Gonna try to keep these updates regular on Mondays, but between work and Music Man practice, that may be difficult. Also, did my best on the procedure here but if something is horribly wrong, please tell me so I can fix it. Same thing for the Spanish. (I used SpanishDict for the translations.)

Warnings: injuries, mild language.

The fire was a big one. Some idiot kids torched an abandoned warehouse, and while it was far removed from any other occupied buildings, it was still a bitch to fight. Mike could tell there was abandoned stock in there, too, probably flammable wooden crates full of flammable material. He was fairly certain the company the warehouse belonged to used to sell clothes. He brought the engine around to one of the hydrants and watched Marco jump off the engine and run back to retrieve the supply line. Marco signaled Mike to move the engine up. There were already a few trucks there; Mike could see 8s, 45s, 127s, and 110s. Hammer directed Mike around to the east side of the building.

Mike ran around to retrieve his end of the supply line and hooked it up to the pumps, signaling to Marco to open the hydrant. The supply line rapidly filled as Marco hustled back to the engine. Chet already had a line pulled to the side of the building, near some large, broken windows belching smoke and flame. Mike set to work on his pumps, charging the line for Marco and Chet as well as one for Roy and Johnny. At least the idiot kids got away so no one got hurt… yet. He buried himself in his work, carefully watching the pump gauges and monitoring the pressure, making little changes when needed. He could feel the heat even where he was on the other side of the engine.

The shouts and orders of the other firemen faded to a dull roar. He knew anything important would filter through, as it always did. He wasn't as experienced as some others, hadn't quite been an engineer for five years yet, but he was good at his job. It was what he always wanted to do, ever since he was a little kid. Important information always came through clear as a bell. The captains and the battalion chief were issuing orders, but Mike listened only for his own name and station number, for the names Lopez and Kelly and Gage and DeSoto.

The dull roar erupted into a cacophony of shouts and orders as there was a deafening crash. Mike's head snapped up, his heart pounding in his chest. Embers flew up into the sky as the roof caved in.

"Stoker! Cut the lines!" Hammer bellowed, "Do it now!"

Mike scrambled to obey, his heart in his throat. Me needing to cut the lines means one of our guys is down. Shit, it could be any one of 'em. Mike left his pump and came to stand by Hammer as he slammed down the antenna on the H/T and swore loudly. He turned and saw Mike standing there.

"It's Lopez," he said without preamble, and Mike's stomach bottomed out, "Some of those goddamned crates in there toppled and pinned him and now the fuckin' roof came down on their heads."

"I'm goin' in," Mike told him firmly.

"I dunno, Mike-"

"He's my best friend, Cap! I'm not gonna leave him in there!"

Mike grabbed his air and mask and was suited up faster than he had in recent memory. Johnny was hauling Chet out of the building while Chet struggled to go back in. Johnny was shouting, "No! Chet, no! You can't! Your shoulder-! Dammit, Chet, stop it!" as Mike passed by. He only had to follow 51's lines. They lay heavy on the floor, drained of water from when Mike cut the supply. A few others followed Mike as he marched on toward his friend.

Roy was hauling debris off a prostrate Marco piece by piece, and he must've been doing so since the roof came down. He was showing signs of flagging. Mike stepped up to help, easily moving the heavy debris and tossing it aside. The warehouse was still hot, still thick with smoke, still burning across the way. Sweat rolled down Mike's spine, pooling at the small of his back. Just keep digging, Stoker. Keep digging. It's Marco under there, remember? Dig! He worked like a man possessed.

"That's good, Mike! We can get to him now! C'mere, help me out…"

Mike hurried to Roy's side. The paramedic ordered him, "Careful with his neck and back… Make sure to keep 'em straight as possible… that's it…" then collected some others to help carry Marco out. Roy took his head to stabilize his neck, a guy from 8s took his feet, another from 45s his left side, leaving Mike with the right side. Outside, Johnny had a blanket laid out for Marco already and was treating Chet's shoulder, which had a long but shallow cut in it. He had to push the young lineman back down onto the squad running board when they approached with Marco, and Mike could hear the paramedic quietly trying to calm Chet.

He grabbed some of the supplies for Roy, ready to help, but Johnny asked him to sit with Chet instead while he worked with Roy on Marco. Mike almost protested but held his tongue. Johnny knows what he's doing way better than I do. I would be in the way. I can't help Marco like he can. He sat by Chet after pulling off his air bottle.

"Man, what happened to your hands, Mike?" Chet asked quietly.

Mike looked down. His palms were littered with cuts and splinters, bleeding sluggishly in places, and covered in soot. He must have forgotten to put his gloves on. He cleared his throat, wanting to change the subject, and asked, "What happened in there, Chet?"

"I really dunno, actually," he answered, "Me and Marco were holdin' a line, puttin' out those last few embers. I think-… I think when the roof came down, somethin' hit the stack of crates we were hosin' down and they went over. Marco… he pushed me outta the way when it happened. Thank God Johnny and Roy were right there."

Mike said nothing. He simply watched as Roy and Johnny worked on Marco and the ambulance arrived. Words escaped him. Words were useless. What good would it do, after all, to tell Chet he was terrified Marco was severely injured, was paralyzed, was comatose, was at death's door? Johnny came over to say something but stopped, replacing his original comment with, "Mike, what'd you do to your hands?"

"I-… I forgot to put my gloves on," he mumbled sheepishly, "I just-… I forgot."

Johnny clucked his tongue disapprovingly, saying, "You better go in the ambulance with Roy and Marco to get those hands looked at. Don't want 'em gettin' infected now…"

Roy raised an eyebrow at Mike getting into the ambulance until he saw his hands. Marco was still unconscious, though there was no blood anywhere on his that Mike could see. Mike wanted desperately to reach out and touch him, to anchor both of them, to let Marco know he was there and let himself know Marco was still alive. He cradled his hands uselessly in his lap.

"We think his ribs are cracked but not severely broken," Roy spoke up, "It's still gonna hurt like a bitch for about a month or so, but there's no reason he won't be alright. Same goes for that knot on his head and the concussion. Dr. Early'll make sure of that."

Mike nodded, still silent. He was beginning to feel the pain in his palms, somewhere between burning and throbbing and sharp, but he kept his eyes glued to Marco. The lineman's eyelids didn't even flutter. Mike swallowed against the lump in his throat and focused on the pain in his hands. It was enough to distract him from Marco's unnaturally still form. Roy stayed quiet, too, thankfully. Mike liked quiet. He preferred quiet in times like this over empty, repetitive words of attempted comfort.

Dr. Early looked over Marco while Dixie took care of cleaning Mike's hands. He jumped and gasped at the first touch of the alcohol, biting back a swear. She apologized but kept going, plucking out the splinters with a pair of tweezers. A resident student came in, a young, light-skinned black man with glasses. Early beckoned him over to watch him work. Heat flared up in Mike's chest, went creeping up his neck. They're treating him like an experiment or an exhibit. Jesus, he's not some specimen for them to gawk at. Dixie removed a particularly painful splinter, pulling Mike from his reverie and making him yelp loudly.

"There we go. He's coming around now."

xXxXx

The first thing Marco became aware of was a burning pain in his chest that wrapped around to his back. Breathing hurt. So… broken ribs… fuck… He wasn't sure where he was. His eyes didn't want to cooperate and open so he had to guess. He supposed he could be dying in the warehouse… but the sounds weren't right. It was too quiet. Maybe that's what dying sounds like. Quiet. Sound… it was a sound that pulled him back this far, that started dragging him up from the black. A voice. The sound had been a voice, a pained yelp. I know that voice… I know who that was…

"M-ike…"

xXxXx

Mike's head jerked up. Marco just said his name. Dixie's grip on his wrists kept him in place, he ignored her as she carefully bandaged his hands. His gaze and attention were fixed on Marco. The lineman stirred slowly, moaning quietly and whimpering occasionally. His breathing shallowed, likely as he was confronted by the pain of his cracked ribs. Little muscles in his face twitched, his eyelids fluttering without opening. Except for Marco, the room was silent. Dixie released Mike's wrists, and he rose to his feet, going to his friend's side.

"Marco," he whispered, "Come on, Marco… I'm right here… C'mon, pal…"

xXxXx

Bright light began to assault Marco's eyes through his lids. Surely he was dead. There was a bright light and a quiet surrounding him… though the pain was surprise. The padre always said the pain went away when a person died, when they were called to Heaven, to el reino de Dios. He hoped he was going to Heaven, anyway. He hadn't lived a bad life. He was a fireman, a good one. He saved lives. He squeezed his eyes shut against the light. It was just too bright.

"Marco," a voice whispered, "Come on, Marco… I'm right here… C'mon, pal…"

He knew that voice, though. He knew it well, knew it better than anyone else's probably. He struggled to open his eyes. I must be dead. That could only be an angel standing over him, with mussed brown hair framed by light and lovely, sad blue eyes. There was a pressure on his right hand, a pressure and strange texture. Marco squeezed back, letting his eyes slip shut. Go ahead. Take me. I'm ready, mi angel. Vamos. He opened his eyes again, wanting to see his angel take him to Heaven.

xXxXx

Marco squeezed Mike's hand, and Mike felt another lump growing in his throat. Brown eyes opened slowly, gazing blearily up at him. Early leaned in, asking, "Marco? Marco, can you hear me?" and checking him over again. Marco's eyes didn't leave Mike's. The lineman's brow knitted with confusion.

"Mi-? Mike?"

"Yeah, it's me. It's Mike."

"Are-… are you-?" Marco rasped and wet his lips, "Are you dead, too?"

"No, Marco, I'm not dead, and neither are you. You're at Rampart Hospital. Do you remember what happened?"

His brown knitted further; he was clearly thinking hard. He wet his lips again.

"Well… uh, me an' Chet were holdin' there in the-the warehouse," Marco said slowly, his words slurring slightly, "We had just switched off, so-so I was backin' him up. Then there was-… I-I could hear somethin' breakin' overhead, bu-but before I could get Chet's attention, a-a few of the beams fell. I think it, uh, somethin' hit the stack of crates we just put out. They start-started comin' down, an-an' Chet wasn' payin' attention, so I-I-I shoved him outta the way. There's… I don' 'member much after that. I-Is Chet okay? Did he get hurt?"

"Just a 'lil cut on his shoulder," Roy answered, "Won't miss a shift."

"Seems you were pretty lucky, Marco," Early spoke up, "You've got some cracked ribs, plenty of bruises, and a nasty concussion, but it could've been much worse. We're going to keep you here for a few days just to make sure everything's alright, that the ribs are stable and that knock to the head isn't going to give you too much trouble. It'll be about six weeks before you're fully healed, I'm afraid, and I'll be providing you a prescription for a good painkiller when we release you. For now, we're going to get you up to another room where you can rest and get you settled in.

"As for you, Stoker, we're going to have you take off the rest of this shift and the next, just to give those cuts time to heal. Try to keep the bandages dry and come back tomorrow, and I'll change them for you. You can visit Lopez while you're here."

"Okay. Thanks, doc."

Mike and Roy bid Early and Dixie farewell. Johnny was waiting at the bay station, stocking up on supplies and chatting with a pretty young nurse, though he didn't seem to be getting too far.

"There ya are. How's Marco?" he asked when they approached, ignoring the young lady, "He alright? I'll be honest, I didn't think he was lookin' too good when y'all brought him out."

"He'll be alright," Roy answered, "Gonna be outta commission for about six weeks with some busted ribs. Early said five through seven were cracked on both sides at the front."

"But he was hit in the back."

Roy shrugged, "Happens that way sometimes. Knew a guy once who was playin' baseball, was the pitcher. Got nailed in the chest with a line drive, and it broke his ribs in the back."

"What about a concussion?"

"No, that guy didn't get a concu-"

"Not the baseball guy, Roy! Marco! Did Marco have a concussion? I saw that golf ball on his forehead."

"Oh… yeah. But it's not as bad as it could be, though it's not doin' him any favors, either."

Mike remained silent, picking at his bandages. At least Dixie didn't give me mittens for hands with these things… that would be embarrassing. Johnny gave him a little nudge, asking, "How 'bout you, Mike? You alright, man?"

"Yeah," Mike forced out, "Yeah, I'm alright, Johnny."

Roy supplied, "Mike's gonna be outta commission for a bit, too. Rest of the shift and the next one, though we're probably gonna be stood down for the rest of this shift anyway, with it bein' so late and us bein' a man- well, two men down."

"Yeah, well, the engine'll be stood down but probably not us, pally. Let's get back so we can Stoker ready to go before we get another run. C'mon, I'm all stocked up…"

xXxXx

There was a knock on Marco's hospital room door, and it slowly pushed open to reveal Mike's face.

"Hey there… mind if I come in?" he asked.

"Please do. I've been bored outta my skull."

The doctors and nurses weren't letting him do much of anything. He wasn't allowed to read or watch TV or even sleep properly. Someone would come in every hour or so and make him wake up and ask him a bunch of damn fool questions. I'd probably heal quicker if they'd only let me rest and sleep. Mike stepped shyly into the hospital room, closing the door behind him.

"Mike, what happened to your hands?"

He ducked his head, picking at the bandages, answering, "Oh, i-it's nothing, Marco-"

"It doesn't look like nothing. How'd you get hurt? You were at the engine."

A flush crept into the engineer's face, and he started chewing at his lip, still toying with the bandages. Mike was clamming up like he did sometimes, was likely to stay silent the whole time he was here if Marco didn't find a way to draw him out.

"Mike, c'mere and sit," Marco said, waiting patiently for him to do so before continuing, "Please tell me what happened, amigo. How'd you hurt your hands?"

"Cap told me to cut the line when the roof came down," Mike told him quietly, "Usually when that happens, it's because you guys had to drop the charged line because of injury or somethin' else serious. Then Cap said it was you that got hurt, got trapped under those crates, and I-… I just suited up and went in, and when I did, I, uh, I forgot to put my gloves on. So when I was helpin' Roy dig you out from under the debris, my hands got all cut up and full of splinters'n shit. Honestly, I didn't even realize it 'til Chet pointed it out. Just-… I dunno, I had to get you outta there."

Something warm fluttered in Marco's chest, something pleasant and nice that actually distracted him from the pain momentarily. Mike wasn't looking at him, instead gazing pointedly at his bandaged hands, thumb absently stroking his palm. There was still a flush to Mike's cheeks, at least where Marco could see. I thought he was an angel when I first came to… thought he was an angel come to take me to Heaven. He shifted to try and reach out to Mike but let out a pained grunt. Mike picked up his head at last, his blue eyes wide with concern.

"Are you alright, Marco?" he asked quickly, "Do you need anything? Should I get-"

"No, I'm fine. I just tried to move too fast, I guess," Marco replied, his voice a little tighter than normal, "Y'know, you forget exactly how connected everything is 'til something goes down. Ay Dios, everything hurts: breathing, moving, talking, coughing… I don't even wanna think about laughing or sneezing. Come to think of it, thinking hurts, too."

Mike gave a little smile, and Marco smiled back. He looked like an angel yesterday, with a halo of light and beautiful blue eyes… He looks like an angel now. The fluttering was back, the soft warmth, the lightness in his veins.

"I'm… I'm glad you're okay, Marco," Mike said quietly, "I'm really glad."

"Thanks for saving me and making sure I would be."

Mike ducked his head again, but Marco could see he was still smiling. A cold dread began to creep in on his warmth. Marco forced it away, tried to shove it down. He was sure he knew what these feelings meant… and that was something that had consequences he didn't want to think about just now. He focused on the warmth.