonna fall. Be ready!" John shouted as the men split into two on each side to guide the massive door to the floor. In the end, they had to drop it or they would have gone down with it.
John felt for a carotid artery and found a pulse. He took his mask off and put it on the victim. There was no time to assess as the proofing room was overcome by smoke. John lifted the victim over his shoulders and together they made their way from the proofer through the mixing room with Chet and Marco on hoses leading the way.
A huge explosion rocked the building but when the men opened their eyes back up from their hunched position expecting huge structural damage and chaos they saw nothing but smoke and flames, albeit a little closer now. John coughed and gagged as something more than smoke filled his mouth and nose.
"Flour!" he shouted to Roy, trying to remain calm as the room in front of them engulfed into tiny orange bursts of flames like fireflies in mid-air that lasted for seconds and died out. The men quickly patted each other down finding that none of the tiny licks of orange flame had set them on fire. The white baker's pants on the victim however had black- edged holes in them like fire-breathing moths had eaten to contentment and left.
"Those explosions stirred up the flour from the work surfaces and floors," Roy said, taking his own mask off and placing it on John's face, taking his burden from him.
"I got him just let's get out of here!" John shouted, coughing but trying to keep his grip firm on his victim.
"My turn, Junior, just breath for a few seconds," Roy instructed, fearful that John might have inhaled burning flour.
Chet and Marco aimed the hose upwards to hopefully dampen back down any remaining flour. John gave a thumbs up and they continued on through the various rooms of the bakery. Explosions continued someway further on but the exit was also in that direction.
John's head cleared and he took the victim back placing his mask on the man. He clamped his arm over his mouth and nose as best he could and followed. A cargo bay door allowed filtered sunlight to show them the way but there were still endless rooms in their way all like gauntlets of fire and burning particulates.
BOOM! POP! BANG!
It sounded like gunfire and the men ducked out of pure instinct. Something hit the back of John's neck just under his helmet enough to knock him off his feet where his helmet flew off. He smacked his head hard, his victim landing half on him half on the floor. The air was cleaner down here and he forced a breath into his lungs and pushed himself onto his feet as the men looked back. His O2 tank took that moment to blare its empty alarm.
Okay? Roy asked by way of a hand signal.
"I'm good," John shouted.
There was no time to study his partner. Roy picked the victim up as Chet and Marco expertly moved as one to make it to John. Chet picked up John's helmet and placed it on his head as John nodded and waved them off. They took the lead again spraying as they went as more explosions went off one by one now sounding like fireworks.
Roy took turns breathing from the mask with his victim. Listening to the beeping from John's tank kept him moving quickly. Little did he know John wasn't getting any air. John's regulator hose separated from the tank in the fall and his hands were too clumsy to reattach it.
John stumbled a few times but kept up until something more noxious burned at his nostrils and throat. His head throbbed but he pressed on keeping the daylight fixed within his sights. It might as well have been miles away. It was hard to convince himself to keep breathing the rancid air his body wanted so desperately to reject. Something warm tricked down the back of his neck, irritating the too-hot skin.
It's just sweat … just sweat, he told himself. God, even his thought-speech was choking on the noxious stuff in the air. His lungs burned with the effort of keeping himself in the momentum of the others and he fell behind a few feet. Trouble was that's all it took.
POP! POP! BANG! A commercial oven door blew off. John flattened himself to the ground just in time to feel it whiz by his body and crash through a wall to his left. Still he got back up as his friends searched frantically through the smoke. John put on a show of energy and kept up. He couldn't see Roy's concerned gaze as it turned from him. Chet and Marco had to man the hose to get them the hell out of there. They went on.
John dropped to his knees as his shift mate's backs disappeared into the cloud of smoke and daylight. A blast of orange flame roared over John's head as he spun and pulled his turnout coat over his head and threw himself to the floor. It seemed to pass quickly with no visible source for the initial outburst but in seconds the tell tale sound of its imminent return became familiar to him. He rolled from its path until he hit a wall and could get no further away. He tried to push himself up again, timing the sound with the bursts of flame but ended up flat on his stomach feeling like the fire was inside him before blacking out.
XXXX
Roy flung his mask off his sweat-soaked face and ran with renewed energy to the triage area. He placed their victim in the care of Brice and Bellingham and turned back to see Chet and Marco run back into the building.
Roy was light-headed. One, two … there were supposed to be three! Where the hell was his partner?
"Desoto, are you okay?" Brice shouted up at his retreating back.
"Ask me in a minute," Roy replied, staunching his nausea back down. He knew something was wrong. He'd been in fires before and ate smoke. There was something different about this. Something not right, well, something more not right.
XXXX
John drifted away in and out of consciousness. His name was shouted somewhere just ahead.
"H-here! I'm here!" he gasped, eyes tearing from the smoke and if he'd admit it, fear. The explosions were tremendous and when he reopened his eyes after each one expecting a roof collapse or worse and didn't find one, he found it hard to tell reality from dreams.
BOOM!
Something hard and metallic hit him squarely in the face nearly knocking him back to la-la land. Warm ooze wound over his nostrils and mouth almost choking him. He groped around his head with his gloves picturing a grossly misshapen face when his fingers sunk into the flesh. The only part that hurt was his nose where the projectile first made impact. It was no use, he couldn't assess the extreme damage with the diminished dexterity of the gloves. He took them off. He gagged as layer after layer of oozy muck peeled from his face.
"Noooo," he gasped through his torn throat. A cylindrical piece of cardboard with a shiny metallic bottom rolled away from his hand when he forced himself to take his hands from his face, afraid of causing further damage. A large, white teddy bear made of dough with no fur and a large baker's hat smiled and winked at him from the half-charred picture on the empty blue cardboard and tin can. John reached out to grab the bear but it just laughed in that oh-so-familiar-just-been-poked-in-the-belly-way Heee hmm!
John tried again to choke out his location through his parched lips but now he had a more pressing problem. While the smoke was a bit less dense on the floor he was alerted to another smell. Ammonia. He wracked his brain trying to figure out why ammonia would be in a bakery but when his fellow shift mate's legs walked away right past him not more than six feet away he blew out an angry breath that burned and confused him. He flung his hands out in front of him and pushed to his knees knocking the little doughboy away where he rolled to his death in a spot fire of vegetable oil on the floor.
Doughboy didn't scream though John's too-far-gone brain waited for agonized cries of help he couldn't provide. John reached his hands out to the backs of his friends who searched the wrong room for him. A strong whiff of ammonia sent him sprawling again. He looked through the dense smoke as the little teddy bear rose in a ghost-like apparition.
Remember your rulebook, John, the doughboy said. "Bakeries use Ammonium Carbonate as a leveling agent in biscuits. The white powder you breathed wasn't all flour. Keep the arm of your turnout over your mouth and nose, it'll help a little bit now that you're out of air. I'm really sorry I knocked your air hose off. Believe me, it was no fun blowing up like that for me either."
"But you blew my face off!" John yelled to the ghost of the doughboy. "How am I supposed to cover this … this mess," he yelled to the slowly fading ghostly doughboy that was now emitting the rich smells of oven fresh rolls.
"Um … yeah, about that … I didn't blow your face off. That odd mushy stuff covering your skin? I sorta … had an accident from the fear of flying through the air. Sorry 'bout that. Could ya just scrape it off and throw it over here?"
John reached for his face again, wincing as he stripped off the sticky, gooey mess tossing it away from himself in disgust. The doughboy pooped on him! Sure, over the years people had vomited on him, spat at him, bled on him, but this … was just too much.
John lied back covering his mouth and nose firmly and with determination now.
The doughboy apparition appeared to become concerned as he leaned over John having left his jelly-bellied, doughy body behind.
John reached out and poked him.
"You're not gonna, have another accident are ya?"
The dough boy laughed heeee hmmm! I see you still have your famous sense of humor intact. Good. You're going to need it.
John's shift mate's yells for him became more frantic as the heat intensified and larger cardboard barrels exploded plunging the bakery into a snowy inferno.
"Johnny! John!" came Roy's fear-filled voice.
Cough cough, "I can't call them to me. My throat's burned," John whispered through his turnout-coated arm. Tears from fear and ammonia released in the slow burn ran down his face. "I think this is it … but thanks for stayin' with m-me."
John's eyes fluttered open seconds, minutes, hours later, he didn't know which to see the apparition of the doughboy stacking cans in a corner all bearing his winking picture. He lit a fuse conjured from who knew where igniting the cans causing them to explode in a parade of fierce bangs that caught the attention of John's now frantic shift mates.
"That explains the explosions," Marco gasped as the men picked themselves up from their duck and cover. Chet and Marco aimed the hose at the smoking cylinders watching the water carry them into a wall where they spotted … "Roy! It's Johnny!"
Roy ran to Johnny immediately pulling his friend's arm off his face. He reached down to overly warm skin feeling for a pulse in his neck. Taking in the semi mutilated features, Roy took a deep breath and gently put his own mask to John's face. The second the mask left his own face he smelled the ammonia and his mind flipped through the pages of his handbook. Of course! Bakeries use ammonium carbonate which when ignited or heated release ammonia gases.
Heaving John over his shoulder and running for fresh air behind Chet and Marco who extinguished any flames or burning bits of floury, doughy debris in their way Roy slid and slipped his way through into the early summer afternoon air. Flour coated Roy's bare face making him look as pale as death.
Cap ran forward to help Roy with his burden. By this time Roy was trying his best not to cry. John was alive but horribly disfigured. First he'd save John's life, then he'd try to help him deal with the aftermath. He tried to concentrate on the now and right now, John needed serious help.
"How is he?" Cap blurted anxiously knowing Roy probably didn't have an answer at this point but having to ask anyway.
"It's bad, Cap … Real bad." How would John deal with his trademark good looks being gone for good? Even with extensive reconstruction he was damaged.
Roy placed John gently down on the yellow tarp and slowly removed the face mask wincing as he did so as residue of flesh stuck to it and pulled back almost as hard as he pulled to get the damned thing off. Roy had a strong stomach but it was all he could do to wave of Brice's offer to help peel the mask off as Brice poured saline solution to loosen it. Their was an audible gasp of anxiety when the mask pulled free with a sickening pop much like the explosions in the bakery only muted.
For a second Roy held his breath, afraid to take a full look but slowly he directed his eyes. He had a job to do.
"Oh Johnny …" Roy sighed sadly through burning eyes, his own throat on fire from having run through the ammonia filled bakery.
"Wait a second," Chet said, reaching out to touch the loose, sooty skin hanging from John's once handsome face.
"Don't touch 'im, Chet! The docs will have to remove the burned skin."
But Chet plucked at a piece and it came loose in his hand. Roy nearly threw up but caught himself as he too touched his young partner's face as John moaned and deep brown eyes opened out of the bumps and lumps of what used to be his nose and lips.
"It's dough!" Roy shouted frantically, hope rising in his chest so fast it made him dizzy along with the ammonia he inhaled. Roy coughed deeply as Brice rediscovered John's handsome features under layers of dried dough while Stoker contacted Rampart.
XXXX
John's concussed brain was fed images through eyes filled with grit, dough and smoke. Roy was hunched over in a terrible coughing fit that almost sounded like sobbing.
Oh … it must be worse than I thought if Roy's barfing. My face must look really bad … the poor paramedic shuddered, not unnoticed by Brice who promptly reported said shiver.
Brice's face appeared over John. The walking rulebook wore a large baker's hat with a big blue-eyed grin.
"How're you feeling, Gage?"
"How d-do you know my name?" John rasped.
Brice Doughboy didn't answer him. Instead he spoke into a black phone to someone called Rampart.
Odd sort of name … Gage mused as his eyes slid shut but his ears remained open … well, mostly open, there was some doughboy poo still in there. Or was that John's brains? He couldn't tell which and he was too tired to worry about it right now. Roy would stuff 'em back in somehow he guessed.
"Rampart, our code I is conscious but confused. He's suffering from smoke inhalation along with inhalation of flour and ammonium carbonate from a bakery fire. His pupils are sluggish and he's slightly cyanotic. We're checking for burns. Vitals to follow."
Brice went to work getting John's turnouts off with Chet and Marco's help while Cap hunched down to keep watch on Roy who was still coughing hoarsely. Cap nodded to Stoker who knew what to do.
"Rampart, we have a second code I who's inhaled smoke and to a lesser degree, flour and ammonium carbonate. Victim is coughing and his eyes are tearing profusely with evidence of mucous membrane irritation."
Dr. Brackett's voice boomed out orders for 02 for Roy while he waited for an assessment of code I number one.
Brice spoke while Mike relayed John's injuries and vital signs and news of his very high temperature.
"Rampart, victim has second degree burns on his left palm about two inches in diameter. Have dressed and doused with saline solution. No other burns evident. Victim continues to be confused and indicates pain in the chest, suspect indicating lung area. Mucous membranes are dry and red. Victim has a large, haematoma on the back of his head."
Brice checked for spinal injuries and carefully turned John's head to the side, probing the wound with his fingers and finding a three-inch gash, which he dressed.
"Sixteen start an IV normal saline TKO and insert an oesophageal airway in case of swelling. Monitor the cyanosis carefully for worsening and transport immediately."
"Ten four Rampart," answered Stoker as Brice set to work. Roy removed his own oxygen mask and knelt next to John whose eyes fluttered open dully then closed again.
"No, Brice, not in his right hand. He hates IV's in his writing hand," Roy rasped, grasping John's right hand as Brice moved off to the left with no room for argument while surrounded by John's shift mates.
Cap put a hand on Roy's shoulder. John's wheezing worsened and Roy assured him he was steady enough to take over putting in the IV while Brice inserted the airway. Brice carefully tilted the young man's head back, shining a light into his mouth and shaking his head.
"It's swelling rapidly now," Brice said calmly but with an edge the others hadn't heard before. Was that concern perhaps? Brice cursed under his breath a few times gently manipulating the tubes past the badly swollen throat. It was possible to actually see John's lips take on a bluer tinge.
"Got it!" Brice said triumphantly what seemed like hours later. Placing his hand on John's stomach he announced that his breaths were getting shallower.
Cap made Roy put the oxygen mask back on before following his friend's gurney on foot, supported by Stoker and Chet.
Brice tried to take Roy's pulse but his hand was smacked away with an apologetic muttering of "take care of John," from Roy.
"I think he's going to be okay, Desoto. Gage is holding his own right now," Brice announced and for once it didn't hold that thanks to me tone.
The ambulance with its sirens wailing finally backed into Rampart.
Dr. Morton insisted that Roy be whisked to treatment one while Gage would go to treatment three with Brackett and Early. Roy reached out and grabbed Craig's arm.
"Brice. Stay with 'im?"
"I'll stay with him until I have news, okay?" assured the usually staunch paramedic.
"Thanks … it's just that … he hates hospitals." Roy shrugged as if that explained it.
"Understandable," Brice said, turning on his heels and following the prone dark haired paramedic into his treatment room.
XXXX
John stared up into the white ceiling light until someone dressed in a white coat with a huge baker's hat stabbed a penlight into his brain through his eyes … at least that's what it felt like.
"Am I dead, too?" John tried to rasp past the annoying obstruction in his throat.
"Shhh, try to relax, John. You're going to be okay," assured someone who sounded an awful lot like a doctor he used to know but looked just like the doughboy. In fact the whole room was filled with doughboys and ginger bread girls all looking sad.
The ghost of the doughboy peered down at John looking past Brackett's shoulder as the doc hunched over him with a stethoscope ordering some inhaled medications to be given as well as some IV ones.
The doughboy faded in and out as pain engulfed the young paramedic and became too much before he simply sat up and walked away from his body. There was shouting but it was muted now and the doughboy peered at him sadly appearing much taller than he was in his pictures on the cans.
"So I'm d-dead too?" the young paramedic said, trying to sound brave.
"Heeee hmm, no. You're not dead. Just taking a little break from your body right now. Things are a little … sticky right now. But hey, you can stay for my funeral, after all, I saved you."
"Well, it was your can that hit me in the back of the head with an explosive force in the first place," John said fairly.
"Touché," conceded the doughboy. "But never let it be said I was a coward. I stayed with you until help arrived, blowing myself up in the process."
"I guess," Gage allowed. "So now what?
"I rise," the doughboy said unhelpfully. "Get it, I rise! Made of yeast you know? Heee hmmmm! After I get to see who comes to my funeral of course. Now shush and fade into the background so we can watch." And with that vague instruction Gage had no intention or idea of how to follow, the doughboy grabbed his hand and they vanished in a puff of flour fading into the background.
John's eyes grew wide as Aunt Jemima stepped up to a cupcake-studded podium. She gazed around, straightening her flared skirt as she began the eulogy.
"The Pilsbury Doughboy died yesterday of complications from a yeast infection and a can explosion in a bakery fire. Johns' eyes followed Jemima's gaze to the lightly greased coffin. In the front pew sat Hungry Jack, The California Raisins, Mrs Butterworth and the Hostess Twinkies. Betty Crocker and Captain Crunch held hands in the second pew, providing comfort to each other. The coffin was piled high with flours.
"Doughboy never knew how much he was kneaded. He rose quickly in show business but later his life was filled with turnovers," Jemima related tearfully. "He was not considered a very smart cookie, wasting a lot of his dough on half-baked schemes."
"Whoa! Whoa! Hold on a minute here," John said, stepping up to the podium. "Roy … I mean doughboy here saved my life. I mean, sure we ... I mean he always says I have half baked schemes but who here doesn't?"
John searched the crowds, feeling hungry and insulted at the same time. He was very defensive given that he was always accused of half-baked schemes and wasting money too. Was this what his funeral would be like?
Jemima elbowed John out of her way with a what's he doing here? sort of look but then again, he did look pretty yummy himself she thought, winking at him.
"Despite being a crusty, flaky man at times, he was still considered a positive role model for millions," Jemima continued to murmurs of agreement from the crowd.
"That's more like it," John said out of turn again. He just couldn't help it. It was all hitting too close to home. He could picture Chet standing in Jemima's place, well minus the cupcake podium and saying such things about him.
"Doughboy is survived by his wife, Play Dough and his two children, John and Jane Dough plus they had one in the oven. He is also survived by his father, Pop Tart."
Okay, now that last part hurt. Up until now, John could relate. But if he died, he had no legacy. No wife, no kids. He hoped Roy and Joanne and the kids would remember him.
"Time for the big reveal," the Doughboy said mysteriously as he swallowed some yeast and began to take corporeal shape again before all the mourners.
John wasn't in the mood for the celebrations and admonishments of the cruel, albeit glorious prank. Chet on the other hand would love this. The phantom craved new ideas from wherever he could find them.
As Doughboy hugged his wife as she slapped him playfully on his doughy arm and Hungry Jack poked his belly jovially, John seemed to live in two worlds. He could walk away from his life and go on or go back to his body.
The door opened and John watched through a mist as Roy slowly approached his bed. Brackett stood off to the side talking with Early over some lung X-rays that John took a second to peek at too. Bad, but not too bad. He gasped as he looked down at his hand feeling Roy's hand slip into his even though he had stepped out of his body for the moment.
"Hey, Junior, come on back to us. Doc says you're gonna be okay after some breathing treatments and time. You really had us scared when we couldn't find you and when those explosions went off … I thought we were all goners. Don't tell anyone but I think the ammonium carbonate made me a little loopy. I thought I saw … naw, never mind, it's stupid. The point is I found you and I think you should reward me by opening your eyes. Even just for a minute."
John's breath hitched. Was Roy crying? It slammed back into John's memory as the Doughboy faded away with his happy dough family that his face was wrecked. Burned beyond recognition if the feel was any indication. Memories of the Doughboy faded from his memory almost completely now that Roy was here. Should he go back? He'd never be able to date the pretty nurses. His life would change. There would be skin grafts, painful peeling, agony, mind-numbing painkillers for awhile that he hated so much …
"Come on Junior, come back to us."
That did it. John lie back in his body and fought to reconnect with it. He expected his eyes to be sticky, almost melted shut with burns but they opened fully.
XXXX
John's eyes darted around frantically. His heart monitors sped up as Roy stood, putting his hands firmly on his shoulders holding him down as he tried to sit up. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes and he waited for the pain. Waited. Waited. And waited some more to feel the grotesque peeled lips back from teeth that likely stuck out of shrunken skin. But it never came.
"Johnny, calm down. It's okay. Everything's okay. You're okay. You ate some smoke … and flour … and ammonia but you're okay. I promise. John sobbed past the tube in his throat. His face didn't hurt but he was numbed and scared. His hand came up to hide his shame. He knew how he looked. Grotesque, misshapen, deformed.
Early stood at the ready to sedate him but let Roy make one last attempt.
"Look, Junior, what is it? Look at me, okay? Blink once for yes, twice for no."
John stilled. This made sense despite the rising panic that hurt the already damaged lung tissue.
"Are you in pain?"
Blink
"Hand?"
Blink
"Chest and throat?"
Blink
"I'll give him a shot of morphine. He should be out of danger from the concussion now. His pupils are equal and reactive," Early said as something was injected into the port of his IV. A warm sensation swept over John, calming him somewhat but not completely.
John wiggled his hand free from where Roy held them.
"Gonna be calm now? I don't want you to pull your IV line," Roy said with deep concern and sadness. Brackett and Early seemed to agree that John would be alright with a lot of rest and some breathing treatments so what so wrong that the morphine didn't take away?
Roy kept a wary eye on John's hand as it found his face. John winced in pain that went deeper than physical as he pressed the skin around the ventilator on his cheeks, moving to his still pointed nose, which was covered in bandages and his chin, and then to his forehead. His eyes lit on Roy in confusion and watery relief.
"OH! Oh my God, Junior, I'm so sorry! You thought … What we all thought when we first pulled you out. It was just dough on your face. The cans must've exploded and hit you in the back of the head knocking your screws loose and then another must've hit you in the face, opening on impact." Roy stood and took John's hand back gently.
"Your nose is broken, though. Chet says his cousin's a plastic surgeon and is willing to fly out here tomorrow."
John's eyes grew wide with alarm.
"Relax, we told him no. Brackett said it'll heal on its own. You'll still be that annoying nurse-chasing little …"
John's eyes looked hurt. Something nagged at him but he couldn't put his finger on it. Half-baked schemes … Not a very smart cookie.
Roy couldn't finish his good-natured ribbing of his partner. A lump caught in his throat remembering the panicked moments of not being able to find him in the smoke filled death trap.
"Truth is, I don't know how we'd make it without you. Morton made me stay in my treatment room while you were being treated. I got snippets on your condition here and there from Brice and the guys. It was touch and go for awhile."
John shivered, suddenly cold.
"Yeah, they had to put you in cooling blankets. I think you were baking like a cookie or something in there. Your temp was way up but it's normal now. Here, let me cover you up a bit more."
John's eyes followed Roy's every gentle ministration.
"I know I don't say it often, Junior … and see? I never even asked you how you felt about me calling you that … you can tell me to stop once you get your voice back, but well, I just want you to know that I think you're a great paramedic. I wouldn't have asked for you as a partner after the training if I didn't think so."
John's forehead puckered in silent query of surprise.
"You didn't know?"
John shook his dark haired head but it hurt too much so he stilled.
"I should have told you after you got hit by that car but I swear sometimes you thrive on those rants you love so much that you'd think you were dying if we changed tactics at a time like that. You've had so many close calls … I don't think many guys could've survived what you did in that bakery. If you hadn't gotten yourself out of the path of the flames and most of the smoke and kept your mouth and nose covered you'd have died. And setting those cans off to get our attention … And the thing is, if you'd have had a victim with you, you'd have done the same for them."
Validation. Sweet validation. Roy didn't think he was a kneady um needy not so smart cookie. He respected him. An equal.
John's eyes drooped in pain-relieved exhaustion. But who had blown the cans up?
"Joanne and the kids are gonna come by when they move you from the ICU later. You're coming off the vent this afternoon and then comes the fun part … breathing treatments. I've already had two myself.
John noticed only now that Roy wore hospital pajamas.
You okay? He asked in the universal John and Roy silent way.
"I'm good," Roy replied. "Now get some sleep, kay?"
John waited for Roy to leave but the paramedic shifted, making himself comfortable in the chair next to his bed.
I'm kneaded John thought happily looking at his brother in the chair next to him and somewhere far off was heard heeeee hmm!
Roy startled and looking around with expectation evident in his voice he said, "Junior we have to talk about that fire back there when you're better. You see, I think I saw the Pils--"
And the halls of Rampart filled with the smell of baking bread...
The end heeee hmmm!