Part IV

"Steve."

God. What…?

"Steve."

Go away.

"Steve."

I don't want to get up yet.

"Steve, can you hear me?"

Yeah.

"Steve, I'm talking to you!"

The stern edge to the voice provoked a habitual, reluctant response. "Yeah?" His voice sounded foggy to his own ears and he coughed to clear it, kept coughing. Man. His lungs hurt.

"Steve, are you listening to me?"

Hm. Sounded like a lecture coming. What had he done now? "Yeah." And, remembering that that was rarely considered an adequate response in these cases, "I'm listening."

Hurt to talk. What had he been up to now? He couldn't remember.

"Good. I want you to keep listening to me, all right? I know you're tired, but it's important that I talk to you."

"Okay." Better to just get it over with. Then maybe he could sleep in peace.

"How's your leg?"

His…oh. All at once he recalled everything - his trapped leg, the fire…but what the heck…?

"Dad?" What was his dad doing here?

"That's right, Steve - it's me. You still listening?"

Dad's voice sounded small and tinny and far away.

"Yeah."

"Good. You were going to tell me about your leg?"

Yeah. Okay. He must be hallucinating. Funny, he'd always sort of assumed that any dying hallucinations would involve his mom. Not that he'd thought about it a lot, but somewhere inside he'd always sort of assumed…

"Steve? Steve!"

"Yeah."

"Your leg?"

That was definitely his dad, relentless about his injuries. "Hurts," he offered finally. No point in putting on a brave face for a hallucination. Besides, he was so tired.

"Can you tell me the damage?"

Oh, great. That was going to involve a lot of thinking and a lot of talking, and he didn't feel much like either. Maybe he could coax the hallucination to go away and let him sleep. "Can't…really see it."

"Can you tell me what it feels like?"

Typical Dad. "Think I'm - impaled, sort of."

"I see." The Dad-voice sounded calm and clinical - briskly detached. "Where else are you hurt?"

Steve relaxed. This was kind of nice - he could talk to his dad about it without worrying him and he didn't feel quite so all alone in here. Hallucinations had their good points. "Head."

"Um hm. And what's wrong there? Steve?"

He realized he'd been drifting again and tried to drag himself back. "Um - hit. 2 x 4."

"I see." The hallucination still sounded calm, thoughtful. "Is it bleeding?"

Was it? Wait - Cheryl had said something like that. "Think so."

"All right. Can you put pressure on it? Stop the bleeding?"

Steve sighed. Heat rushed into his lungs and he coughed, kept on coughing.

"Steve? Steve? Steve, are you still there?"

The coughing triggered what felt like a sharp-edged projectile thrusting into his head again and again and it was a little while before he could gather himself enough to answer.

The voice continued inexorably. "Steve? Are you still with me, son?"

"Yeah." The word was dragged out from between his teeth, but it somehow kept the blackness from taking over again.

"All right. Good. Steve, I want you to be sure your face is as close to the floor as possible - away from the smoke. Can you do that for me?"

He wanted to point out that his face was practically in the floor at the moment and that there was no getting away from the smoke anyway, but that was too hard, so instead he managed, "Am."

"All right, good. Now, do you have something that you could cover your nose and mouth with to filter out the smoke? Your shirt would do."

Oh. Why hadn't he thought of that? He didn't want to move his right arm again if he could help it, but if he could even get his left arm out of the sleeve and the sleeve over his nose and mouth, that might help diminish some of the terrible smoke and heat he was breathing. "ll'Try."

"Good boy."

Steve smiled to himself as he tried to squirm his left arm free. Been a long time since he'd heard that one. He felt the shirt fall away from his body and he fumbled blindly for the loose sleeve, pulling it over his nose and mouth and breathing through it for a minute. It did feel better. He let it drop away, just for a second. "Dad?"

"Yes, son?" There was an almost crooning tone to the hallucination's voice.

He smiled again, because that was familiar too. "I'm - glad you're here."

"Me too, son. And I'm going to stay right here, I promise. How are you feeling otherwise?"

"Hot." He really meant "scared" but he couldn't quite admit that out loud, even to a hallucination.

"We'll have you out in the fresh air before you know it. Just keep talking to me, okay?"

"Yeah."

"Steve? Steven!"

Oh. Sorry. "…sleep?"

"You can sleep later. I promise. Right now I want you to talk to me."

Darned hallucination was starting to get annoying - maybe he'd hallucinate about something else instead. Something cool would be nice. Still. He didn't want to be alone.

"'kay."

"Good."

The heat was growing unbearable now, making it hard to think. He tried to focus on breathing through his shirt, wondered if he could find a position where the searing, oxygen-starved air would have less access to his exposed skin. If his head had been clearer he might have remembered that trying to move hadn't paid any big dividends so far, but all he could think about was getting some respite from the scorching air. He tried to turn himself over, face down and away from the heat. He thought he had prepared himself, but the nauseating sensation of splintered bone and torn flesh scraping against each other still caught him by surprise. His own shout of pain echoed in his ears.

"STEVE!"

Steve screwed his eyes tight shut, chewing on his lower lip to distract himself from the other pains. You had to say this for the hallucination, it was as persistent as his real dad.

"Steve! Are you still there?"

"Yeah." It was more of a gasp than a word, so he licked his bloody lips and tried again. "Yeah." That sounded better. Marginally. Cheryl had told him that he should stay still. She was right, he didn't listen. He needed to work on that.

"Are you all right?"

C'mon - deep breath. Deep, smoky breath…"…yeah…" He was downright swell. For a guy whose leg was being eaten by a wooden step and who was preparing to become a serving of roast pig, that is.

"Steve? Steve, do you remember when you were a little boy and you broke your leg and a couple of ribs trying to fly to the rescue like Superman? Do you remember?"

Steve exhaled heavily through his nose. Yeah, yeah - he remembered. The moral to that story, he guessed, was that he hadn't got any smarter with the years.

"Steve?"

"I - remember."

"Do you remember how I used to sing to you? To help you forget how much it hurt. Do you remember?"

"…yeah."

"Do you remember the songs? I'll bet you can remember all the words, if you try."

Oh, come on - that was about a hundred million years ago, and right now he could barely remember his own name.

"I'll bet you do," the voice pressed, then started to sing softly.

He had been, what? Six? when he'd made that fateful flight? Long time ago.

He found himself listening in spite of himself as the familiar voice sing-songed into the chorus.

Okay, maybe he did remember some of these words…really had seemed to make things hurt less back then. He did remember that.

"You must remember this one. You used to sing along with the chorus."

Yeah. He knew this one. He managed a shallow breath. "You did this whole…routine…"

"You liked the faces. This was your favorite part - listen…"

Yeah. He had loved this part - made his dad do it over and over…there was a loud crashing noise somewhere nearby and he tried to block it out to hear the song. The crashing got louder, followed by thumping and stamping - he wished they'd quiet down because they were too loud…he almost couldn't hear …he couldn't hear…he felt something grab his arm and he opened his eyes, squinting swollen lids against the smoke, blinking in surprise.

He was surrounded by a group of aliens with huge, goggled faces. They were breathing deep and slow, like…like…Star Wars. Like Darth Vader.

Wow. This was one weird hallucination.

He'd liked the singing better. One of the aliens removed his goggled face. He looked suddenly normal - just a regular guy, covered with soot.

Huh. Good special effects.

A small radio crackled in the huge, misshapen hands. "Okay. We got him."

The singing stopped abruptly. "Oh, thank God."

"Steve?" Someone was trying to attach something to his face and suddenly vaguely panicked and claustrophobic, he tried to turn his head away. "Hey. Easy. It's just me."

Cheryl. "You - back?" That didn't make any sense. Oh, wait - that's right - hallucination.

. "You - back?" .

"You must not have watched enough TV as a kid. Lassie always came back. And brought help."

He felt a familiar damp chill on his inner elbow and shivered. Getting ready for a needle. He knew that one. So, was this more hallucination, or…? Something snapped over his face and he gulped with surprise. Coolness shot into his lungs, startling him. It felt heavenly, but for a minute it made him dizzy. He closed his eyes.

Someone was talking into the radio some more. It wasn't as nice as the singing, but he found himself listening anyway. "…request permission to establish an IV." There were some droning numbers…respiration, blood pressure, pulse….all familiar… "Right. What have you got on your end, Ted?"

Someone was touching his right leg now with impartial, professional fingers and he tensed automatically. "…can't do it here. We're gonna have to take it with us. Normally I'd use the saw, but given the time crunch…"

The sound of a sharp blade shattering wood startled him out of his hazy state for a second, eyes flying wide. He became aware of other sounds - the steady hum of conversation from the radio, a low toned argument between Cheryl and someone else - evidently someone else trying unsuccessfully to persuade her to leave this time, but it looked like he wasn't the only one who didn't know how to listen. He'd have to rag her about that later. Overlaying everything was the sound of an axe blade biting into rotten wood. If this was a hallucination, then it was a honey.

Somebody was pushing something into his left arm…one of the aliens. "…ready for the Stokes…?"

"Give me a minute - I wanna see what I got here - "

"Well, hurry, cause a minute is about all we got."

Someone else was fingering his right arm now and he wanted to pull it away, to protect it, but it just lay there, not responding, like a block of wood. A low whistle by his ear startled him.

"Wow. Let me get this stabilized and we'll move out. What a mess. " He heard the peculiar, tearing noises that Velcro makes and then something stiff embraced his arm from the elbow down. Funny, it didn't hurt so much any more. In fact, everything was starting to seem really far away - even the hallucination. "Okay - I got it. Let's roll. Slow and easy. I want to shift this as little as possible…"

There were strong hands under his shoulders, lifting, and another set of hands down near his feet. His muscles knotted, ready for the agony that would inevitably follow motion of that one foot, and he felt the light whisper of Cheryl's breath, saying…something…softly, over and over, into his ear. The biting weight was still clinging to his calf but, for a wonder, it didn't pull - it lifted free. The smoke was thicker now, and even the alien figures were barely visible.

"…roof. Wait…" Someone pressed hard against the open wound on the side of his head and the world collapsed into a humming greyness. Everything stayed a little blurry after that.

He had a far away sense of movement upward, at a slant, bumpy and ragged, then of a flying drop - a dangle in space that brought back his vertigo full force. Everyone seemed to have disappeared now and he was alone on his weird down-trip-without-an-elevator - all alone with the dark, acrid clouds that wrapped around everything, eating the air. Still, there was some movement in the air now - it wasn't so close and suffocating, and that was a relief.

Voices kept shouting back and forth, unnaturally loud, but he couldn't understand what they were saying. His drop came to an abrupt and ungentle halt and rough hands grabbed at him, moving him rapidly forward now in his little protective shell, so quickly that he was sure that he was going to throw up after all. They came to a stop with a thud.

"Steve?"

And there was his buddy the hallucination again. Hands peeled at…at the…blanket! He located the word in his brain with a sense of bleary triumph. There. He couldn't be too out of it if he could figure that out - and he felt a light, cursory manipulation of his bad arm. The touch was eerily familiar and he blinked his eyes half-open to see. He couldn't decide if he was completely unsurprised or downright stunned to see his father's face hovering there. Either way, it was nice to see him. He tried to smile a greeting through the oxygen mask.

His dad must have seen, because the rigid set to his face faded and he smiled back. "How are you doing?"

Sounded just like the hallucination. So maybe it was. He made an awkward reach for the mask to move it so he could answer and missed by a mile, but his father must have understood, because he lifted it aside for a minute to let him talk.

"Good," he croaked. He was starting to understand the piles of hoses around them, the fleets of emergency vehicles, the sounds of bullhorns and high-pressure water and sirens. Must be that help that Cheryl kept talking about. But…"What are you doing here?"

His father stared at him for a minute or more, his face soft and strained at the same time. Then he dropped his eyes and reached into the protective blanket that covered Steve.

Steve had a passing thought that he was going to do one of his magic tricks - watched with mild curiosity for a coin or a bouquet of paper flowers or a rabbit to materialize from the depths of the silvery covering. Instead, his hand emerged with a small flourish, clasping Steve's cell phone. Steve stared at the compact phone, its screen lit, not comprehending.

"You called me." Mark depressed a button on the phone and the lit screen went dark with a muted beep.

Steve wrinkled his forehead, winced as the motion pulled at the hasty dressing slapped on one side. Then he remembered that moment when he had tried to phone Cheryl for help - that instant just before Drummond had swung. Had he…he must have speed-dialed his father by mistake. So that meant…his stomach did a queasy revolve. "How much…" he stopped to wet his lips. "…what did you…hear?"

It was a rhetorical question, really. Even if he hadn't been able to put the timeline together himself, his father's face, grey with anxiety, eyes haunted, skin pinched about the mouth even as he tried to summon a genial smile, told him exactly what he had heard.

"Oh, just enough. Enough to get the idea that you could use a little company."

Steve closed his eyes again. He wanted to say he was sorry, that he was never meant to hear any of that, ever - that he was only supposed to see the complications of his job in a distant, pleasantly theoretical light, but the damage was done and he couldn't undo it. So instead he said, "Oh."

"Hey."

He recognized that voice even before his father exclaimed, "Cheryl! Have you been checked for smoke inhalation?"

"Checked and rechecked. How's my partner? Look at you, tough guy - eyes wide open. Well, maybe not quite wide. I've got a present - just 'for you'." She gave him a knowing smirk.

Steve tried to turn his head to look at her, just caught a glimpse of a paper evidence bag before it twisted itself into a tight vortex against a backdrop of blackened, whirling buildings. He closed his eyes hastily. "For me, huh?"

"Mm hm." When he peeked again, she had the top of the evidence bag open and he could just make out a disreputable looking 2 x 4, spattered with blood. "Well, maybe not just for you. I was determined to nail this punk, and not for robbery - I want to see him go down for the attempted murder of a police officer."

Steve closed his eyes again. She had snatched that thing out of a burning building before all the evidence went up in flames? Now, that was his idea of a cop. "Good work," he rasped. "You get him?"

"Oh, yeah." He could hear the grin in her voice. "Looks like he set a time delay on the fire, but couldn't resist the urge to come back and admire his handiwork. We nabbed him standing in the crowd, watching. Lucky for us that most of the losers we prosecute are dumber than dirt."

Yeah. Lucky.

Steve felt a small flicker of amusement through the pleasant numbness that was settling over him. Funny. That's what Cheryl had said earlier. That they were lucky.

"We're gettin' him ready to transport, if you wanna ride along, doc!" He knew that voice, too - one of the aliens. "You guys be real careful loading him with that leg - no jostling. I had to practically take the whole step along, trying not to make it worse. Still might have added to the damage. But hey - beats the heck outta bein' charbroiled, right?" One of the sooty hands loomed near and patted him in the middle of his chest. "Was sure that whole building was coming down around us before I could chop you free. I'll tell ya, bud - you must have one heck of a guardian angel on call. You're one lucky guy."

There was that word again.

His eyes were aching with heaviness now, gritty with ash and smoke and begging for rest, but he forced them open just a second longer, letting them light briefly on the paramedic, then Cheryl, and lastly, his father. When they finally dropped shut, he could still see their images behind his lids, familiar, even though weirdly aureoled by the sunlight in the smoky air.

Lucky.

He smiled. "I know."

TBC