Chapter 4: Chemical Chain Reaction
McCoy forced himself to stay up as late as he could that night. It wasn't easy: he didn't have much to do. He had his laptop, but no wi-fi. No TV, obviously, since he was living in a freaking van. He'd tried to get a library card a couple days ago, but he wasn't able to provide a shred of proof that he actually lived in Linn County, so they turned him down. Now that he had his department ID, they might believe him; he'd try again tomorrow.
He eyed the bottle of bottom-shelf bourbon he'd bought with his nearly-maxed-out credit card the previous day. No, he decided; starting might mean not stopping, and that wouldn't be good for his sleep, which wouldn't be good for his first night shift at his new job. Instead, he started yet another game of Minesweeper. When he tired of that, he'd go back to Scrabble for a little while, and then maybe some more Freecell.
In the middle of what Leonard thought might be his twelfth game of Scrabble, his phone rang. It was a Savannah area code, but he didn't recognize the number, so he picked up, partly out of curiosity—it was nearly two a.m.—and partly in case it was actually important.
"Hello?"
"Leo, don't hang up—please."
Leonard paused. He'd blocked Jocelyn's number, and all the numbers he knew from Savannah. He should've just blocked the entire fucking area code. He should hang up—he really should. But what the fuck.
"Okay, Joss," he sighed. "What do you want?"
"I understand why you don't want to talk to me."
McCoy laughed a hollow chuckle. "You do, huh? Well, maybe you shoulda thought of that before you started sleeping with Marie. What was it, a year ago? Is that about right? And you definitely shoulda thought of it before I came home that day. That woulda been good, don't you think?"
There was a few seconds of silence on the line. "Look. I deserve everything you need or want to dish out right now. And more. But here's the thing. I just want to see if you're okay. I still care—"
Leonard exploded. "Don't you dare say you still care about me. Don't you dare!"
Another silence. "All right. I won't say it. Even though it's true."
"Fuck you, Joss. Just—fuck you. I wasn't enough for you, and you didn't even have the decency to say so. I knew you were bisexual—you were up front about that. I'll give you that. But that doesn't excuse screwing around behind my back. God, I've never wished more that we could just get a divorce. That would make things so much simpler."
"But we can't, and you know it. It doesn't work that way."
"We sure as fuck can't. If it'll make you happier, I'll do like they do in Saudi Arabia, and say 'I divorce thee' three times. And then it's official. Or as official as it can be, without actually being real. Would you like that?" Leonard spat.
"I … you know, I guess I would, actually," Jocelyn said, finally. "But Leo—you didn't take any of your things with you. Can I at least send you some things? Some of your books, or … anything? I mean, I don't even know where you are."
"I thought I made it pretty clear that I didn't want you to know where I was. I'm over a thousand miles away, just like I said I'd be. More than that, I'm not ready to say at this point."
"All right. But …"
"Look. In a few weeks, when I'm …" not homeless anymore, "more settled, I'll give you a post office address where you can send some things."
"Good. Because I know how much you like having your books around you, and there are a lot of things from your family in the house, and … well. I just wish you hadn't left with nothing."
"At the time, I felt like no matter what I took, I'd still be leaving with nothing."
"I know."
McCoy sighed. "If you feel like doing me a favor, you can put anything you want to in storage somewhere, then send me the key, and I'll come down and get it sometime when I get some time off."
"I'll do that."
"Thank you." That was civil, Leonard thought.
"Could you do me a favor, too?"
"What?"
"Say it. Like they do in Saudi Arabia. Please."
Leonard's heart felt heavy, like it was trying to push its way through his diaphragm into his abdominal cavity. The lump in his throat got harder and tighter. But he swallowed it down, because he had something to say.
"I divorce thee. I divorce thee." Tears sprang up in Leonard's eyes. "I divorce thee."
He pressed "End" on his cell phone to sever the connection. He pressed it again. And again. And again.
He found the plastic bottle of shitty bourbon and opened it anyhow.
~!~!~!~
The phone rang again, jolting Leonard out of sleep. He didn't remember filling his mouth with cotton, the night before, and didn't remember ordering an in-head delivery of an entire drum corps, but he'd gotten them anyhow. He checked the caller ID—Jim Kirk. Fuck.
"'lo," he grunted.
"Bones! You sound like shit."
"Feel like shit. Time is it?"
"Uh, almost two o'clock. Fuck. I woke you up, didn't I."
"Oughta be awake anyhow. Jesus. Fuck, hang on a second." He reached for a bottle of water, swished a mouthful around, and swallowed it. "Okay. Sorry. What's goin' on?"
"Just wanted to see if you wanted to grab a bite before our shift. Sounds like maybe it was good I called, huh? Wouldn't be good not to show up for your second shift."
Well, that was a fact. "True." He sipped some more water, cautiously. "Yeah. A diner or something would be great. Tell me where and when, and I'll show up. And I'll even try not to be a grumpy ol' bastard."
"Aw, now, Bones—that's no fun. So I'm thinking, the Queen Diner is about a mile west of the station, on the same road. You can find that, right?"
"God, I hope so. Because if I can't find the station, I'm really fucked."
"You sound pretty fucked. Everything okay?"
No, you idiot child, everything is not fucking okay! Leonard wanted to shout. "Fine. Just stayed up too late, I guess." And had about five drinks too many.
"Well, I don't actually believe you, but we'll talk about that later. See you at the Queen at four-ish?"
"Great. See you then. And we won't talk about it, just in case you're wondering."
Leonard put his phone down, and surveyed his environment. He rooted around on the floor, and found the bottle of bourbon. He was relieved to see that it was still over half full. So he hadn't done as much drinking as he'd feared. He had some more water, and downed a banana to cushion the four ibuprofen he swallowed next, and started to feel like maybe he wasn't all that hung over after all. Mostly just messed up from turning his sleep schedule halfway upside down. Well, okay. A little hung over, too. But not so bad that he was still drunk. That was something.
He gathered his towel, toiletries bag, and a change of clothing, and walked to the park's bathroom for a shower. There wasn't any competition at all at two on a Wednesday afternoon, so he took his time. He wondered, while he was in the shower, why Jim seemed to be making him his own personal project. He couldn't for the life of him come up with a plausible reason. The kid just seemed so … everything McCoy wasn't. Young, bright, happy, confident, easy-going. But, he decided he didn't really care. The kid was growing on him, in a funny sort of way.
~!~!~!~
Leonard found the Queen Diner without difficulty. Even at four pm, the parking lot showed that the place was popular. Leonard parked the van, and was immediately hailed when he climbed out.
"Bones! Hey, over here!"
Jim was leaning against a car—some kind of classic, he was sure, but Leonard couldn't give less than a shit about vehicles, so he didn't know what it was.
"It's a scorcher today, isn't it?" Jim said.
Leonard laughed out loud. "It's what—eighty five?"
"Right. Georgia. Well, anything over sixty is hot when you're in turnout gear."
"Oh. I guess it would be. That stuff looks pretty heavy."
It was Kirk's turn to laugh. "It's basically an ironing board cover with a raincoat on top of that, and a Kevlar coat on top of that. Sometime after a day shift I'll dress you up in all my gear, and throw an air pack on you."
"That's a good idea, actually."
"Huh? I was kidding," Kirk said, as he waved to a waitress and plunked himself down in a booth.
"I'm not. I know nothing about what you guys do, so it's only fair."
"Okay. You're on." Kirk handed McCoy a menu from a pocket on the wall. "Don't get the corned beef hash—it's straight from a can. Everything else is good."
"I don't eat meat anyhow," McCoy said, as he looked over the menu. Shit. He hadn't meant to say that.
"Wow—that has to be a department record—two vegetarians on one shift," Kirk replied, not batting an eye. "Do you eat eggs and shit?"
"I try to not go crazy with the cholesterol, but yeah, I eat eggs. But not shit."
"Good—because to be honest? You look hung over. So get eggs."
McCoy scowled. "Fine, mother. I'll get eggs."
The waitress came and took their order, blessedly managing to do so without commenting on Leonard's accent.
"So what'd you do last night, after pizza, to make you sleep till two, and get you looking like that?"
McCoy scowled harder. "I already told you. I drink plenty. Just not when I'm gonna drive."
"So … why?"
"Because, and I'd think you'd know this by now, alcohol impairs your coordination and—"
"No, why'd you drink so much?"
McCoy sighed. What the hell. "If you must know—"
"I must! I must!" Jim was practically bouncing up and down.
"If you must know," McCoy repeated, wondering why the hell he was talking about this, "my ex called. It wasn't a pleasant conversation."
"Oh." Jim fiddled with his silverware. "Sorry."
"Yeah. Thanks. I wasn't actually planning on saying anything to anyone around here about any of this, and I don't know why I said anything to you, actually, so …"
"My lips are sealed," Kirk said, miming locking his lips with a key and tossing the key over his shoulder. "Whatever you do," he said to the people in the booth behind him, "don't give that back to me."
McCoy finally looked up from his detailed inspection of the formica tabletop. The diner was decorated with various pictures of female royalty. Each booth had its own framed picture or poster hanging on the wall next to it. Their wall was graced with Queen Beatrix of the Netherlands. Behind the counter, however, all the pictures were of the band "Queen." Freddie Mercury was everywhere. McCoy's eyebrows climbed his forehead heroically, trying to reach his scalp.
"Ah—I see you found the homage to Freddie," Jim said, following Leonard's gaze.
"Yeah—now, that's not something I'd've expected in Iowa, quite frankly."
"The owner's a friend of mine from way back. Major Queen fan. Between you and me, he didn't think he could get away with having a Freddie Mercury themed diner, so he, uh, broadened his horizons a bit."
"By adding some broads," McCoy finished for him, "who also happen to be queens. I get it."
"Doesn't bother you, does it?" Jim asked.
"What do you mean?"
"The homage to Freddie? And yes, my friend I'm talking about is gay as a maypole, if that's what you're assuming. So, does it, or doesn't it?"
"Bother me? Uh, no. Should it?"
"No. Just wondering. Since Georgia is one of the reddest of the red states."
McCoy rolled his eyes. "Just 'cause a guy's from a red state, doesn't mean he's a redneck. And Iowa's not exactly San Francisco, either, if you catch my drift, so you shouldn't talk."
"All right, all right! I was just …"
McCoy squinted. "You were just what?" Jim was playing some kind of game with him, and he was damned if he could figure out what it was. But when he was honest with himself, Leonard realized he was intrigued. He decided to play along—see what would happen.
"Nothing." Jim played with his water glass, and took a sip.
Leonard didn't know what the game was, but he knew what his next move should be. "You're just trying to tell me that just because you're a fireman, doesn't mean you're a narrow-minded, homophobic, gun-totin', woman-bashin' caveman?"
"Maybe."
"So, then, maybe I'll tell you that just because I come from from a state so red it needs a tourniquet, I'm none of those things either. Is that fair?"
"Yeah."
"Well, I'm glad we got that out of the way," Leonard said. "Whatever it was."
The waitress arrived with mugs of coffee.
"Thanks, DeeDee," Jim said.
"What was that, anyhow?" McCoy said.
"It was …" Jim sighed. "It's complicated."
"Oh, I'm no stranger to complicated," Leonard said dryly. "Try me."
Jim toyed with the napkin dispenser. "This wasn't how this was supposed to go."
"Uh huh," Leonard said. "I bet. You like to be in charge of your own games. I don't know what the game is, but I bet I made a move that was supposed to come later. If at all."
They sat there, waiting each other out. McCoy knew he'd win that part of the game; he was a master at saying his piece and waiting. But the kid was really troubled about something; that he could see. As for what this was all about, though, he'd just have to wait for it.
The waitress brought their food, took one look at the tableau in front of her, and quietly walked away.
"It wasn't a game," Jim said, finally looking up at McCoy.
"Then what was it?" Leonard said, his voice calm and gentle, rather than challenging or angry.
"It was a test," Jim said, practically whispering.
"A test?"
"I had to make sure … I can trust you."
McCoy blinked.
"Trust me with what? You barely know me."
Jim looked down again.
"Trust you with my life. On the job. Because," Kirk said, looking up again, "if something really bad happens, it's up to you."
McCoy found he wanted to squint and raise his eyebrows at the same time, but it just wasn't possible.
"Of course I'd take care of you. I'd take care of a total stranger, so of course someone I work with. Why would you think I wouldn't?"
Jim didn't say anything, not for many seconds. He looked at his food, and shoved it towards the wall.
"Maybe I should just let you die," he whispered.
McCoy froze. He could tell, from Jim's tone, though, that this was a quotation, and not a threat directed at him. But it chilled his blood nonetheless.
"One less queer in the world. And the worst kind, too—the kind who might accidentally pass his genes on someday, if some sick woman let you fuck her, even though your dick has probably been up more asses than cunts."
Jim looked up. "That's what he said to me. In the back of the ambulance." He looked down at his hands, which were busy shredding a napkin into tiny pieces of fluff.
"Who, Jim? Who said that to you?" McCoy knew, rationally, that you couldn't feel your own blood pressure rising, but at that moment, he forgot that fact.
"Your lovely predecessor. In the back of the rig. I had a concussion, heat exhaustion, and more than a minor case of smoke inhalation—wasn't doing so hot. He shut off the oxygen, making sure I could see him do it. He took the IV line, and held it right in front of my face as he kinked it so nothing was getting through. He put his face right next to mine, and that's what he said."
"Jesus."
"I don't know how he found out about me. But I sure knew he hated me. Was sickened by me. I also knew I wasn't really going to die, no matter what he did right then. But I also knew perfectly well, with my job being what it is, and his job being what it was, that the next time, it might be different."
In that moment, it all came together for McCoy. Jim's intense interest in him, right from the get-go. His odd desire to get to know the new paramedic, from the second he pulled into the parking lot. Bringing him here, to see his reaction to the Freddie Mercury display.
"Jim," McCoy said in low tones, "I'm not like that. Okay?"
Jim started demolishing a second napkin, and the pile of confetti in front of him grew.
"I don't care who you sleep with," McCoy said quietly. "Man, woman, outer-space aliens, all of the above at the same time—it doesn't matter. All right?"
Jim's fingers worked nimbly at the napkin. He finished number two, and reached for the dispenser to swipe a third. McCoy caught his hand.
"Stop, Jim. Look at me," he ordered, still using tones so low as to be inaudible to the people behind Jim. "Look at me."
Jim's hands stilled, and he looked up.
"I'm not like him."
"Okay," Jim said finally. He still looked, to Leonard, like he wanted to fold himself up and disappear. He held onto the eye contact, and Leonard let his hand go.
"I don't think you wanted me to know as much about you as I do," Leonard said.
"It wasn't supposed to go that far," Jim whispered. "I just wanted to see how you reacted when I told you about my friend who owns this place. See if I could trust you. That was all. You weren't supposed to get the whole story."
"Well, I got it."
"And you're not going to tell anyone? About me? 'Cause that's the part that wasn't supposed to happen. You figuring out … that part."
"I'm not going to tell anyone. That's your business. And I'm not gonna let you die. I don't care if a guy is wearing makeup and a dress, or if he's got a shaved head with a swastika tattooed on it—I take care of them. I don't care if he's black, or brown, or green. I don't care if he's the mayor, or a drug addict we found in a gutter. I don't care if he's having a psychotic break and is doing his level best to pluck my eyeballs out and eat them. I don't care if my patient is my ex, or my supposed friend who I found in bed with my ex. Everyone gets my best. Everyone."
"Okay." Jim compressed his confetti into a ball, and wrapped it up in another paper napkin. "Sorry."
Leonard reached across the table, and shoved Jim's plate back in front of him, and unrolled his own silverware from the neat napkin-wrapped bundle.
"Apology accepted. Now, I think we better chow down, because you look like crap, and I feel like you look, and we both have a busy night ahead of us."
TBC
A/N: The "fire tetrahedron" is a model of the required conditions for a fire to ignite and be maintained. Fuel, heat, and oxidizing agent (usually oxygen) and a chain reaction must all be present for a fire to start and continue.