Chapter 37: Care and Feeding
The kitchen timer clamored annoyingly, the sound of the loud bell echoing frantically off the tiled floor. Mike didn't want to get up, didn't want to move Johnny from the "human chair" Mike had made to support him, but it would be pretty embarrassing to set their kitchen on fire by ignoring the casserole. And it would be pretty necessary to have an edible dinner ready, and soon. So, Mike started gently extricating himself from behind Johnny so he could go tend to dinner. He sat Johnny upright, being sure not to hold him near his cracked ribs. At the same time, pulled his own inside leg behind Johnny, and squeezed himself off the couch. Amazingly, Johnny slept through not only the timer, but also the entire series of contortions Mike went through to get off the couch.
Mike let Johnny back down gently onto the sofa, shaking his head at the man's ability to sleep through anything, and headed to the kitchen. The casserole was indeed ready, and not a second too soon, as Mike suddenly noticed he was absolutely famished. Mike threw together a salad to go with Mrs. Stanley's chicken and rice casserole, and served himself up a portion of each. He felt mildly guilty about not waiting for Johnny, but knew that no offense would be taken. He quietly ate his supper, while reading a magazine that had been sitting on his pile of mail for the entire week. Things had been so stressful and chaotic that it felt like a vacation to be sitting at his own table, eating a meal in peace and quiet, and not having to worry about when the next "incident" would occur. He even remembered his antibiotics, washing down a tablet with a glass of water once he was done with his meal.
As he finished, he heard rustling from the living room, and then Johnny appeared behind him, putting his hands lightly on Mike's shoulders.
"Hey," Johnny said.
"Hi—sorry I didn't wait, but I figured it wouldn't do either of us any good if I passed out from hunger. You want some of this? It's good."
"Sure—I'll get it," Johnny said, moving towards the kitchen.
"Hold it, babe. Remember? Total rest."
Johnny opened his mouth, as if he were about to protest that it wasn't a big deal just to go to the kitchen and put food on a plate, but wisely closed his mouth and sat down. "Okay. Thanks."
Mike served him up a plate of food, and brought a glass of milk over as well.
"Thanks," Johnny said again, as Mike put everything down on the table and returned to his seat, across from Johnny.
Mike watched Johnny eat for a minute or two. He'd found over the years that he could tell a lot about what was going on inside Johnny's head from how he dealt with his food. He wasn't wolfing his food down, but he also wasn't picking at it, or rearranging it, or making patterns on his plate—he was just eating. But he also wasn't talking.
Mike was never uncomfortable with silence—sometimes, people just didn't feel like talking, and that was more than fine with him. Mike's guess about Johnny's current silence was that he was just plain talked out. The interview with DeVito had been miserable, for both of them, but Johnny's private life had been badly violated by DeVito's lines of questioning. So, although Mike knew the topic needed to come up again, this particular moment was not the right time. He picked a safer and more uplifting topic.
"You chatted with Marco for a while before he left, huh?"
Johnny brightened a bit, and looked up. "Yeah. It was good. I mean, he's not comfortable, but he's not gonna ignore us any more either. He, uh, apologized for only being around for the hard times, and said that's not how he wants it to be anymore. I thought that was a good way to put it. Also, and I kinda don't feel great about this, but what choice did we have? He was upset about how we hadn't said anything direct to him, you know, about us, before your accident. I guess he thought we'd actually told Cap, and Roy, and Chet—but I explained to him that we didn't actually tell anyone." Johnny took a gargantuan bite, and started chewing.
Mike nodded. "Yeah. I know. I thought a lot about that, especially once right after he visited when I was at Henry Mayo. It must not have been the first time he visited—I don't think I really remember anything from that first week, and I know all the guys from 93s and 51s came at some point that week. It's all kind of foggy, but I remember he was kind of upset that he didn't know, but also kind of said something weird about how he wished he didn't know. It was … uncomfortable for both of us. I was kind of surprised he came back."
Johnny finished chewing, and swallowed. He took a gulp of milk, and put his glass back down on the table. "Yeah. That's pretty much what he was telling me this afternoon. I guess part of the problem was he thought that everyone from our original crew except him knew way before he did. I mean, Cap and Roy did, but I think he felt a little better when I explained that Chet probably found out a few minutes before he did. And I guess some of the hard feelings on his part come from the three of us never really being comfortable with sitting down and talking about 'It' with him."
"I guess it was another one of those things with no perfect solution," Mike said.
"I know how much you love things like that," Johnny said, grinning.
Mike shot Johnny the finger, and Johnny retaliated by chucking a wadded-up paper napkin at him.
Johnny took another bite, and talked while he chewed. "DeVito sure pissed me off. That bullshit about 'my type' and whether I was just using girls to cover my tracks—" he shook his head. "None of his damned business, even if I was, which I wasn't. And hell, the whole 'type' thing—I don't even think I am a type. And I hate it when people try to figure me out—figure out which box to put me in, so everything can be all neatly arranged."
"I know you do," Mike said quietly. "But here's what I think. I think he's a good cop. I think he wants those guys to go down, and I think he's trying, in his own clumsy way, to help us out."
"Clumsy is right," Johnny said. "Man, I wanted to pop him right in the nose a couple times. The whole thing seemed like it was starting to smell like 'the victims asked for it,' ya know?"
Mike nodded. "And that was his point—that's a card that the defense attorney is surely going to play, right? It's a dirty card, but we'll be ready for it."
Johnny pushed some food around on his plate. "Yeah. Well, I'm just gonna keep my fingers crossed that there's not gonna be a trial. Not cause I want them to get away with shit—I don't, and I'll do my part in court if it comes to that. But I'll say it for the millionth time—I just want this all to be done. So let's just hope these shitheads plead guilty tomorrow, or whatever the hell they have to do to just have this mess be over."
"Yeah. Me too, babe." Mike stood up and pushed his chair away from the table. "And now, ya know what? I think we oughta lay around on the couch, and watch some stupid TV—no cop shows, either—and bitch about how all the shows really suck. And we can make popcorn, and drink beer, and belch, and just be total idiots for the rest of the weekend. Because I'm sick to death of being a responsible adult."
Johnny grinned, and handed Mike his plate. "I love it when you pretend you're a loser."
"Yeah?" Mike turned to look back at Johnny.
"Yeah—it's hot. Can we make out during the commercials?
"No," Mike said matter-of-factly, putting the plates in the sink and turning on the water.
"Um," said Johnny, "did you just say 'no?'"
"Yeah. You're still working on regular breathing, right? So—heavy breathing? Nuh-uh."
"You're no fun," Johnny complained.
Mike picked the receiver up off the phone in the kitchen. "Should we call Dr. Brackett, right now, and see if it's okay if you—"
Johnny laughed, and wasn't able to avoid a tell-tale clutch at his ribcage. "All right, all right. I guess it'd be hard to explain at my follow-up on Monday why everything looked worse instead of better. Ya see, Doc, it's like this: I just couldn't keep my hands off my hot boyfriend, because he was pretending to be a loser, which is really sexy—and one thing led to another, and …"
"You see?" Mike replaced the receiver. "I'm perfectly reasonable."
"As always, Stoker. As always. C'mon. It's almost eight o'clock—I'm sure something dumb is starting on the idiot box by now."
Mike finished cleaning up the kitchen, and he and Johnny retired to the living room. There were, as they had imagined, any number of horrible shows on television that evening, so they had no difficulty in finding something completely mindless to occupy themselves until bedtime.
Nine o'clock rolled around, and both Mike and Johnny found themselves flagging.
"Man, I've been sleepin' half the day, and I'm already beat again," Johnny remarked, stifling a yawn.
"I'm completely wiped out too. Guess I'm still catching up after this stupid week. I hope I can actually get to sleep. Whaddaya think," Mike asked. "Should I go straight for one of Dr. Early's magic pills, or see what happens?"
"Uh, what magic pills?" Johnny asked. "I know he gave you more antibiotics, but did he prescribe you something else, too?"
"Oh. I guess I forgot to tell you about that part," Mike said uncomfortably. "When you were on shift the other night, and then when you were in the hospital, I, uh, wasn't sleeping well. Kind of not really at all, actually. And that's kind of what started me on the whole caffeine OD, and so he gave me just a couple pills, just for a couple nights, to break the cycle. I don't even know if I need it or not. I don't really like the idea, but …"
"Huh. Maybe that was why it was so hard to wake you up this morning. You take one last night?"
"You better believe it—after a few gallons of coffee, and then a little parking lot assault, and then three hours with the cops? I was wound tighter than a … a … I don't know—name something really tight."
"Chief Livingston's ass?" Johnny suggested.
Mike grimaced, and pretended to shudder. "Now there's an image I didn't need. So yeah, I took one last night. Maybe I can skip it tonight, though."
"How 'bout this," Johnny suggested. "We turn in, and if you're not asleep after what, twenty minutes? Get up and take it. But I'll bet you won't have to."
"I'll bet not, either. We're back in our own house, and you're here, and those assholes are sleeping in jail tonight—nope. Not gonna be a problem."
And he was right.
~!~!~!~!~
Sunday passed in much the same way as Saturday evening had. Mike was starting to feel more like himself, and his temperature was nearly down to normal. Johnny was still dutifully following the prescription of serious rest, much to Mike's relief. He was not only truly and voluntarily resting, and not trying to do things he wasn't supposed to do, but he readily asked Mike for help when he needed something.
Mike took care of the household chores, including finally wet-mopping the entire living room area to pick up any last shards of glass. He went grocery shopping, and managed to get in touch with a window repair business that could come the next afternoon to replace the large front window. He arranged with Mrs. Daniels to let them in when they arrived.
Mike had already decided he'd take Monday afternoon off—he'd go into the office in the morning, and then get to his follow-up with Dr. Hansen, which was conveniently scheduled for around the same time as Johnny's follow-up visit, where they would just be taking a blood and urine sample anyhow. Mike was amused to hear Johnny's story about making his followup appointment. He'd joked that the way things were looking, they could probably do both tests with just his urine, but his joke earned only a stern glare from the discharge nurse.
The question was, though, what Johnny should do between when Mike had to be at the office, and when their appointments were. It made no sense for Mike to come all the way back to the house for Johnny, but there was also no good place for Johnny to relax while Mike was at work in the morning.
"The library," Johnny finally announced. "I can just hang around in the library at HQ. Heck, I wouldn't be the first guy on medical leave to hang out there for a while, I'm sure, just to have something to do."
"Yeah, but you might be the first guy who's hanging out there because his boyfriend is busy upstairs."
For the umpteenth time, Johnny wished there were a better word for their relationship. "Boyfriend" sounded so juvenile, "partner" was so formal and stilted, and its more typical business-like meaning was relevant in Johnny's life too. He had to face it—it wasn't ever going to be comfortable to use the same word for the relationship he and Mike and, as he did for the work relationship that firefighters or paramedics working together had. "Spouse" was again too formal, and "husband" just plain seemed wrong. Everything else was right out. So they were stuck with "boyfriend," even though they both disliked the word. When people asked what the right word was, Mike would say "partner," but that wasn't the word they used between themselves.
"Hey, Mike?" Johnny asked, as they were ironing out their plans.
"Uh huh?"
"Could I see your office? Just kinda peek in, first thing?"
Mike was surprised by this request. They had a firm rule, which they both thought was for the best, that they not be seen together at department headquarters. But, considering the topics of Johnny's brooding the day before, Mike realized Johnny's request represented an important shift in his perception of their relationship, and an acknowledgment of the reality that people did actually know about them.
"I think that would be great," Mike said.
"Good," said Johnny. "I mean, hardly anybody'll be there anyhow at the hour that you like to get in. So I can just peek in, and then head down to the library."
"Yeah," Mike said. "Okay. Let's do that."
~!~!~!~!~
Monday, 0730
"I don't think I've ever been above the third floor in this joint," Johnny said, as he and Mike exited the elevator on the sixth floor of the L.A. County Fire Department headquarters building.
"Believe me, it's real exciting up here," said Mike, as he led the way down the hallway to his office. He opened the door, and showed Johnny in. "It's small," he said, as he and Johnny entered, "but it's all mine."
"Small?" Johnny laughed. "I mean, you've seen the office at 93s, right? And I share that with Jeff and Len, too, so I can't even leave a mess on the desk! Man, this is great!" Johnny wandered around and looked at the pictures on the walls. He knew Mike had had enlargements made of several nature photographs Johnny had taken, and he knew they were for this office, but still, seeing them on the walls gave him a warm glow.
Mike started to feel tense as Johnny made his way to the desk. Mike had impulsively decided to leave his pictures of Johnny out on the desk after his verbal explosion at Wes Harris on Friday, but he'd planned to rearrange the office furniture so that the desk was facing outwards and people would see the backs of the frames unless they actually went behind the desk. He wasn't sure what Johnny would think of a somewhat public display of himself, so he held his breath as Johnny got to the desk.
Johnny stopped just behind the desk. "I, uh, didn't know you had these in your office," he said.
"I've always had them here. But until Friday, they were in my top drawer, like this." Mike sat at the desk and demonstrated. "I, uh, kind of left them out when I freaked out on Wes Harris on Friday, and then kind of thought about maybe leaving them out. I dunno, what do you think? I was gonna turn the desk this morning, to face the door, so I could see who was coming in, and so everything would be a little less public. Roy suggested that, actually. But I can put them back in the drawer if you want. It's up to you."
Johnny hesitated. Mike could see tension in his neck, his shoulders.
"I dunno, Mikey. I mean, it kinda seems like it'd be rocking the boat. Ya know? I just … it's not what you were thinkin' before—I'm not ashamed of us. It's just …"
"I know. It's kind of asking for more trouble, when we've just had a whole viper's nest of it." Mike sighed. "I guess you go back in the drawer, then, at least for the time being."
Johnny exhaled, and ran a hand through his hair. Mike could see some of the tension leaving Johnny's upper body. "Yeah. Okay. Sorry to make a big deal of it—I just think it's … not time for that yet."
"It's not a big deal. I sure wish I didn't have to keep you in a drawer, but I see where you're coming from. Roy said pretty much the same thing, oh-so-diplomatically, and it's not even him sitting up there on the desk."
Mike put the photos back in their original discreet location, and then looked around the room. "But you know, I think I'll still rearrange. I hate having my door completely closed, but people are always startling me without meaning to. If I face the door, that won't happen. I'll just shove the desk over here, like this—" Mike grabbed the edge of the desk and started to try to turn it.
He gave the desk a good tug, but the solid 1950's-era oak desk on top of modern industrial carpeting refused to yield to just one man's strength and weight. Johnny stood by uncomfortably, wanting to help but knowing it was completely unreasonable to try.
"Shit, that's heavy," Mike said after a few seconds of fruitless straining. "I guess I'll wait till Harris or someone else shows up around here to move this sucker."
As if the universe was listening to Mike, and trying to make up for the last ten days, there was a knock at his office door. "Hey, Stoker, you in there?"
Mike grinned. "Hey, Bert! C'mon in!"
Bert came in and stopped short. "Oh—good morning. Sorry, I didn't know you had company. I can come back later." He squinted slightly at Johnny, and his eyes darted briefly to the Station 51 picture.
"Nah, we're just finishing up. Johnny, this is Bert Saunders; we were at 14s together waaaaay back when I was a probie. He's head of maintenance for HQ now. Bert, John Gage."
Johnny shot Mike a raised eyebrow when there was no more to the introduction, but recovered quickly. "Nice ta meet ya," said Johnny, shaking Bert's hand. "I heard you worked wonders on all the crap that got pulled on Mike up here. Great trick with the door, just replacing it like that."
"Well, like I said to Stoker here, in a building this size, we gotta spare for just about everything. Anyhow, Stoker—just came up to check on you—you were lookin' a little rough when I saw you on Saturday."
"Yeah—I was pretty wiped out from all the bullshit with the cops and those guys, and sick as a dog to boot. But—the assholes are in jail, and the antibiotics seem to be vanquishing the bacteria, so things are starting to look up a bit. Thanks for checking in—because really, it could've gone either way."
"You're welcome. Glad you're doing better," said Bert.
"Say, while you're up here, could you give me a hand moving this desk? I just want to swing it around like that—" Mike gestured the intended movement— "so I can face the door and not constantly get the shit startled out of me."
Johnny felt he had to provide an excuse. "I'd help out, but I've got three cracked ribs."
Bert winced. "Man, those have to smart. How'd you do that?"
Johnny looked at Mike, and Mike nodded. "Uh, those same guys who trashed the office door caught up with me in an alley and did some damage. Spent a couple days at Rampart." Johnny squirmed inwardly; he disliked talking about the incident, but it was clear that Bert was sympathetic.
"Holy fuck." Bert shook his head. "Man, I hope they put those guys away for a long, long time. I know you still can't say who they were, or anything, but it pisses me off to no end that people from the department—from the department!—would behave like that." His asymmetrical glower was somehow even more intense than if he'd had the ability to move his entire face equally—perhaps because of the stark contrast between the immobile side and the expressive side.
Bert shook his head again. "Damn. Makes me ill. But anyhow—let's move this desk. You sure that's okay on your leg, Mike? 'Cause I could get another guy from downstairs."
Mike took his place on one side of the desk. "Nah, it's fine. I probably shouldn't go for a run, but giving a desk a good shove should be fine."
"All right, then." Bert took the other side of the desk, and they moved it into the position that Mike wanted.
"Great," Mike said, rubbing his hands where the edge of the desk had bitten into them. "Thanks a lot, Bert. Once again, you saved the day."
"Well, I wouldn't go that far," Bert chuckled. "You woulda found someone, eventually. Just not at 0730. Anyhow—I gotta get to it. And, lemme know what happens with those bastards, will ya?"
"I will. Thanks again, Bert."
"Nice to meet you, Bert," said Johnny. "Thanks for your help."
"Hey, good meetin' you too. Take it easy on those ribs, and they'll be right as rain in a couple weeks."
"Will do."
After Bert left, Mike shoved a couple smaller pieces of furniture around until he was satisfied with the arrangement. Johnny watched silently, feeling guilty that he couldn't help out. He mulled over what Bert had said—his indignation, and the genuine anger at the criminals.
"Hey Mikey?"
"Uh huh?" Mike said, moving some things around on his newly placed desk. He pulled a spare chair over to the desk for Johnny, and they both sat down.
"He knows about us, doesn't he."
Mike looked up. "Yeah, babe, he does. That first day—when my door got painted—well, he misunderstood."
Johnny cocked his head. "Huh? I thought you said they painted 'faggot' on the door—that's pretty clear, I'd say."
"Yeah, well, I kinda asked him to keep it quiet, and said something about how I'd figured something like this would happen someday—you know, 'cause someone at HQ would figure out I was gay. I'm not really sure why I said that—I guess because I just really didn't feel like trying to fake like it wasn't true. And he was still confused—he looked at my ring, and so I explained that the matching one belonged to another man, and then he got it. And then we had quite an interesting chat about how other people react to people who aren't like everyone else, and I knew he was gonna be all right with everything."
"How'd he know it was me, though?" Johnny asked. "I mean, I guess I don't mind, 'cause he's all right, you know. But how'd it come up?"
"Oh, well, here's a lovely thing that happens around here. Sometimes, people who've heard the rumors? When they're here, in the office, they just love to look at my station pictures—you know, to try to figure out which one is 'him.' Bert was there—kind of invisibly working on fixing the door—and saw the guy quizzing me, trying and failing to be subtle about figuring out which one was 'him,' and asked me about what was going on. And I made some kind of remark about how nobody ever bothers to just ask me which one is 'him.' So later, he asked—in a nice way, like he really cared. So I showed him."
Johnny didn't say anything for a few seconds. Mike felt his heart rate rising, and watched Johnny for signs of shut-down or anger. None appeared.
"I guess," Johnny said slowly, "I never realized how it'd be a lot harder at work for you than for me."
Mike tilted his head. "What would be harder? I'm not sure what you mean."
"The whole keeping the open secret thing. I mean, when you were in the hospital, everyone from all the shifts at 93s came by at one point or another—and they're who I work with now. So everyone I work with on a daily basis already knows what there is to know. And sure—there's assholes like Livingston to contend with, but I just stay out of his way and things are fine. But for you?" Johnny shook his head. "Doesn't work that way, does it?"
Mike shook his head minutely. "No. It's like there's this unwritten rule: they don't ask me, and I don't volunteer information. But I think I can usually tell who's heard rumors and who hasn't, just from how they react when they meet me. So, I was actually kind of pleased when Bert stepped outside of that invisible box, and expressed interest. I don't think for a second that he's perfectly comfortable with all this, but he said it himself—there are people who make others uncomfortable because of something about them, and he's one, and I'm one."
"Huh," Johnny said.
They sat together behind Mike's desk, and Johnny watched as Mike put the pictures back in the drawer, adjusting the brackets on the backs of the frames to set them at a good viewing angle.
"There you are," Mike said, "back in your drawer."
"You're in my locker, you know."
"Yeah?" Mike smiled. "Which pictures?"
"Well, that one, of course," Johnny said, pointing to the picture taken just after they'd stood in front of their friends, the day after they'd exchanged rings, to tell their friends how their lives had changed. "And the one where you're shooting me the finger for taking your picture when you're all sweaty from mowing the lawn. And the funny thing is—the other two are from the same days as your other two. That same day at the beach—the picture I've got is you holding that huge horseshoe crab up by its tail. And then the one from that newspaper photographer. He only got the one of you, I think."
"The one where I'm in the driver's seat, talking on the radio, and my arm's out the window?"
"Yep—that's the one."
"That's not that great of a picture, I didn't think," said Mike. "It's pretty boring."
"Ya know why I like it?" Johnny executed a grin that encroached on the 'leer' end of the smile spectrum.
"No, but I'd sure like to."
"Your hands, man. C'mon, you know I've got a thing for your hands. And it's like they're the centerpiece of the photo. It's almost like he meant it that way."
There was a knock at the door.
"I should probably go, huh?" said Johnny.
"Come in," Mike called, at nearly the same time.
Wes Harris walked in, looking pale and tired.
"Wes!" Mike said. "Hey, come on in. You all right?"
Wes stood in front of Mike's desk, and looked back and forth between Johnny and Mike. He didn't say anything, just stood there with his mouth slightly open and his eyes wild. He stared at Johnny's impressive black eye.
Johnny looked over at Mike. "I really oughta get going, right?"
"Hang on," Mike said. "Wes?"
"Uh," Wes said intelligently.
"You probably haven't met Johnny," Mike continued, wondering what the hell was going on with Harris. "Wes Harris, John Gage. Johnny, Wes is the one who took Staib down in the parking lot on Friday night."
"Wow, man—we owe you one, big time," Johnny said, assuming Harris probably also knew he was Mike's boyfriend. "If it weren't for you, Mike might be in pieces by now. That guy is seriously dangerous. So thanks a lot, Harris."
"Uh," Wes said again, still staring at Johnny. He took in Johnny's slightly hunched-over posture, and his eyes traveled up and down Johnny's lanky frame, as if trying to divine what other damage was present.
"You okay, Wes?" Mike asked. "I don't know about you, but I had a pretty uncomfortable time with the cops on Friday night. They treat you all right?"
"Um … yeah, they were fine, all things considered," Wes replied after a long pause.
Mike frowned. "Wait a second—they didn't give you a hard time because you tackled that piece of shit, did they? Because he really needed to be tackled, and I sure told them that. Man, I was totally freaked out when they pulled that switchblade out of his pocket."
Wes looked at the floor. "No—they, uh, kind of understood the tackling thing."
Mike tilted his head. "That kind of sounds like there was another part they didn't understand."
"Yeah. Uh, did they tell you not to talk with me about the case?"
"They did," Mike confirmed.
"Me, too. But, the thing is, I just have to apologize, to both of you, all right? It's stupid, because I can't tell you what I'm apologizing for, but—I screwed up, a while ago, and—and—and that messed things up for you, and I'm sorry." Wes looked back and forth from Mike to Johnny, his eyes finally settling on Mike's desk.
"Okay …" Mike said, his rising intonation and eyebrows betraying his curiosity. "We're not talking about the case, so I can't ask you what the hell you mean, but I can't imagine what you had to do with any of—"
Wes cut him off. "Look—just … don't ask me anything, okay? I'll, uh, try to tell you sometime, when I'm allowed, but—damn, this is so lame—for now I just have to apologize so I can sleep at night, okay?"
"Okay," Mike said. "That's fine, Wes," he continued, carefully neither accepting nor rejecting the apology.
"Okay. Good. I, uh, oughta get to work," Wes said, effectively ending the conversation.
"All right," Mike said, not protesting. "Say, do you know if Rhodes is in yet?"
Wes nodded, glad to have a safe topic. "Yeah—I ran into him on my way in. Almost forgot—he said he wants to see you."
"That's handy, because I have to go see him anyhow, and now I have an excuse," Mike said.
"Yeah—he's weird about people just showing up. Anyhow—uh, see you later Stoker." He looked back at Johnny. "Gage—I, uh, hope you're feeling better. Nice to meet you." And without a second glance, Wes flew out the door.
Johnny looked at Mike incredulously. "That's the guy you work with all the time? He seems like a total nut job!"
Mike frowned, shaking his head. "He's not usually like that at all. That apology thing? That was … mysterious. I mean, he's usually a bit, I don't know, I guess 'abrasive' would be a good word. And, well, I told you about my freak-out with him on Friday, so I was expecting an awkward chat of some kind today, but not … whatever that was."
"Yeah—that was kind of weird," Johnny said. "Look—I oughta go down to the library, right? Let you get on with your day."
"What, you mean before someone even more insane comes barging through my door? I swear, it's not usually like this—it's usually really boring around here."
Johnny laughed. "I believe you—but still, I'm gonna head downstairs."
"Can't say that I blame you," Mike said. "So I'll come get you at like 11:30, and we can grab a quick lunch at Rampart before our appointments."
"Sounds good. Maybe I'll read some arson stuff."
"Hmm." Mike scribbled a title on a notepad, ripped the top sheet off, and handed it to Johnny. "That's a good one to start with. Won't put you to sleep, but also isn't too dumbed down."
"'kay."
Mike looked at the door. "You wanna close that for a second?"
Johnny peered out into the hallway, which was empty, and closed the door. He immediately found himself on the receiving end of what he was sure was the chastest kiss ever in the history of their relationship. He unsuccessfully attempted to stifle a laugh, and ended up snorting instead.
"Yeah, well, I didn't think that was too bad, for the office," Mike said, scowling.
Johnny wiped the scowl off Mike's face by returning the kiss, equally chastely. "See ya later, Stoker," he said, opening the door and disappearing down the hallway.
Mike gave him a good head start, idly rearranging the items on his desk, and then, when he was sure to catch a separate elevator, headed downstairs to see what Rhodes had lined up for him.
Mike knocked on Rhodes' door, and was immediately summoned in. Rhodes was holding a thick sheaf of paper—at least twenty-five typed pages, bound at the corner with a heavy-duty staple.
"Stoker," said Rhodes. "Have a seat. I just looked over your brief—good job. Sorry you had to stay late, but you were definitely the one for the job."
"Uh, yessir," Mike said. "Glad it came out all right."
Rhodes looked at another piece of paper. "The typing lady even thanked me for having you do this—I guess they get a lot of crappy-looking stuff, 'cause she wrote me a note that it was much easier to type your stuff than anyone else's in the unit. She said you even came by on Saturday to make sure everything was okay."
Mike, uncomfortable with anything resembling praise, squirmed slightly in his chair. "I kind of had to be here to get my vehicle anyhow," he said, and instantly regretted bringing up the topic.
"What, your truck? What happened?" Rhodes squinted at him, and barged on. "Say … I heard something about a bust-up in the parking lot. You didn't have anything to do with that, did you?"
"Well, some jackass slashed my tires, is all," Mike said evasively. "I, uh, couldn't deal with it that night, so I had the thing towed on Saturday."
His answer seemed to satisfy Rhodes. "Anyhow—the reward for a job well done is another job to do well." He handed Mike a packet of papers. "Here's your next assignment—it's a fatal from up in the far northeastern part of the county. Monday night of last week. Bruneau and Panella went out to the scene the next morning. No suspicion of arson, and they think the cause was electrical, but you know the drill—we have to report a cause on any fatal incident. Bruneau and Panella did fine work at the scene, but their reports stink, as usual, so, anything you can do to clean them up would be appreciated."
Mike skimmed the initial incident report with a sinking feeling. He could tell from looking at the first page that it was the house fire Johnny's crew had worked, where Emerson had to deal with his first child fatality. "Uh, boss, I … don't know if I should do this one."
Rhodes frowned. "Why not?"
Mike paused, not sure how much to say. "I've already heard a bit about the incident, and I'm, uh, well acquainted with the Captain of one of the stations that responded."
Rhodes drummed his fingers on his desk. "Yeah … you used to work up in that neck of the woods, right? I see—was there a crew from your old station? I don't see why that would be a problem—I mean, we all have ties to our old stations, and nobody ever has a problem with that."
Mike sighed heavily. "Maybe I should have said, um, extremely well acquainted."
Rhodes glared impatiently at Mike. "What's with the secret code? So what if—" he cut himself off abruptly, and his jaw dropped slightly and closed again. "Oh."
"Yeah."
Rhodes folded his arms, and echoed Mike's sigh. "Jesus. All right, I don't want a name, but what station, and what shift, just so this doesn't happen again."
"Station 93, C-shift." Mike felt himself getting lower in his chair, as if he were physically shrinking.
"Fine," Rhodes said curtly. "I'll give it to Harris, even though he looked like crap this morning. I suppose it's only fair, since I dumped that project on you on Friday, and you obviously weren't well."
"Sorry," Mike said, not entirely sure what he was apologizing for. "Uh, about that—I have a doctor's appointment this afternoon, so I'm gonna have to be out. It's for the leg again."
"Fine," Rhodes said again. "Other than the thing you can't work on, I got nothin', so just go. Don't bother with sick time—you were here half the night on Friday, and we're not busy, so it's not worth the paperwork."
Mike sat up straighter in his chair, recognizing the gesture for a sort of peace offering. "Thanks, Boss. And—well, sorry about the other thing."
Rhodes waved a hand through the air. He rose from his desk and consulted the large Operations Department map on the back wall of his office. "Best not to have any hint of conflict of interest. I just won't give you any assignments in the territories of say, Battalions 11 and 17, and that should cover it, right?"
Mike looked at the map as well. "Yeah. That should do it. I don't think 93s ever gets anything outside those areas. I'll ask him to let me know if and when he ever does, just so we can keep things on the up-and-up."
"Let me know if, ah, anything changes, with respect to shifts and stations and whatnot," Rhodes said, resorting to code himself to avoid using frank language.
"Will do," Mike agreed. "And—I should be fine for the rest of the week. I'm feeling a lot better, so I don't think they'll need me to come back for another appointment any time soon."
"Good," said Rhodes, ushering Mike out. "Come see me first thing tomorrow—I'm sure I'll have something for you then."
"All right," said Mike. "And—thanks for this afternoon, and sorry about, you know."
Rhodes opened the door. "Good thing you said," he stated, "so it didn't get screwed up."
Mike restrained himself from rolling his eyes at Rhodes' own use of 'secret code' rather than plain language. He returned to his office, and busied himself with reading a journal article he'd photocopied the previous week. Nobody else visited his office, and his phone didn't ring all morning, which was fine by him. At eleven thirty, he tidied his already-neat desk, and went down to the library. Johnny was leaning on the wall outside the library door, with a couple books under his arm.
"A little light reading?" Mike said, reaching out and taking the heavy-looking tomes from Johnny.
"Yeah. Gotta have something to do, ya know," he said, as they walked down the first-floor corridor to the lobby. "Makes me crazy—probably two more weeks with these ribs," he complained.
"You know," Mike said, as they exited the building, "you're moving a lot easier today than even on Saturday. I think your strategy of sleeping it off must be working."
"It's not exactly a strategy," Johnny said as he heaved himself into the passenger's side of Mike's truck. "It's more like, I can't help it."
True to his word, Johnny nodded off on the short trip to Rampart. Mike dropped Johnny off at the front door, and then parked the truck and and met him there. They headed to the cafeteria, which was crowded at lunch time. Johnny's black eye continued to draw stares, which he mostly ignored. He and Mike both suppressed snickers when a boy of about five loudly told his mother that "that man drawed on hisself with markers just like me. But he shouldn't do it on his eye."
"So where should we meet after my appointment?" Mike asked Johnny, whose appointment was the earlier of the two, and would also most likely be shorter, since he was just leaving samples.
"I dunno—I might go check out the ER, see who's down there. I guess look for me in the staff lounge. If it's crazy or if none of my old friends are down there, I guess I'll sit in the lobby."
"Okay—I'll check the ER lounge first, then the lobby if you're not there. I honestly don't know how long this will take—though I'm imagining not too long, since I'm really feeling just fine, and I hardly even notice where that screw was," Mike said. "I'm still annoyed I had to start thinking about it again. I'd honestly started to forget about all that metal, and now it's fresh in my mind again."
"Yeah—I know. Remember that gas explosion, where I busted up my right leg?" Johnny said, as they headed to the elevator.
Mike shuddered. "Yeah—that was, uh, pretty hard to forget. You know, all four of the rest of us had to hold you down while Roy was splinting you."
Johnny shook his head. "I'm happy to say I'll probably never remember any of that. But anyhow, it wasn't even two years after that when the drunk hit me after that bullshit call with the lady in the bar, and I'd just started not thinking about favoring that leg when it got busted again. I mean, it was nothing like the first break—just a minor fracture, really—but it really got me thinking about the original injury again, which really freaked me out. So I guess maybe I know what you mean. It stinks—but I'll bet you a buck that in another six months you'll forget about it again."
"Bet me something more interesting, and maybe I'll take you up on that," Mike deadpanned, as the elevator arrived.
They had the elevator to themselves. "Oooh—you're on! I'll think of something super good while I'm waiting for my appointment," Johnny said, giving Mike an exaggerated leer.
"Sometimes I really think you're stuck at seventeen years old."
They parted ways when the elevator dropped Johnny on the third floor, and Mike continued on to the fifth, where the orthopedist's office was. He went to the receptionist's window.
"Hi—Mike Stoker, for one thirty. I know I'm kind of early, but I'll just wait."
The receptionist checked her list. "Actually, today is your lucky day, Mr. Stoker—the patient before you just canceled, so we can just bump you up. Have a seat—it won't be long at all."
"Great—thanks," Mike said. Good luck still felt odd to him after the recent turmoil, but he didn't complain.
After a short wait, the nurse called him back to the exam room.
"Let's see," she said. "We're just looking at your progress with the bone infection today. Your last x-ray was nine days ago; the doctor said he doesn't need another one now."
"Um," Mike said, "it's probably worth mentioning that I kind of forgot to take the antibiotics until Friday, and I got pretty sick."
"Oh?" The nurse looked at him disapprovingly. "Well, that might change things. How are you feeling now?"
"A lot better," Mike said truthfully. "I had a bit of a fever still yesterday morning, but not today."
"All right," said the nurse. "Let me just get your vitals and your temperature, and then the doctor will be in to see you. You can put this on after I'm done here. He just needs to be able to get at your knee, so you can leave everything on but the pants," the nurse said, handing him a gown. She got a blood pressure reading, which made her frown again, but seemed satisfied with the reading from the thermometer. She exited the room, leaving Mike to put the gown on and to brood again on the stupidity of forgetting to take the antibiotics. He mentally rehearsed the speech he'd prepared about why he forgot his medication.
There was a quick knock at the door, and Dr. Hansen came in.
"So—what's this I hear about not taking the antibiotics?" he said without preamble.
"I know, I know—it was really stupid. But I had a terrible week—someone vandalized my house, and I had a family member assaulted to the point of hospitalization, and I just plain forgot," Mike said.
"Oh my," said Dr. Hansen. "I suppose that might account for your blood pressure being a bit elevated—it's 145/90, which is higher than I like to see. You should follow up with your regular doctor about that."
"I can get it checked at home some time when I'm not stressed out. Would that be a good start?"
"Ah yes," said Hansen. "Your paramedic friend who was there last weekend. Yes," he said, "that would be a good idea." He pored over Mike's chart, and then closed the folder. "Let's have a look at that knee," he said. He probed the area around the lower screws, and Mike was relieved that it didn't cause the cold, sharp pain it had just on Friday.
"Still a little tender," Mike said, "but nothing like Friday, when I got the stitches out. I think my temperature was about a hundred and one, and I felt like crap, but I thought at the time it was just from not sleeping and from all the stress."
"That certainly could have contributed, but what I'm concerned about is the possibility of a lingering infection at the site of the screws. I want to take another set of x-rays today, to compare to last weekend's, just to make sure nothing looks worse. What can happen is that the white blood cells that attack the infection release an enzyme that breaks the bone down. I'll be able to see on the x-ray whether that looks like it's happening."
Mike got pale. "What if it is?"
"Well, first of all, the good news is that I cultured the bacteria that came off the screw I removed last weekend, and the antibiotics you've been given should take care of that infection. As long as you actually take them, that is. So let's just look at the pictures first, before we get into anything else, all right?" Dr. Hansen said.
"Okay," Mike said weakly.
The technician made quick work of taking the ordered pictures, and Dr. Hansen returned to the exam room after about fifteen minutes, holding the new and the old x-rays.
"Good news," he said right off the bat. "Nothing looks different at all."
Mike heaved a huge sigh of relief. "Boy, Doc, I can't tell you what a relief that is. This week has been—well, unbelievable."
"It looks like your own immune system must be pretty strong, since you already had an infection brewing in there for some time. It may actually have been a lucky accident that you jarred that screw loose when you did—it might have allowed us to catch the infection early enough that you didn't develop major complications."
"So what now?" Mike asked.
"Finish the antibiotics—actually, I'm going to write you a prescription for a slightly higher dosage, and a longer course, just to be on the safe side. Get the prescription filled as soon as you can, and then throw out the old ones and take the new ones until they're gone. And I want to see you again in six weeks, for another set of x-rays. At that point, the infection should be completely gone."
"All right," said Mike. "Since it's feeling better, can I go back to all my regular activities?"
"Sure—just use your discretion. If it hurts, don't do it."
"Good advice in general," Mike said.
"True. I'll see you in six weeks," Hansen said.
Mike changed back into his pants, put the prescription in his wallet, made his appointment, and left the office suite feeling twenty pounds lighter than when he'd arrived. He took the elevator down to the first floor, and went to the ER staff lounge. As Mike walked in, he could hear Johnny talking.
"And so the arraignment is this afternoon. I'm just hoping they both plead guilty so this whole thing can be over with," Johnny said to Dixie, who was across from him on the couch. The lounge was empty except for Johnny and Dixie, so Johnny turned as Mike walked in.
"Hey! How'd you get done so fast? I thought your appointment wasn't even s'posta start till now."
"Cancellation. Just my lucky day, I guess," said Mike, sitting down next to Johnny. "Hi, Dixie. How are you?"
"I'm a lot better, now that I see you two looking more normal. You've really been through the wringer," she said, "so you deserve your lucky day today. Does the luck extend to everything being okay with your leg? Johnny said you were upstairs with Dr. Hansen."
"It does," said Mike. He explained what Hansen had told him, leaving out any reference to having forgotten his antibiotics. "And how 'bout you, Gage?"
Johnny shrugged. "Just left some samples, is all. Only surprise was, they did a quick screen of my hemoglobin—just like they do if you're gonna donate blood—and I failed that miserably."
"So liver and onions for dinner, then," Mike announced. "I've got Joanne's recipe somewhere. We'll stop at the store on the way home. I gotta get a prescription anyhow."
Johnny beamed at Dixie. "See? Ain't he great? My mom woulda made me drink water she soaked a rusty nail in. But Mikey? Nope."
"All right, Sunshine," Dixie laughed. "I know you're in good hands."
"I even do windows," Mike said, "which reminds me—we need to get home and see how that repair is going."
"Aw, but—"
"Actually, Johnny, I have to get back to work," Dixie said. "Don't be a stranger, huh? And I don't want the next time I see either of you guys to be for business—we're doing just fine here without you two coming in any more as customers. Which is my nursely way of saying take care of yourselves."
"That'll be a lot easier with that Staib asshole locked up," Johnny said.
"So it was him," Dixie blurted.
"Huh?" Johnny said. "How'd you know about him? We didn't even know who he was till they caught him."
For the first time that Johnny could remember seeing, Dixie looked flustered.
"Uh, let's just say … I, uh …" Dixie shook her head and blushed heavily. "I guess maybe someone in this room got their hands on some information they shouldn't have been able to get. And I shouldn't have said a darned thing, but it's too late now."
"The anonymous source!" Mike said. "I wondered who that could've been."
Johnny looked back and forth between Dixie and Mike. "What are you guys talking about?"
"In my, uh, interview at the police station on Friday night, someone said something about a tip-off from an anonymous source leading them to look into Staib," Mike explained.
"Shoot, I really shouldn't have said anything," Dixie said.
"Don't worry—our lips are sealed, right Johnny?"
"Tighter'n a drum," Johnny declared. "I didn't hear a thing. Besides," Johnny said, as a group of interns poured into the lounge, "all you said was 'someone in this room,' and there's lotsa people here, right?"
Dixie laughed. "All right, you two—get yourselves home. And you—" she pointed to Johnny— "eat that liver, and some steak, and stay on the couch for the rest of the week."
"Yes ma'am," Johnny said, saluting her.
"Call me if he's not behaving himself," Dixie said to Mike. "I have Wednesday and Thursday off, and I could come babysit."
"Now wait a second!" Johnny said, as Mike opened the door for Dixie, let her through, and then steered Johnny out of the lounge.
"She's just kidding," Mike said.
"No, she's not," Dixie said. "But, somehow, I'll bet you've turned over a new leaf, and you might actually be following the doctors' orders. Am I right?" she asked, looking at Mike.
"That's what it looks like," Mike confirmed. "C'mon, Gage—let's get you home and on the couch."
"Fine," Johnny pretended to grumble. "See ya, Dix."
"Take care, boys." She watched them go, shoulders bumping together as they walked down the corridor, closer together than most people would walk, but not close enough to seem odd. She had a pang of sadness for them—they couldn't hold hands, like Roy and Joanne could while walking down the same corridor, and couldn't even have the casual hand on the shoulder. But then, she had a surge of pride—maybe, just maybe, her amateur detective work contributed to the fact that they could go home tonight and be safe and sound in their own home. It was, after all, the least anyone could ask for.
TBC