Not Looking Good by rabidsamfan
The characters etc. belong to Universal. This is just fanfic.
"Cap?" The soft word tugged at Hank Stanley more than the gentle touch on his shoulder, and he dragged himself away from the dream he'd been having. It was never good when he was called "Cap" in the middle of the night. He opened his eyes and fumbled for the "light" button on his new digital watch, missing anew the soft green glow of the watch his father had bequeathed him. Sure it had been radioactive, but it hadn't taken two hands to read it in the middle of the night.
4:42 a.m. He blinked and transferred his attention to the presence beside him. He didn't need light to know it was Stoker. Kelly or Gage would still be rattling his shoulder, spilling out the problem whether he was awake to hear it or not, and Lopez or DeSoto would have started talking the moment he moved his hand. Stoker, on the other hand, seldom used more words than he needed to – especially in the middle of the night. Besides, it smelled like Mike. None of the others used that brand of shampoo.
Hank pushed himself up onto his elbows, trying to collect his thoughts. It was raining again – the burnt-dust scent of the seldom needed heating system and the fug of damp socks left to dry along the walls that separated the sleeping bays could no more hide the smell of water than Kelly's snoring could drown out the steady patter against the roof and the gurgling of the drainpipes. In fact, it smelled, and sounded, like someone had left the bay doors open. Hank took a deeper breath, and caught the acrid taint of gasoline exhaust mixed in with the rest. "Is the squad back?" he asked, keeping his voice low to avoid waking the others.
"Yeah," Stoker said, offering him a hand up. Hank took it, saving his questions for DeSoto and Gage, who might actually provide answers. He'd lost track of the number of runs the dispatcher had called the paramedic team for while the engine crew had spent the day up in the canyons dealing with mudslides somewhere in the teens, and they hadn't been back to the station all night. Boots. Turnout pants. After so many years of riding an engine he didn't even get up to take a leak in his own home without getting half dressed. He thought about the twill jacket hanging by the corner of the bed and decided that the thermal underwear he was wearing was warm enough without it. Stoker hadn't bothered with a jacket, anyway, so they weren't likely to be headed outdoors. The thermal underwear he was wearing was probably warm enough without it.
Or not. The bay doors were open after all, and the cold, damp wind in his face woke him up a little more. He shivered a little, thinking about going back for the jacket, but Stoker turned left instead of towards the door. Their boots grated against the grit on the floor. Between the open bay and the mud that had been tracked in after their last call Hank felt a momentary sympathy for B shift, who would have the joy of cleaning up. If they have time to clean, he amended the thought. A Shift hadn't even made it through roll call before the tones had sounded. He yawned, wishing he'd had more than four hours of sleep, as he followed his engineer around the back end of the engine. Then he stopped in his tracks.
The squad was back all right, but it was parked at a crazy angle, wrong way to, and the driver's side mirror was bent, the frame of it twisted inwards like they'd sideswiped something. Something had hit the windshield – several small somethings that had left divots and growing cracks. There were dents in the hood, too, that hadn't been there yesterday morning. And to top it all off, Roy DeSoto was slumped over the steering wheel, his head resting on his crossed arms like a child sleeping at a schooldesk.
Two steps closer and Hank realized Johnny Gage was in the cab of the squad too, curled up against the passenger door with his seatbelt still on and just as unconscious as his partner.
"I can probably get 'em to bed," Stoker said, "but I can't call Dispatch."
Dispatch? For a moment Hank resented playing catch-up to Stoker. There were times when he was sure that his engineer was more intelligent than his captain – or at least thought he was – but after a moment he realized that Stoker had just been awake longer, and had had more time to think about the situation.
And he was right. Judging by what they could see, neither of the sleeping men was in any condition to try to drive, and it was sure as hell that the vehicle needed some repairs. But Hank had never been the kind of person who judged a situation by looks alone. "I'd better make sure I don't have to call for replacements while I'm at it," he said, reaching for the doorhandle. A flood of hot air washed over him as he opened the door, redolent with sweat and wet cloth, tainted with antiseptics, blood, vomit, and worse.
Both paramedics startled briefly, identifying him with bloodshot eyes before relaxing into sleep again. Gage settled back into his corner silently, but DeSoto waved one hand and muttered a little as he leaned back away from the steering wheel. The older paramedic had a bandage on the right side of his chin, and neither it nor the growth of stubble were enough to conceal the dark edges of a deep bruise running back toward his ear. Hank reached around the steering column and collected the ignition key, then reached up to tap the signal button to close the bay door before he rested a hand on DeSoto's shoulder. He could feel the man beginning to shiver as the night air penetrated into the cocoon of warmth that told him how high the heater had been blasting before they'd parked. He wasn't really surprised. From the way that Roy's turnout felt, by the stringy clumps of Johnny's hair, they'd both been soaked to the skin sometime during the past few hours. And by the smell he guessed that at least one of them had had to go into a storm drain -- after the sewers had backed into it.
"What the hell have you two been up to?" he wondered softly. "Roy, Johnny, come on, you'll sleep better in your beds."
"'S'no point, Cap," Gage mumbled, audibly enough considering that his eyes never opened. "We'll just get called out again anyway." DeSoto nodded agreement and then began to cough, as if the motion had irritated his throat.
"Not if I can help it," Hank said firmly. He'd heard men cough with that small wheeze each time before, and it never boded well. And under all of the other smells in the squad, he detected the miasma of illness, too strong to be a mere residue from their last rescue. He laid his hand on DeSoto's forehead. Too hot, and too dry, considering the weather they'd been out in. Roy's eyes flickered open again, waiting for a verdict without surprise or expectation. The coughs kept coming, three or four at a time, deepening their note.
"If you were one of my kids, I'd keep you home from school," Hank said with a wry smile. He turned his attention to the other one. "Johnny, how are you feeling?"
"Just tired." But the younger man's voice had some strength in it. He'd roused himself, and was frowning as he watched Hank take hold of DeSoto's wrist for a pulse.
"90," Hank reported. "Johnny, get me a temperature and the other vitals. Mike, you get the drug box. I'm going to go call dispatch."
"Right, Cap," Gage didn't spring into action, but he sat up straight and started scooting over to get a better look at his partner. "I heard you tell the doc that you were okay," he chided DeSoto gently as he began to fumble at the fastenings of the heavy turnout coat.
Hank hesitated for a moment after he'd backed out of the cab to make room for Stoker, waiting to hear how DeSoto would respond to the fussing.
"You're the one who got dunked," Roy offered hoarsely, before he was interrupted by another cough. "I'm just cold." He didn't sound very convincing – or even very convinced himself – but Hank couldn't tell whether it was exhaustion or illness draining the life out of the words. It didn't matter. Either way, it would be foolishness to send the man out into the rain and cold again any time soon.
He headed for the phone to stave off Dispatch.
Dispatch was already short three squads, and very cranky about the possibility of losing another, but he managed to get them to say they'd hold off until he'd talked to Chief McConnike by the time that Gage turned up in Hank's office door and propped himself against the jamb like he needed the extra support.
Hank signed off with Dispatch and held his thumb down on the phoneswitch as he nodded to Gage. "Well?"
"His temp's 102 and he aches all over, but he says it doesn't hurt to breathe and I don't hear any definite rales in his lungs. Rampart says no point in bringing him till morning -- they're swamped with evacuees from that nursing home on Topanga Canyon and he'd just be sitting around and waiting for a turn -- better to get him into bed with some codeine for the cough and aspirin for the fever and keep an eye on him till things calm down or we can get him to his regular doctor in the morning." Gage scrubbed at his face with the heels of his hands. "I'm sorry, Cap. I shoulda noticed he wasn't looking so good."
In the better light it was clear that Gage's hands had taken a beating. The two smallest fingers on his left hand had been bandaged, and the other fingers curled protectively around his palms, the knuckles raw and swollen. Some kind of slime had dried on his clothes, leaving patches here and there where the rain hadn't had a chance to wash it away, and he smelled foul, but not sick the way that DeSoto did.
"What about you?" Hank asked.
Gage shrugged. "I'm tired and I'd really like a hot shower, and a nap, but I've got an armful of penicillin, 'cause O'Malley didn't want to take any chances." O'Malley was one of the new residents at Rampart, Hank remembered, and fresh to the rotation in the Emergency Room. Too green to override experienced paramedics in the middle of the night, so Johnny must have not wanted to take chances either.
"What did you get into?"
"Drainage ditch. Some kids were messing around by one of the storm drain outlets and two of 'em fell in and we covered for Brice and Bellingham with 48s because they were busy covering for 110s and 110s was halfway across the county covering for… I don't remember…" Gage rubbed at his face again, smearing a tear of tiredness across a dusty temple. "'Course all the sewers are backed up with all this rain, so it was messy."
"Smells like it," Hank agreed. "You get the kids out okay?"
"One of 'em." Gage shook his head. "Didn't find the other one in time. Too dark." He sighed. "We turned up the body just before two in the morning. Then while we were on our way back we got sidetracked to an MVA with two teenagers that didn't make it, and then there was that heart attack in a bar down on Fifth street… We managed to keep that guy alive anyway, God knows for how long. I rode in with him and that's when O'Malley got his hands on me. But Roy said he was okay, and I was so tired… I just didn't notice…" He closed his eyes again and swallowed hard, leaning his head back against the wall.
There were a dozen questions Hank still wanted to ask, about the mirror, and the dented hood, and the bandage on DeSoto's face, but now wasn't the time. He had to call McConnike, for one thing, and Gage plainly wasn't in any shape for an inquisition. Not after three dead kids in a row. One more question and the paramedic would probably find himself crying, and that wouldn't help anybody.
"Go clean up, get Roy cleaned up, and the pair of you head for bed," Hank said briskly. "Even if I thought you were in any shape to go out, he isn't, and I'm going to have to try to get someone in to cover. Besides you'll inspire more confidence in the public if you don't smell quite so ripe."
Johnny snorted, but he smiled and nodded too, and wandered away to do as he'd been told.
McConnike didn't want to hear it, so Hank said it again, with bells on, pointing out that if Roy was sick with something contagious, it would be bad publicity for the program to have him out spreading germs around the county.
"Not like it's any better having him spread germs around the station," McConnike countered, but he sounded convinced. "All right, Hank, start calling your B shift paramedics and see if one can come in early. If the squad needs to roll in the meantime we'll send the whole station and you can put Kelly or Marco in the driver's seat if you don't think Gage is up to it. If you can't get coverage from B shift, call me back."
"Thanks, Chief," Hank said, knowing this was the best he was going to get.
The next call was easier. Dwyer sounded like he'd answered the phone on automatic, but the easy-going paramedic agreed through his yawns to come in early, although he warned Hank that he'd have to detour around some intersections that were flooded out and it would take him forty minutes, not including clothes or coffee. Hank let Central Dispatching know and then fought down a few yawns of his own before he levered himself up out of his chair and went to find out how DeSoto was doing.
Not too badly, he decided. Roy was still coughing, but at least now he was lying on his bed, propped up with pillows, and if he was pink from the heat of the shower, he wasn't that much pinker than Gage. Stoker was playing caddy to Johnny, patiently holding bandages and scissors while the younger paramedic swabbed antibiotic over the long narrow welt on Roy's jaw.
"What did that?" Hank asked.
"BB gun," Johnny said. "One of our patients didn't want to be treated."
"He was...ow... delerious," Roy put in sleepily.
"Yeah, well that sure didn't get in the way of his aim," Johnny said. "Hold still." He accepted a gauze pad from Stoker and put it in place.
"Any chance that he gave Roy whatever it is he's got now?" Hank still remembered the thrum of Johnny's pulse in a hot, wet wrist after the paramedic had collapsed from a tropical virus the first year he'd been Captain. That near-disaster had been his first real brush up against the daily dangers that the paramedic program had piled on to the department's usual perils. Given a choice, Hank would rather walk through the fires. The thought of an epidemic still put knots in his gut whenever he heard the word "fever" in amidst the radio chatter.
But Gage shook his head. "Symptoms are different," he said. "This is probably something Roy's kids brought home from school. There's a lot of flu going around."
"Chris has been a little sniffly," DeSoto added, and then crunched up over a bad round of coughs.
"Sure he shouldn't be at Rampart?" Hank asked Gage.
"Give the codeine a chance to kick in, Cap," Gage answered lightly, although Hank didn't miss the way he was supporting Roy's back with one hand until the fit subsided. "I'll take him in when we get off shift, have Brackett or Early take a look, but he's warmer and more comfortable waiting here than he would be in one of those plastic chairs at Rampart. It's only a couple of hours till morning."
"I'm okay, Cap," Roy croaked, so pitifully that Hank had to laugh.
"No, you're not," he told his sick paramedic, "but I guess it could be a lot worse."
Gage finished up with the bandage and patted his partner's shoulder. "Get some sleep, Pally, and it'll help." He turned to Hank. "Are we stood down?"
"Not exactly. Dispatch is really short of squads, but if you get called, the whole station goes – not you Roy, I'll have Lopez or Kelly drive the squad – and Dwyer's on his way in, so there'll be coverage pretty soon."
Gage pulled a face. "Better make it Marco, Cap. I've seen how Chet drives, and I've had enough excitement for one shift."
"I heard that, Gage," came the sleepy grumble from Kelly's bed. "And I'll have you know that..."
"Go back to sleep, ya twit," Hank ordered irritably, before Kelly could start ranting. "And that goes for the rest of you," he added, when Gage and Stoker grinned at each other like he'd made a joke. "Five minutes from now I don't want to hear anything but snoring."
"Yes, sir!" Gage pretended to salute while Stoker began to collect the medical debris. Hank snorted and stalked off toward his own bed. Lopez was awake too, propped up on his elbows, but he took Hank's nod as reassurance and settled down again.
It took a little longer than five minutes – Gage had to arrange a pitcher of water and a glass on a chair by DeSoto's bed before he'd settle – but even with DeSoto's intermittent coughing it was soon quiet enough for Hank to feel safe enough to relax into his pillow. He slipped effortlessly into a dream, snatching sleep before the tones would wake him again.