Warnings: line of duty injury, blood, mentions of overdose/alcoholism

Just a reminder, I won't be posting next week due to my being in Munich! I hope to have the next chapter up on the 28th of December. Consulted an actual EMT for info on this one, but please let me know if anything seems wrong to you.

Johnny was not particularly surprised to hear the staircase collapse behind him. Truthfully, had the whole building come down around them, he would not have been particularly surprised. He hadn't really wanted to go in in the first place, felt that the perp/victim on scene hadn't been very sure there actually was anyone still inside, knew buildings like this didn't stay stable after burning for this long. He certainly didn't want Roy in there to get hurt. Roy had a wife and children. His loss would not be survivable for anyone, not by a long shot. Johnny turned around, expecting to see Marco grinning behind him.

Marco wasn't there. Instead, there was an enormous hole in the floor, embers still in the air. Johnny cried out and grabbed his partner, pointing at the hole and shouting, "Marco fell! He's gone!"

Even behind the air mask, he could see the fear and panic in Roy's eyes, could see the gears turning. He's deciding what to do. He's thinking of how much help we need. They couldn't do this one on their own. No matter how much they wanted to dive right in, they needed more people lest they became trapped, too.

"See if you can assess the situation," Roy told him, "I'll get Cap. Be careful."

Johnny nodded, watched Roy head further down the stairs to find Cap on that first floor, turned to check on his comrade. There was no hole above, so at least nothing had collapsed on top of him, but Johnny couldn't tell how far Marco had fallen. The pit was nearly pitch black, which meant there was no fire down there. Smoke, though… There might be smoke down there. As long as Marco had his air mask on, he could survive the smoke. It was just too dark to see anything, to hard to hear anything. Johnny swore. Roy returned after a few moments, Cap and Chet in tow. When Cap saw the hole in the stairs, he swore, too.

"We have a man down inside the structure!" he called over the H/T, obviously trying not to sound scared, "I repeat, I have a man down inside the structure due to a collapse! Requesting an additional team for rescue!"

Johnny was grateful Cap didn't announce Marco's name over the radio. He wasn't stupid, after all. He knew what was going on with Marco and Mike, had known for a little while now. When Mike's friend Starrett died, the engineer almost went down like a sack of rocks. Not so long ago, I learned how it felt… basically watched Drew die right in front of me. Perhaps it was callous to keep Mike in the dark for a while, but they still needed him to do his job. Johnny, for one, did not trust Mike to remain rational should he find out. He knew he wouldn't if the roles were reversed and it were someone he loved hurt.

"He's gotta be in the basement, Cap," Johnny explained, trying his best to be calm, "It's too dark to see anything down there, but I think I'd be able to see Marco if he were only a floor down on the next set of stairs. He's gotta be at least twenty feet down."

Cap swore again, said, "Alright, let's get into that basement. I want everyone to get a fresh air tank as quick as you can, and we'll get right in there. C'mon, let's go…"

He called for the extra air tanks to be ready for them, which would at least avoid questions from Mike. A couple guys from 36s and 127s were waiting to help them go in and dig Marco out. Please, let him be alive. They got into the basement with minor difficulty. A large pile of debris sat where most of the staircase used to be, and everyone dug in without hesitation. Johnny was certain he heard faint whispers, someone talking in a low, indistinct voice. He called out to Marco but got no response. He stepped up his efforts, digging faster, harder. Chet was working like a man possessed, wholly focused on the task at hand. We need him to be alive for Mike, alive and fixable.

After an eternity of twenty minutes, they laid eyes on Marco, and Johnny's heart sank. Marco wasn't wearing his air mask. The equipment lay discarded in the debris, its line to the tank severed. Marco's face was pale, and his left arm lay at an odd angle. The lack of an air mask concerned Johnny more than anything else. It's not too smoky down here, but if Marco breathed too much CO or cyanide, his injuries could last a while. People with bad CO poisoning sometimes had lasting effects to their mental status, like poor memory and poor vision. Hell, if he breathed too much cyanide, he's dead. Johnny tried not to think about that. He climbed up to stabilize Marco's head so they could get a C-collar on him. Cap and a guy from 127s each took an arm, and Roy carefully took his legs.

Dread and fear sat heavy in Johnny's stomach. There's no way Mike won't know now. He ain't stupid, after all. He called Chet over, told him, "Listen, I'm gonna need you to go to Mike and let him know what's goin' on, preferably before we get out there. They're close, and I don't want him freakin' out, okay?"

The lineman hurried to do as he was bid, and Johnny did not envy him the task. He did not handle the grief of others well. He forcibly switched into paramedic mode, wanted to be able to think of Marco as another patient, knew he wouldn't be able to. There was a blanket waiting for them on the pavement by the squad, as well as the biophone, and Johnny sent silent thanks to whoever had put them out for them. Roy got on the biophone, "Rampart, we have a fireman injured in a fall. Male, aged thirty four. Apparent injury to the left forearm. Probable smoke inhalation. Patient is unconscious. Stand by for vital signs."

Johnny was still cutting Marco out of his turnout, going up each sleeve, starting with the injured arm, swearing when he saw it uncovered. Marco wasn't breathing well, even with oxygen.

"Alright… pulse is 140 and thready… respirations 8. Stand by for BP."

He fixed the cuff around the uninjured arm while Roy relayed the vitals.

"BP is 70/40. Patient also presents with stridor."

"Rampart, BP is 70/40. Patient also presents with stridor."

"Roy, I think he's got a radioulnar fracture… compound ulnar… right arm looks good… legs look good, I don't feel any deformities… spine, too…"

"Rampart wants us to stabilize the left arm."

"So, do I… Roy, his abdomen feels kinda rigid. He might have internal bleeding. It would explain him bein' so shocky."

"Rampart, we're feeling some rigidity in the abdomen, believe the patient may have internal bleeding. Patient remains unresponsive… Johnny, IV with Ringer's and transport when ready."

Johnny got the IV in place faster and better than he'd ever done. I'm takin' good care of him, Mike, I promise. Roy helped him load Marco onto the gurney and into the ambulance, passed him the biophone and drug box, and wished them both luck. Johnny hoped they wouldn't need it.

xXxXx

Chet tapped Cap on the shoulder, ready to take the lead on their line again, still waiting for Marco and Johnny and Roy to return from their search, still working to put out the remaining fire on the first floor. He prayed they would all be alright. They will be alright. After all, God takes care of children, fools, and the United States. Firemen gotta fit in there somewhere. He and Cap inched forward, the last of the fire almost gone. The muscles in Chet's shoulders and arms burned in a way he liked, straining against the power of the water in the line. He stepped forward, dug his heels in, stared down the last of the flames.

He let out a sigh of relief when he saw Roy, only to have it stick in his throat when Roy was the only one he saw. Fuck, I thought I heard something go not long ago. Johnny's probably stuck… got his foot trapped or somethin' stupid like that. While not an entirely comforting thought, it was certainly better than the alternatives.

"Roy, what is it, pal?" Cap asked.

"It's Marco. The stairs collapsed under him," Roy explained quickly, "Johnny's still there tryin' to see him. C'mon, Cap, we gotta get him out…"

Chet's stomach churned, but he followed Cap and Roy anyway. Where the stairs between the ground and second floor used to be, there was now a large, jagged hole. Cap swore and grabbed the H/T, calling for another rescue team to help. He did not mention Marco's name. That might be for the best right now. Someone would need to tell Mike soon; he deserved to know. It was entirely possible that Chet was the only one who absolutely knew the full extent of Marco and Mike's relationship. Telling Mike would have to wait, however. Their focus now had to be on getting Marco to safety.

"He's gotta be in the basement, Cap," Johnny told them, trying to sound calm and not quite succeeding, "It's too dark to see anything down there, but I think I'd be able to see Marco if he were only a floor down on the next set of stairs. He's gotta be at least twenty feet down."

Cap let slip another swear and said, "Alright, let's get into that basement. I want everyone to get a fresh air tank as quick as you can, and we'll get right in there. C'mon, let's go…"

He led Johnny and Roy out, and it took Chet a moment to follow them. He would need a fresh air tank, definitely, and the tanks were waiting for them at the entrance of the building, along with some guys from 36s and 127s to join the rescue. Chet quickly switched tanks, waited for the others impatiently, couldn't stand still. It shoulda been me. Cap shoulda sent me and Johnny, not Roy with his family, not Marco with Mike… that's work for single guys. Time was passing. Five minutes had already gone by since Roy told them Marco fell, and Marco fell at least two minutes before that.

As soon as they got to the pile, Chet began ripping debris away. Marco was his partner, one of his best friends in the whole world, and he would be damned if he gave him up without a fight. His muscles were already burning and sore from holding a line, felt worse now. Sweat poured down his face and neck and back. His breath came in heavy pants. Even his fingers ached, but he couldn't stop now. Johnny was digging just as hard.

Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes had passed since someone had last laid eyes on Marco, and things did not look good when they finally found him. Marco had discarded his air mask, the piece of equipment useless anyway with the hose sheared off like that. He was looking far too pale, and his left arm certainly looked broken to Chet. Johnny climbed up on the debris to check Marco's head and neck and stabilize them. Chet hung back, didn't help carry him, knew he would be given another task shortly. Sure enough, Johnny called him over as they carried Marco out from the basement.

"Listen," Johnny told him, "I'm gonna need you to go to Mike and let him know what's goin' on, preferably before we get out there. They're close, and I don't want him freakin' out, okay?"

Chet almost snorted. Babe, close doesn't even begin to cover it. He hurried off to do as he was asked, moving quickly to get to Mike first, finding their faithful engineer at his post. Chet slowed. Something in him blanched at being the bearer of bad news, especially when he'd had to do it before. He took a brief moment to remove his helmet and air tank, pulled in a deep breath, let out a sigh.

"Hey, Chet, what happened?" Mike asked, concerned, "I think I heard someone fell? Was it Johnny?"

"No… no, uh, it wasn't John. It- Are the pumps shut off?"

"Yeah, why?"

His stomach churned. He could see Mike starting to put two and two together, wanting to deny it, could see he knew who fell and was praying Chet would refute it. Anger and denial and fear all fought in the blue eyes. Chet sighed again, said quietly, "Marco went through the stairs. They're bringin' him up now to work on him."

The color drained from Mike's face, and Chet quickly added, "He's alive. I saw him, and I promise you he's alive. Just-…he doesn't look good. Now, Johnny and Roy are workin' on him. You know they're gonna give him the best care he could get in the field… and when they take him to Rampart, he'll get the best care he could get in a hospital. He'll be okay. I know it."

Mike still looked like his world was coming apart around him. Chet had to lunge to stop him from running over, his sore muscles burning once more as he held Mike back.

"Stop!" he hissed as Mike struggled in his arms, "Mi-! Fuck, Mike, stop! You can't! Everyone is watching! There are too many crews here, and they'll get suspicious! I told ya, Johnny and Roy are takin' care of him, and he's gonna be just fine, okay?"

A moment passed before Mike actually stopped struggling and carefully pulled away from Chet to sit on the running board.

"How-… How bad was he? What happened?"

Mike's voice sounded broken and brittle, and it sent a stab of pain into Chet's gut. He sat next to Mike, explained, "Looked like the stairs between the ground and second floors gave way… just a big ass hole. The momentum of him fallin' probably sent him through the basement stairs, too. We dug through too much shit, but at least nothing fell on top of him. Hose for his air mask was sheared off… Musta took it off at one point… uh, his left arm looked broken, too. There wasn't much else I could tell. You'll get more from John and Roy at Rampart, I'm sure."

Chet felt it in his very soul. He knew Marco would survive, would make it through this ordeal and thrive on the other side of it, and he knew it would be because of Mike. A wave of envy rose up inside him, one he forced himself to quell. This was neither the time nor the place. Besides, they're both so good and kind, they deserve each other, someone just as good as they are. I don't deserve someone half as good. Chet swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat.

"Everything's gonna be okay," he told Mike again, his voice soft and low, "It has to be. I mean, you guys have somethin' no one else really has. This is true love you guys have. That doesn't happen every day, Mike."

Mike gave a loud sniff beside him. Marco will be okay. He has to be. The sirens of the ambulance wailed, followed by those of the squad. Marco was on his way to Rampart. Mike sniffed again.

xXxXx

Hank watched the ambulance and squad speed off into the night, taking three of his men, one of them unaware of his journey. A hand came to rest on his shoulder. The battalion chief stood there, looking up at him. He understands. I know he does.

"You and your men get on down to Rampart," the chief told him, "Things look pretty well handled here. I think we can let you go, Hank. You let me know when he's stable, alright?"

"Yessir… Thanks, Chief."

"You're very welcome. Now get outta here."

The chief walked away, calling out to the captain at 127s. Hank sighed, ran a hand through his hair, looked for the two remaining members of his shift. He remembered Johnny calling Chet over and then Chet running off. Someone needed to tell Mike. It made sense for Chet to tell Mike. They were good friends, and Marco was Chet's partner, after all.

Hank found the two firemen exactly where he expected them to be, sitting on the engine's running board. Chet looked up at him when he stepped closer; Mike did not. The engineer continued to stare at the asphalt, was almost unnaturally still. Hank's stomach rolled. Mike and Marco did their best to avoid suspicion, but Hank knew that whatever kind of relationship they had ran much deeper than friendship. He was neither blind nor stupid. If he was being perfectly honest, it was not the first time he's seen something like this. Only firemen really understood firemen, and sometimes they sought comfort in one another. He'd really only heard of them as brief flings, short affairs of convenience that ended when one of the involved parties landed a girlfriend or wife. What Mike and Marco had, however, was far more than one of these casual affairs.

This just isn't fair. Mike finally looked up when Hank laid a hand on his shoulder. His eyes were wet, his cheeks splotched with color. He looked utterly miserable. Hank gave his shoulder a squeeze, said quietly, "Everything's gonna be okay, pal. Marco's in the best hands, is receiving the best care. You know that. Everyone's fighting for him, fighting hard. Marco's gonna be fine."

Mike ducked his head again, pulled in a shuddering breath, clenched his fists atop his knees.

"C'mon, let's get to Rampart, fellas," Hank spoke up after a moment, "I know Roy and Johnny are waitin' with an update for us. Are you good to drive, Mike? It's okay if you're not."

"Uh… I-I think so. I think I can drive, Cap."

Hank merely raised an eyebrow.

"But it-…umm, it might be better if you drive."

"That's what I thought. C'mon, fellas, load up…"

Just as Hank had said, Roy and Johnny were waiting for them, and while they didn't look grim, they didn't look overly pleased, either.

"What's the word, Roy?" Hank asked.

"All in all, Marco's pretty lucky. No head or spinal injuries, no CO or cyanide poisoning, at least not bad, anyway. Definite radioulnar compound fracture, some smoke inhalation damage but not serious… I think the ruptured spleen was his worst injury, caused some internal bleeding. Brackett's workin' on him now to make sure they get everything. Uh, someone from ortho is there to set the arm, too."

"Biggest issue was the blood loss from the broken arm and ruptured spleen," Johnny added, "He was in shock by the time we got to him… prob'ly got to him just in time, honestly."

Mike made a small noise, but everyone pretended not to notice. He deserved that much. Brackett had Marco in surgery, so the men of 51s had a long wait ahead of them. Surgery could last hours and hours. They could be here all night and into the next day. Hank gave a quiet sigh and scrubbed at his face. He hated this. He hated waiting. He hated the inevitable replays cycling through his mind's eye. He hated the what-ifs and alternate scenarios that followed, each one worse than the last. Every eye in the waiting room was on them, on the sweaty men in their dirty turnouts, wondering why they kept such a vigil but too afraid to ask.

By the time Brackett came out to talk to them, over four hours had passed since the 51s crew was reunited in the waiting room. It was just around two o'clock in the morning. None of them had slept. As soon as they saw Brackett, the five firemen rose to their feet and went to him, letting him lead them a little way from the waiting room. He looked tired, but at least he wore a faint smile.

"We've already sent him to the ICU," Brackett explained, "I'd like to keep him there for at least twenty-four hours, just to keep an eye on him. There's no reason he won't make a full recovery, but it'll be a month or two. There was damage to his spleen that caused some significant internal bleeding, but we only had to remove part of the spleen, which is good. That radioulnar fracture wasn't doing him any favors, either. Still, I have no doubts he'll recover just fine. He'll be begging us to leave in no time."

"Could we see him?" Mike asked.

"He's still out, but you fellas can check in on him. Follow me."

The five firemen trooped after Brackett, and Hank certainly felt better knowing Marco was in recovery. Mike was still tense, though. Hank could feel it, could see it. Why, though? Marco's gonna be okay. Why is he still upset? The whole incident had been upsetting, to be sure. Hank would be lying if he said hadn't been affected. Perhaps once Mike saw Marco, he'd be okay. ICU certainly wasn't the best place to see a loved one… but at least it wasn't under a sheet.

Oddly, though, seeing Marco did nothing to improve Mike's mood. If anything, it worsened. Brackett didn't allow them into the room ("That's a sterile environment, and you're all filthy."), but they could see in. Marco was breathing on his own but was hooked up to a few machines, connected by tubes and wires, giving him fluids and medicine and showing readings. He still looked a little pale, but his color was much better than it had been. Seeing Marco's chest rise and fall gave Hank some comfort. The only one who still seemed upset was Mike.

Hank vividly remembered the time grief caused Mike to punch a mirror, and he'd seen the thin white scars on Mike's knuckles and arm that told him it wasn't the first such incident. Some people were like that. Grief made them angry at everything, caused them to lash out at anything within reach. Hank didn't really understand it himself. He was not like that in his grief, was quiet and forlorn, withdrew to be alone with his thoughts and memories. He did not understand that kind of rage, but he knew it had to be prevented.

Engine 51 was stood down for the rest of the shift, but Roy and Johnny weren't, so the squad was called out from the hospital for heart trouble. Hank watched them go, then suggested they do the same, saying, "Let's get back to the barn, you two. C'mon, Mike, Chet…"

A moment passed before Mike moved, as if he consciously had to tear himself away, had to use a great deal of effort to even move his gaze. Hank swallowed against the lump in his throat, stepped forward, settled a hand on Mike's shoulder.

"He's gonna be okay, right?"

Mike's voice was soft and brittle, and it made something twist painfully in Hank's chest.

"Yes, Mike, he'll be alright. Dr. Brackett said so, remember?"

They stood there a few moments longer, letting Mike look in on Marco some more. Finally, Hank squeezed Mike's shoulder to get his attention, muttered, "He'll be okay, pal… let's get back to the station."

"C'mon, Mike," Chet spoke up, "We'll go back to the station and try to get some rest. The visiting hours are over, anyway. We can sleep, we'll get some coffee, put our civvies on, and we can come back in the morning, bright and early. C'mon, babe, he'll be here when we come back…"

Those words seemed to work, pulling Mike from his reverie long enough for them to lead him out. Big, strong firemen… we're always told to stow the emotions, be tough, be manly… but what happens when that's not possible? A fireman became close to the men on his shift. They were his brothers, his confidants, his closest friends. Sometimes, they knew more about a fireman than that man's own family. That did not mean Hank had any delusions that he knew everything about his men. Clearly, Mike and Marco had been keeping a major secret from him, and if he knew even a hundredth of Chet's life, he'd be amazed. Johnny and Roy were slightly more transparent, but men were entitled to their secrets. Hank had a few of his own, just like anyone else.

The ride back to the station was quiet. Mike was in the passenger seat, his head lolling against the window. Chet was silent behind them, unusual for him but not unheard of. As for Hank, even if he wanted to break the silence, he simply didn't know how.

xXxXx

"Mike? Why don't you come in and have some coffee?" Chet asked.

"I'm good."

"Well, I brought you a cup, anyway. Can get kinda chilly at night, y'know…"

He stepped up and handed Mike the coffee mug, carefully sitting beside him on the tailgate of his truck. He said nothing, knew Mike would talk when he was ready and not before, wanted to be there for him when he was.

"Chet?" Mike spoke up after a few minutes of silence, his voice quiet and uncertain, "Can I ask you… Can I ask you somethin' kinda personal? I'll understand if you say no."

"Depends on the kinda question, I guess."

"A-A while ago, you were tellin' me and Marco about… about your life, and you said you don't like to get close to people because people you love die. What did you mean?"

An uncomfortable weight settled in the pit of Chet's stomach. S'pose it woulda come up sooner or later… He replied, "C'mon, man, look at my life. My family's dead-"

"I know that much, but-… but the way you said it… it sounded like you lost someone else."

Mike wasn't looking at him, and Chet was honestly kind of grateful for it. Every man had his secrets, but some were more than secrets. Some things were deep and dark and scary. Chet took a deep breath.

"There's been-… uh, there's been a-a few people, honestly. I mean, I was in the Army in Vietnam. War has casualties. People die. Sometimes it's someone you know, someone you're friends with. It's unavoidable… but once ya leave the warzone, you stop expecting it."

He picked up his head, and Mike was looking at him now, his eyes still sad and forlorn.

"Look, I don't wanna go in-depth or give ya a sob story, but since ya asked… I knew this woman… an incredible woman, Army nurse in 'Nam. We both saw some shit, and we were both a little fucked up when we came back… and I can't say either one of us handled it well. My, uh…" Chet paused, wet his lips, continued, "My coping mechanism was alcohol. Before I started at the Academy, I could drink a fifth of whiskey a day at least, sometimes even a whole handle. It was bad. Mellie took pills, sometimes with alcohol. Really, it was only a matter of time before one of us pushed our luck too far."

"What happened, Chet?" Mike asked softly.

"I got a wakeup call. She didn't."

He swallowed around the lump in his throat, remembering everything about that whole wretched scene as clear as day. And it still has me fucked up…

"Mike, listen," Chet said after a moment, his voice still thick, "my way of handlin' shit like this is not the healthy way of doin' things. I am not a role model for healthy coping mechanisms. Choosing to cut people out and just not form relationships outta fear is no way to go through life. Ya miss out on a lot. Trust me on this, okay? Don't do what I do."

He knew it felt like the easy way out when something bad happened. Trying to feel nothing seemed like a good idea. Just cut ties and forget how to feel. It sure sounds easy… but no one tells ya how hard it really is. He did not want Mike to ever know just how hard. Mike deserved to be happy, and his happiness hinged on Marco; the reverse was also true.

"Please, Mike, I'm begging you, don't do what I do. Don't push Marco away," he whispered.

Because if it were to come down to a choice between Marco and Mike, Chet didn't think he would be able to take sides.