Hello again, folks, and welcome to my latest story.
It's a sequel to Musings On A Concussed Engineer, inspired by a photo that my wonderful friend Madi shared with me
It features a fire engine with its crew all trying to untangle its hoses, with the captions "Let the Chief run the pumps, they said. It'll be fun, they said."
Both of us wondered how our favourite engineer would react if Cap and the boys did that to Big Red. "Not well," we agreed. So, as Mike recovers from his injuries, here are my thoughts on how a simple get well card leads to all sorts of repercussions - and some surprising revelations about him too. I've used a bit of writer's licence for that.
Before we get to the fun part, though, our favourite engineer is still having a rather rough time. But don't worry, he'll be feeling much better later!
Oh, and another message to Marbo. Again, I can't reply to you directly, but thank you so much for your last review for Musings. I'm so glad you enjoyed it. I've also found a website where you can buy a fire engine plushie. If you want to sign in and message me directly, I'll give you the details.
For now, I hope you enjoy this sequel!
Revenge Of A Recuperating Engineer
Raining again, from a storm that had rumbled over the city for much of the morning. Heavy rain, too. The kind that would instantly soak anyone unlucky enough to be caught in it. So, yes - anyone with a grain of sense would be indoors right now, and staying there until it passed.
For Mike Stoker, though, the perverse opposite applied. Staring at the mini waterfalls that were cascading down his window, he felt an insane yearning to step outside, and feel those raindrops splash onto his face.
Or find his old engine, and take her for a rambling drive into the hills. Before he'd come to appreciate the full cover luxury of Big Red's cab, getting soaked in the rain was an open air hazard that he'd privately come to love.
No chance of that now, of course. No, the only thing he'd be driving today was this damn bed. And the only outing he had to look forward to? A wheelchair ride to his first session of physio.
Wonderful.
Glancing at his still plaster-clad arm, Mike sighed. Of all the ways to break it, falling through some rotten floorboards had to rank as the dumbest. If he'd done it while rescuing a family from a deadly fire, or some other heroic act of saving lives, then fine. Yeah, he could live with that. But fixing a valve on a water tank? If it didn't hurt so much, he might have smiled at the farce of it all.
And it did hurt. Despite the painkillers that still fed through his IV, it hurt like hell.
He was relying on those painkillers to sleep too now, and - yeah, another thing for him to mull about while counting the lines on the ceiling. Oh, they'd been carefully prescribed for him, sure. He knew that, just as he trusted those who'd agreed he still needed them. But for someone who hated to take so much as an aspirin - yeah, this reliance on such powerful medications still bothered him.
And there was another thing. Sleep. The only position he could sleep in any decent comfort was upright on his pillows, and - damn it, he hated that too. He always preferred to sleep on his side. Ready to toss back the covers, and jump into his boots as soon as he heard those tones.
For the next six weeks, though, that was out of the question. With no means to support himself or move around, he'd just have to learn to live with it.
'Jeez, Stoker, man up. Be grateful you've just broken your arm. It could have been a lot worse.'
With no-one else to hurl it at, one of those famous zingers flew right back at him instead.
'Oh, yeah. I could have broken both of 'em.'
Another sigh, of self chastisement this time. Damn it, this wasn't like him. He'd been hurt before this, and countless other times too, but never felt this sorry for himself. So aside from crashing through those floorboards, why was this time different? Why couldn't he shake off the gloominess that was hanging over him, like those storm clouds that continued to rumble outside?
A flash of lightning started to provide him with some kind of answer. Ah yes, that was it. This concussion that had left a razor sharp mind like a bowl of scrambled eggs. Waking up in hospital, with no memory of how you'd got there - yeah, that would freak anyone out, let alone a highly trained firefighter.
So... yes, it was perfectly reasonable for him to feel like this, right? Right.
Still, he was remembering more of it now. Flashes of light. Fragmented images, that he kept seeing in his dreams. At least, he assumed they were dreams. His subconscious at work while he slept, he supposed. Filling in the blanks for a still healing memory.
Some he could recognize more clearly than before. The moments immediately before and after the accident. Voices, mostly, starting with his captain's. His yell of warning that had come a fraction too late.
"Mike? Hey, be careful there, pal, those boards don't look too..."
Then Chet's.
"Cap, look out! They're gonna go, he's gonna fall..."
Cap's again. Reacting to his own, near frantic question.
"Mike?! Mike, are you all right, are you -? Oh, Christ.'
Johnny's. Equally horrified at what he'd seen.
'Oh, God, R-Roy? That's - That's his collarbone."
Roy's. The family rock, fighting his own emotions to keep his partner's, and everyone else's, together.
"Yeah, Johnny, I know, but it's... look, he needs us both to stay focussed here, okay? You with me?"
Then Johnny's again. Still shaken, but also the calm professional now, as he'd drawn on every ounce of his training.
"Yeah, Roy, I'm - I'm okay, it's... okay, there's a partially open fracture of his left clavicle... broken left shoulder... left elbow... impact swelling above the left ear..."
In a freakish world of his own, Mike had seen it all too. Staring down at himself, he'd frowned at the stain of red that had grown over his once pristine shirt.
Blood. A startling amount of it, oozing from the edge of collarbone that had poked obscenely through it. And those same voices, a tumbled mix of those that were calling his name, while Hank Stanley's made the call that every firehouse captain hated.
"Mike?! Mike, it's me, it's Johnny, just stay with me now... no, don't close your eyes, Mike, you've gotta stay with me... stay with me, Mike, you hear me?"
"LA, this is Engine 51. We have a code I at our location. We need an ambulance here... right now..."
These other images, though - no, for the life of him, he couldn't make sense of them at all. What did loops of rope, and a handful of roller skates, have to do with what he'd started to remember? And why did he keep seeing them - not just when he was asleep, but when he was fully awake too?
Staring outside again as he tried to make sense of it all, he hadn't heard the door to his room open, or seen the concern on his latest visitor's face.
Not sure if he was sleeping or not, Dixie watched him in silent empathy. She hated to see any of her boys get hurt, but to see her favourite engineer lying there, so broken and vulnerable - damn, she still couldn't believe it.
In all her years at Rampart, she'd never seen him as badly injured as this. Hell, she couldn't remember seeing him injured at all. And all from something that could have been so easily avoided. Yeah, no wonder Johnny was still so riled up about it.
Right now, though, her thoughts centred around the worryingly subdued occupant of Room 256. Three days into his recovery, and - no, it wasn't going as well as they'd all expected. Still confined to bed, boredom was already turning into restless frustration.
The extent of his injuries had also caused him to withdraw into himself. He'd always been quiet, of course, but this was a different kind of silence, that was starting to cause real concern. A long and painful road back to fitness still lay ahead of him. This was not the best of starts.
To those who knew him well enough to notice, something was clearly troubling him. Enough for an outwardly cheery but inwardly worried captain to draw her discreetly aside after last night's visit, and ask if she knew what it was.
'He's just so down, Dix, and that's not like him. I know it's still early days, but... well, has he said anything to you? I mean, something he can talk to you about more easily than he can to us?'
To her own dismay, she hadn't been able to answer him. At least, not then. But with the worry of her boys now adding to her own, she'd decided that had to change. Today, and right now. She wasn't going to leave his room until she found out what was wrong.
She just needed to find a way to do it. Opening up a clam? Easy, she could do that in her sleep. Opening up a troubled Mike Stoker? Or a Mike Stoker at any time? Not so much.
Still, he'd noticed her now, greeting her with a brighter smile than he'd done before. Returning it as she came to his bedside, she could also see him nibbling his lower lip. One of those telltale traits she'd noticed when he had a lot on his mind, so - yes, maybe he was ready to reveal what was bothering him.
Or maybe he was still so damn shy that she was... well, seeing more of him than she was used to. That hand was gripping his bedclothes around him as if his life, not just his dignity, depended on it.
When he'd broken his shoulder, Chet hadn't been bothered by it at all, but - well, Chet was Chet, and Mike was Mike. In terms of personality, there was a world of difference between them. The only person that a shirtless Mike Stoker felt comfortable with was his own reflection. Even then, she was pretty sure he'd still cover it with a towel.
'Wait 'til I give him his bed-bath. He's gonna go redder than Roy's hair.'
Sensing that he wasn't quite ready for that, she gave his arm a gentle pat instead. Some cheering approval to try and get the ball rolling.
"Hey, you're looking better. Ready for your first physio, I hear. And Doctor Brackett tells me your memory is nearly back to normal."
He may not have been too enthused about that first part, but there was no hiding his relief for the second. Part of why he looked so much happier? More his usual self? For everyone's sake as well as hers, she hoped so.
"Yeah, Dix, I can remember pretty much everything after the accident, and a little bit more from before it."
Somewhere in the silence that followed, Dix could sense a troubling 'but' that he clearly wanted to get past. She wanted him to get past it too. Whatever this something was, it held the key to what was bothering him.
Still, what kind of nurse or a friend would she be, if she didn't give him a gentle nudge in the right direction?
"You know, Mike, doctor patient confidentiality goes for us nurses too. Whatever's on your mind, whatever you need to talk about, I can promise you this. I'll do all I can to help. And it goes no further than this room."
Such a simple, natural thing for her to say, but still just what he needed to hear. She could almost see the weight lift off his shoulders as, taking a deep breath, he started to open up.
"I know, Dix, and... yeah, I really need to talk this out. There's this thing that's bugging me, Dix, that I just can't figure out. I sure as hell can't tell the guys about it, and... you're, uh... gonna think it's pretty crazy too..."
Whoa, he'd used the 'h' word? In all the years she'd known him, she'd never heard him say that before. And this was something that he couldn't confide to his closest friends? His brothers? Yeah, however crazy he thought it was, it had to be pretty serious. Or a medical aspect of his recovery, that neither Roy nor Johnny could answer for him.
Again, though, she had to remember who she was dealing with. What he'd just been through, and - yes, gently did it, to coax it out.
"Try me. I'll lay odds I can beat it."
That won her another wry smile. A definite shift in the mood between them as he relaxed into his pillows and, with a bit more gentle nudging, revealed the quirks of his still healing mind.
"Well, it's - it's this dream I keep having... or what I guess is a dream, though it happens when I'm awake too... anyway, I'm driving Big Red home from that fire, and I'm telling Cap about my nephew's birthday. Then it... well, everything seems to change, Dix. Like I'm watching an old movie. I'm still driving her home, just like before, but... well, Cap and the others are..."
"...where, Mike? Come on, it's okay. I think I know what this is."
A long pause, an even deeper breath. Then, finally, out it came.
"...where I've tied them to her back rail, and, they're... uh... skating behind her, on... um... roller skates..."
Expecting laughter, or at least a call to the psych ward, he was both surprised and relieved when she just nodded. Her face was serious too, as if what he'd just told her was the most normal thing in the world. But then, she had something that he didn't. The medical knowledge to understand it.
"I don't think this was a dream, Mike. I think you're remembering more from before the accident. Still a bit scrambled, maybe, but... no, that's good, Mike. Really good."
In her opinion, maybe, but not so much for his. Still, that deer in headlights expression was priceless. And too damn cute for words.
"So you're saying all this is normal? I - I mean, I'm not going crazy here?"
Given who he worked with each day, Dix knew it was a reasonable point. It seemed only fair that she returned it with a reasonable point of her own.
"No, Mike, you're not crazy at all. Well, no crazier than the rest of my favourite nut-hutch."
And - bingo. There it was. The first real smile that she'd seen in days. Better still, a fit of laughter that not even the pain from his shoulder could spoil.
Yet Dix was now serious again - holding his hand while he rode it out, and keeping that contact between them as she sat on the edge of his bed. Yes, she had her breakthrough, but she'd also sensed that more still lay behind it.
When you'd been a nurse as long as she had, you could tell a hell of a lot from the sound of a sigh. And the expression on Mike's face confirmed it - an awkward embarrassment for getting so hung up on something that he now saw as so trivial.
To her, of course, his injuries weren't trivial at all. Head injuries never were. So yes, time for Team Mom to do what Team Mom did best. Not so much a lecture as a bit of Concussion 101.
"In medical terms, Mike, concussion is defined as violent shaking of the brain. When it's as severe as yours, then... well, things get pretty scrambled. It's hard to tell the difference between what's happening in your imagination, and what's happening for real. So if you're thinking you've over-reacted to this, then I'm telling you right now... you haven't. You've reacted as everyone would to what's always a traumatic experience. Like I told you just now, you had one hell of a concussion. It's just taking time for all those brain wires to... well, reconnect with all the right switches."
Ah, just the kind of engineery term that an engineer would appreciate. That little pep talk had done the trick too, since Mike then nodded as he eased himself up onto his pillows. He hadn't waited for her to help him either, and... yes, this was more like it. This was the Mike Stoker she'd waited all week to see.
"Okay, Mike, now try to go back a bit further. Maybe to something that happened before the Hendersons flagged you down."
Watching him settle back with his drink of water, her smile widened. His face was set with determination now, focussed on helping himself through his recovery. However long it took for him to get there, Dix knew there'd be no stopping him now.
"Well, we were all filthy from fighting that fire, and Cap was teasing me about our coats messing up our seats, and then... well, that's when things went kinda weird. You know, with the whole roller skates thing, and... yeah, Dix, I - I think I get it now. So what I told Cap about Charlie's birthday, that he'd gotten some new roller skates... that got all mixed up with what he said about messing up Big Red. Right?"
And - breakthrough number two. An even more crucial moment in his recovery than the first, and met with the same, shared grins of relief.
"Yes, Mike, you've got it right on the money. When you were knocked out, your subconscious got kinda scrambled too. But I've got to say, it went on a peach of a ride. Tying those boys to the back of the engine... yeah, there's been times when I've wanted to do that myself."
For every breakthrough, of course, came an unexpected bump in the road. For him, it was the distant wail of sirens. A lousily timed reminder that, on a day when his crew would need his skill and expertise, he wouldn't be there to provide them.
Not just today either, but for the foreseeable future too. Returning to the job he loved was still a long way off. Even when all its fractures healed, he'd still need weeks of therapy on that arm, and - yes, however bravely he was trying to hide it, she could still hear the frustration of that recovery in his voice.
"I'm just missing it so much, Dix. And being cleared to get back to work, it's... just so far ahead. Ten weeks, Dix. Ten weeks! I know I should be grateful it isn't longer, but still, it - it just feels like a lifetime."
As it did with all her boys, Dix felt her heart go out to him. Not quite completely, though. She still had to make her point.
"Yeah, Mikey, I know. When you're so used to being so active, a recovery like this is gong to be so hard. I know you just want to be out there, with the rest of them. But you've gone through a lot of trauma. Better to take this time to recover properly now, rather than need even more of it when you've pushed yourself too hard."
Tough love, maybe, but it still won her a smile. The little boy heart-melter, that his mother would have seen all through his childhood, and just a few others were allowed to see now.
"My mom always called me that when I was sick, or got hurt as a kid. She doesn't say it so much now, but it's... uh... kinda nice to hear it again."
A pause, followed by the inevitable, wry afterthought.
"But... uh, just from you, Dix. If the guys get hold of this, I might just have to strangle them with my reel-line."
Okay, so she'd have loved to see his reaction to the others using it, but - no, this was a special privilege. A new and unique bond between them, that Dix gladly accepted.
"Deal."
Of course, the bonds between him and his brothers were even stronger. Through good times and bad, there was nothing else like them. And maybe - just maybe - she'd just thought of a way to get him back to them a little bit faster.
"And Mike, you're talking about full duty here. Can't you go back on light duty first?"
From his reaction, he hadn't even thought about it, and - ah. Another downside to that damn concussion. If it hadn't rattled his brain so much, he'd have thought of this alternative himself. Still, he'd seen the light now. All she needed to bring it a bit closer for him was the phone beside his bed.
"Well, now's as good a time as any to find out, so... hello, Hank? It's... yes, Hank, he's fine. Just fine. In fact, he's... uh, got something to ask you."
She'd taken a chance, of course, with getting his hopes up, but - yes, it had been worth it. Watching him react to whatever his captain was telling him was worth every part of it.
His whole face had lit up now, with a lifetime of birthdays and Christmases. Not even the price he'd pay for that lighter duty could dull it down as he relayed it back to her.
"If Doctor Brackett's okay with it, I can start next week. Cap's got a heap of paperwork to do for him, and..."
"...uh, Michael...?"
"...yeah, Cap? Oh, yeah... sorry... uh, Dix? He... um, wants to talk to you."
Listening to the same relief in Hank Stanley's voice, Dixie then smiled herself, for everything else that his final, heartfelt words managed to say.
"Yeah, that sounds more like our boy, and... thanks, Dix."
Replacing the receiver, Dix glanced back at her patient, and felt her own smile widen. Well, since he was so excited about it, she might just as well try her luck too. Right?
"Hey, if you're that happy about it, you could do my paperwork too."
Worth that try, of course, but even the world's most paperwork-happy engineer had his limits. Besides, as the stacks of them on his bed testified, he was more of a bookworm anyway.
"Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me. So can I get you anything else? Some more books, maybe? At least, the few you haven't read yet?"
His fiercest glare, that she'd have taken more seriously if he hadn't been grinning so much. More of that adorable lip-nibbling. Then, glancing again at the card beside him, an idea of fiendish brilliance clicked into his nearly healed mind. Where there was a will, a secret talent, and an evil sense of humour - oh yes, there was always a way.
For both himself and Dixie, the smile re-appeared. The real thing this time, made all the more welcome by the mischievous glint that now sparked in his eyes.
"Well, um... if it's not too much trouble, Dix, could you get me a sketch pad? And some pencils?"
Dixie's brow rose above its equally intrigued eye. Mike Stoker, an artist? Well, she wouldn't put it past him. He was such a damn mystery - all 'boy next door' charm, wrapped up in a contradiction of 'so quiet we forget he's there' reserve, and deadly sharp wit.
He'd clearly seen her reaction too, since an explanation for this odd request followed, with another of those disarming grins.
"My mom's an art teacher, and... yeah, when I get the chance, I like to sketch too."
Now genuinely intrigued, Dix didn't know what amused her more - this gem of a revelation, or where it was going to lead. One thing was for sure, though. One way or another, she wanted to be in on it.
"Well, in that case, I'll get you the best I can find... on one condition. Whatever you're plotting behind that 'who, me?' face, I want to see it first."
Oh, the innocence! The indignation! The response that was everything she'd hoped for.
"Who, me?"
Yeah, like she'd ever be fooled now, by that 'butter wouldn't melt' grin. Against her own, Dix just felt the tiniest trace of sympathy for the poor souls who'd fall prey to it instead. As Mike now explained with that lethal glint in his eye, giving him this special get well card had not been a good idea.
"Aw, come on, Dix. You seriously expect me to let them get away with this?!"
Through helpless laughter, Dixie had to agree. Okay, so they'd done it to try and cheer him up, but this photo of Big Red covered in tangled hoses was asking for trouble.
And its caption?
"We're Taking Real Good Care Of Her, Mike!"
Yes, whatever form that trouble was going to take, those boys were going to get it. Big time.
Stoker's Revenge was now officially 'go'. And come the next morning, all trace of sympathy had been replaced by helpless laughter. Let loose with his sketch pad and pencils, her sweet and shy Mikey was revealing a mischievous streak that not even she'd seen before.
Caricatures of Cap, Roy, Marco, Johnny and Chet had them both laughing so hard that Kel had come in to see if his meds needed changing. Then he, too, had been left in metaphorical stitches - a request for him to draw Dixie met with a justly terrified response.
"What, and have her break my other arm? Sorry, Doc, but... no."
Beyond this artistic revenge came more serious, impressive pieces. Portraits of his brothers, both at work and at play. The station house, drawn in perfect detail. And that road trip into the hills, that he'd longed so much to take? Well, now he had it on sketch-paper, for him to enjoy for all time.
Most of all, of course, he drew his engine. The true love of his life, that nearly took up a whole pad. As she watched him set to work on another, Dixie's reaction to the piles of paper beside him sounded more like a plea for mercy.
"You've got to discharge him soon, Kel. He's costing me a fortune."
But then, there was another reason for her eagerness to see him return to where he truly belonged. Not just the cheers and applause, and the cautious hugs that welcomed him home. Or the massive "See How Well They've Cleaned Me!" sign that hung over Big Red's spotless rail. Or the shock on his face when he saw just how much paperwork he'd let himself in for.
No, the moment she'd waited ten days to see came through a grinned whisper for her to 'go get it' from the trunk of her car. A carefully wrapped parcel of drawings and sketches, that prompted both stares of admiration, and... oh, yes. Successive howls of laughter - right until their own caricatured face came into view. Then, of course, came the howls of protest.
"Hey, Marco? You look like El Gringo's little brother."
"You should talk, Chet. You look like one of Michelangelo's cherubs."
"Cherub?! Him?! Ha! More like one of Mike Stoker's minions, and... awww, Mike?! Come on, my hair is never that messy!"
"You think yours is bad, Junior, look at mine! There's more hair on my chest than on my head!"
"I hope you realize, Michael, that tray of paperwork is just the tip of a very large iceberg."
"Yeah, but you've gotta admit, Cap... McConnike roasting marshmallows over your hat is kinda funny."
A pause, while the others searched for cover from their captain's most fearsome glare. Then, with his most martyred 'why me?' sigh -
"Gage?"
"Sir?"
"SHUT UP, you twit!"
Those reactions were nothing, though, compared to the one for his pièce de résistance. On extra large paper, too, and carefully framed for posterity.
His finest work, met with a line of five identical 'what the hell?!' stares. And as their leader, it was only right that their captain tried to get some kind of answer for... well, whatever the hell they were looking at.
"Um, Michael?"
"Yes, Cap?"
"Well, it's... uh, real imaginative, pal, but... um... why are we all... uh... running up this hill?"
As they'd done so often in the past, five faces turned towards their master of deep and meaningful wisdom. His face a mask of innocence, Mike smiled benignly back at them. Like the world's cutest Buddha, Dix thought through a muffled burst of laughter.
More expectant glances, as everyone watched him lean carefully forward in his chair. His hands were crossed in front of him, and - yes! This was it! The Wise One was about to speak!
In perfectly synched anticipation, they all leaned forward too. Then, with a poker face that card-sharks would kill for, 51's king of the zingers charged up those famous lines, and let 'em have it.
"Because I'm chasing you with an axe, Cap."