Chapter 7
The subject of their discussion was now standing in the shower stall, letting the hot water sluice down his shivering and aching body. What was this, his third shower of the shift, he mused, finally shutting the flow off and reaching for his towel outside of the door. The locker room was already empty when he stepped out; the whole station seemed silent except for the dripping of water off of the roof. The rain had finally let up as the weary crew backed into the station; judging by the absence of sound, the rest of the men had hit their bunks for some sleep.
After toweling himself off vigorously, but mindful of his colorful bruises, John drew on boxer shorts and t-shirt. He looked longingly at his previously warm thermal pants lying discarded across the bench; unfortunately the powerful stream of water that Stoker had blasted him with had cunningly sliced its way between his turnout coat and bunker pants and soaked him from the waist down. Feeling the warmth of the hot water already dissipating from his skin, he sighed and dropped heavily to the wooden bench in front of his locker. He rummaged in his gear bag and yanked out his last pair of clean navy blue pants and black socks and dragged them on. He fingered the ironed shirt hanging next to his civvies, but decided against it. If he wore the shirt, he would have to pin on the badge, nametag, and paramedic pin; he really didn't need things poking him in the chest when he was trying to catch some rest.
Of course, his only uniform jacket was wet, too, thanks to the water rearing its mischievous head and wicking its way upwards. It also didn't help that he had purposely lifted his face to the downpour and created a perfect funnel down his neck. He snatched both wet garments and flung them into the bottom of the locker, resisting the urge to slam the door. He paused, resting his damp head against the wood, debating whether to throw the wet garments and his turnouts into the dryer. Nope, he decided the turnouts probably still had several pounds of mud on them and would need a serious cleaning; it all could wait until morning.
He moved out into the apparatus bay and paused, wondering exactly where his drenched turnout coat had ended up at. Shrugging, he rummaged through the equipment closet and located his spare coat. He separated it from the rest and moved it on its hangar to the end of the pole. Satisfied, he padded in his socks to the kitchen, carrying his black leather boots, which he set down by the door. He moved over to the range and flicked on the light over it; he stared at it for a moment before grabbing a glass out of the cupboard to the side of it and filling it with water. He sipped it slowly, washing down the aspirin clutched in his hand.
Nixing the idea of making a strong, hot pot of coffee, he snuck into the dorm and pulled his blanket off the bed. He was surprised to see his bunkers already sitting by the side of his bunk. Puzzled, he sat down on the edge and ran his hand over the boots, securely tucked into the pants. They were wet, but mud free. Apparently one of the guys had given them a thorough cleaning while he had been in the shower. Marco, probably, judging by the way he had quickly trotted around the side of the engine and helped him pull off his dripping turnout coat; at that moment it had seemed an impossible task for Johnny to get the clasps undone with his numb fingers.
Minutes later, Marco had followed him into the locker area where the paramedic had limply collapsed on the bench, head in his hands. The Hispanic lineman had dropped a towel on John's dripping hair; he had waited silently and patiently, a pool of water forming under his own bunker pants, until the other man had finally stirred to alertness and squinted up at him. Marco had simply nodded and moved on to his own locker to change and clean up.
Not a man of many words, sometimes, but the lineman sure could make up for it with his actions, Johnny thought, bringing himself back to the present. Wincing, he recalled his surly treatment of Lopez earlier. Trouble was, he couldn't remember any of the conversation, only that he had been wrapped up in his own misery and had sullenly rebuffed the other man's offered encouragement.
He cast a glance around the dorm at the sleeping men, wondering about this crew. They had been together less than a month, but yet they already seemed to work together like a piece of well-oiled machinery. Sure there were moments of awkward indecision and sometimes just plain comedic routines; just last shift, at a structure fire, Marco and Chet had both reached down for the hose at the same instant and smacked helmets together. Arms flailing and feet jitterbugging amongst the snarl of hoses snaking across the inky pavement, the two linemen had inadvertently entertained the gawking bystanders and had ended their Swan Lake routine with a pratfall worthy of the Three Stooges.
His gaze settled on the sleeping and snoring forms of the two linemen and then shifted farther left towards the engineer; he couldn't see him but could hear the slight creaking of the bed and the rustling of the covers as Stoker stirred restlessly. Now there was a guy whose communication seemed to be made up of piercing looks and careful, parceled out smiles. Johnny was pretty sure he hadn't heard more than five words come out of his mouth, and those had been, "Gage, nice to meet you." Aside from the fact that Mike was a newly minted engineer and recently married, he hadn't learned much about him. Add that to his "to do" list – get to know Mike Stoker. He grinned in the darkness, pulling the blanket across his legs and shoeless feet as he considered how long and fast that list was compiling.
And then there was their captain…another man of few words. He had heard that Hammer wasn't going to stay long, but had consented to holding the reins of A shift until there was an opening at a station closer to his home. He had several years of experience as a captain and seemed to be a trustworthy and capable leader. But just like Captain Hookrader of C shift, he was not a captain that socialized outside of work with his crew.
Johnny thoughtfully ran a hand over his jaw, still not sure where he had seen Hammer before. Every time he looked at the stern countenance of his leader, it brought back vague memories of seeing him outside of work several years ago; he just couldn't pin down where it had been and what they had been doing. Hammer had never given any indication that he had met the paramedic before, so hopefully if he had been doing something stupid the new captain hadn't noticed him. Johnny just couldn't shake the dreaded feeling that he HAD been involved in something that the new captain would not have approved of. Maybe that was why his memory was conveniently blocking the recollection…..
Thinking about the men surrounding him brought back flashbacks of his previous house; things here were definitely not the same as working over at 10's with that large crew. He had started out there as a probie, and had been assigned there when his probation had finally ended. Several years later his luck had continued when he had finished his rescue training and a slot had opened up, partnering him with Tony Freeman. They had worked well together and did some things together off duty, but their friendship had never really progressed beyond work related events. Once Johnny had begun paramedic training, they had pretty much lost contact with each other except for crossing paths within the department. Sure, there were some phone calls and occasional social interactions between himself and some of the other guys over at 10's – let's go get a beer or bowl a few games – but working at a large station like 10's was a far cry from being employed at this eighteen man house. The dynamics were completely different. Here it seemed that you were going to be part of a close knit team, on duty or not. John still hadn't reconciled himself to that idea and wasn't sure if he wanted to.
And Roy, well that was a whole different scenario. Johnny still wasn't sure why he had asked him to partner up with him, and why he, in turn, had agreed so quickly. They sure didn't seem to have a lot in common, except maybe their love and dedication for their job, and as far as their personalities…hell, he was beginning to wonder if boring or careful should be his partner's middle name. Or maybe steadfast and cautious? Nothing wrong with any of it, in fact most of DeSoto's traits were highly prized in the department and he would probably move up the command trail rapidly, leaving his egotistical, headstrong, willful partner in the dust. Gage grimaced, his mouth thinning to a narrow line as he mentally checked off all the names he had been called over the past three and a half years in the fire service, and compared them to his new partner's character. Yep, they were definitely on opposite ends of the personality pole and Johnny debated just how long they would last together.
Rubbing his fingers under his eyes, the dark haired man sighed and eased himself back onto his bed, leaving his legs hanging over and feet flat on the floor. He hoped that since the pounding headache had subsided into a low throb it was sliding its way out. His stomach seemed to have settled, at least for now; in fact, maybe he should scrounge up something to eat, as his belly was now gurgling in hunger. He contemplated it for the briefest of moments, but his bruised body was not cooperating with his growling stomach or the galloping pace of his thoughts. He smirked at the warring factions and closed his eyes.
The doubt that had begun its insidious encroachment on his thoughts earlier, returned now in full force as soon as his physical surroundings receded to black behind his shuttered eyelids. His eyes shot open and he abruptly sat up, cursing inwardly and steadying himself on the mattress as a wave of dizziness assaulted him. He rose carefully to his feet, grabbed the blanket, and headed for the day room. Once there, he switched the television on, found an all-night channel, and settled down on the couch wrapping the thin, but warm material around his body. Hopefully the movie would bore him to sleep before his over active imagination took control of his thoughts again.
