Warnings: language, alcoholic behavior, misuse of alcohol

Also, I apologize for being a day late. I had a very busy week last week and didn't have time to get it all typed up before last night, and I at least wanted to be able to make some edits before putting it up for you. I anticipate being on time next week. Please see the end of the chapter for a note to the Stoker anons.

Some days really make a guy question his career… especially when half of it revolves around rescuing idiots. Chet sighed, watching the world pass by from the back of the engine. Only five years ago, Congress passed a law declaring Memorial Day would now be observed on the last Monday in May, regardless of date, as opposed to the hard and fast May 30 it had been since at least the 1880s. It provided for a three-day weekend and a federal holiday, and with this year being the United States' Bicentennial, Chet figured there were going to be some rough holidays. Fourth of July won't be a picnic, either… He sighed again.

They pulled up to the park behind the squad. The paramedics were there to handle injuries from a fight that had occurred. The engine was there to back them up and put out the burning barbeque. Thankfully, no one was severely injured enough for a trip to Rampart, but one guy was drunk enough.

"Do I-? Will ya gimme another blanket, fellas?"

"We'll see," Johnny told him, "We only have so many, and it's pretty hot out-"

"Okay… okay, tha's cool, man… Say, I really gotta pee. Can I pee?"

"Not yet. Wait 'til we get to Rampart."

"That long? Man, I really gotta pee."

"Well, ya gotta hold it. We're gonna put ya in the ambulance-"

"Can I pee in the ambulance?"

Chet stifled a snort of laughter. Johnny quickly said, "No. You cannot pee in the ambulance. You wanted blankets? I'll give you as many blankets as you want so long as you don't pee in the ambulance, 'kay?"

"Okie dokie, soun-sounds great to me. Can we play the sirens?"

They loaded him up, and Chet assumed should the drunk pee in the ambulance, he would hear all about it when he saw Johnny again. Rampart was probably a drunk tank for the wounded at this point. Marco came over to stand by him as Roy pulled away in the squad, asked, "Havin' fun yet?"

"If you call this fun, then I guess so," Chet replied, "Man, I am sure glad I don't drink like that anymore… well, not often. I have my weak moments, but overall… Hey, I never do it if I have work the next day."

"You have that much sense, anyway."

Chet shrugged, "What can I say? I'm not a total fuckup," and the two got into their places on the engine, ready to return to the station. Then they got a call for a single car wreck in a residential neighborhood, the squad reporting from Rampart. Probably a drunk driver. This should be fun. Mike took them to the scene of the accident. The two-door Charger had its front end wrapped around a telephone pole, the driver slumped over the steering wheel. Chet heaved a sigh. He hated drunk drivers.

He'd been to rock bottom, spent an entire six months in a whiskey-induced stupor, but he never drove drunk. He'd seen too much bad happen, too much tragedy. When somebody died as a result of an accident with a drunk driver, it was never the drunk driver, was always some innocent bystander. Thankfully, today only the one who caused the accident was injured.

"Chet, come over here and help me get 'im outta here, would ya?" Johnny called, "Uh… I'm gonna need a C-collar and a splint for his leg."

"You got it, Gage."

He retrieved the items Johnny requested and hurried over. Johnny carefully placed the collar around the patient's neck, said, "Alright, Chet… help me get 'im out… Yeah, just like that… careful with that leg, okay? That's it… Alright… Perfect…"

The victim's leg was definitely broken, the bone obviously sticking out from his shin. He was mumbling incoherently, his arms flailing slightly as he tried to move. Johnny told him to stay still while he took his vitals, and Roy relayed everything on the biophone. Chet made his way over to Marco and Mike, who were standing by as Cap spoke with the caller, an older woman who'd been sitting on her porch.

"… and I couldn't believe it," she was saying, "Now, you know the speed limit on this road is 25, and that car there had to be going at least 60. He fishtailed going around the corner there and lost control, and that's when he plowed into that pole. It was an awful sound."

"Thank you, ma'am," Cap said, "We'll be sure to pass the informa-"

"Sir!"

Everyone turned to the paramedics. The patient, who had been largely unresponsive until this point, had apparently started to try and get up.

"Sir, please, lay back down," Roy told him firmly, "Your leg is broken and-"

"Nononono, 's fine!" the patient protested, "Leg's fine! I jus' gotta walk it off."

"The bone is sticking through your shin," Johnny replied, "You can't walk that off. Sir, lie back down and stay still while we wait for the ambulance. Please…"

Chet snorted quietly. Some people… It wasn't the first time a drunk patient couldn't feel their pain, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Cap called for him, and Chet jogged over to meet him.

xXxXx

"Christ… a frat house?" Johnny exclaimed, "Really? I hate frat houses."

"Shouldn't all the colleges be out by now?" Roy asked in the squad.

"You'd think… Reckon they must be stayin' for the summer. Kids do that, right?"

Roy shrugged, kept driving to the frat house, sirens wailing. Johnny huffed quietly, as he was wont to do when being somewhat ignored. Unknown type injuries in a frat house were usually embarrassing and involved foreign objects in various orifices or body parts inserted into foreign objects. Alcohol was also typical. They were greeted at the door by a young black man, tall and stocky with an afro.

"What seems to be the problem?" Roy asked.

"It's Carl," the young man said, "He's really messed up, man, c'mon…"

He led them in and up to a bedroom, where a white male was laying on his side on the floor by the bed.

"What happened to him?" Johnny asked while Roy checked the boy's vitals.

"We were poundin' back some beers earlier, and one of the guys came up with an idea. He got some flexible tubing and a funnel, hooked 'em up, and figured out we could drink the beers really fast. We did that for a bit, and then Carl got it in his head to funnel the beer-… well… He kinda put the tube in his ass."

Johnny forced himself not to roll his eyes. Again with the stuff up the ass! Why! He instead asked, "And why on earth did he decide to do that?"

The young man shrugged, "He was wasted. Thought it'd be funny, I guess."

Johnny just shook his head and got on the biophone, "Rampart, this is Squad 51."

"Squad 51, go ahead."

"Rampart, we have a male patient, approximately twenty-one years of age. He, uh… He apparently ingested a great deal of alcohol orally and then consumed several beers via an enema."

There was a definite pause.

"Squad 51… did you say enema?"

"Correct, Rampart. Patient is currently unconscious and nonresponsive. Stand by for vital signs."

Johnny turned to Roy, watching the other paramedic, waiting for the vitals.

"Pulse is 40… Respirations 6… uh, skin is clammy and pale. Stand by for BP."

He relayed the information, adding, "BP is 65/40."

"Administer IV with saline and 50 ml of 50% dextrose solution, put him on O2, and transport immediately."

"10-4, Rampart. Ambulance should be here in a few minutes."

"10-4, 51."

"Hey, man, is Carl gonna be okay? Like, he's not gonna die, right?"

"We're gonna do our best to make sure he doesn't. We're gonna take him to Rampart General, and he'll get the best care he possibly could there. Do you have any contact information for his family?"

"Johnny, the ambulance is here. I'll ride in with him."

"I'll help you load 'im up."

The frat boy returned with a slip of paper with the parents' contact information; Carl was from Wyoming. Johnny quickly got into the squad and followed the ambulance to Rampart. Kids today are so stupid. Who the fuck gets it into their head to load their ass with beer? What happened to good ol' drinkin' beer? The way these college kids were beginning to drink to excess was insane. Johnny knew too many whose lives had been destroyed because of alcohol. It was an epidemic on many reservations across the country simply because there was nothing else to do. Jobs weren't plentiful, but the alcohol was. He sighed.

Johnny replenished their supplies while waiting for Roy, picking out what they needed.

"Hey, Junior…"

Roy made his over with the rest of their equipment, his expression tired but not sad, and answered Johnny's silent question, "Kid's gonna be fine. Doubt he'll ever try that again, though. Morton said his BAC was .375."

".375? Jesus… that's almost five times the legal limit."

"I know. He's in a coma now, but Morton says he should wake up in a few hours."

"Kid's gonna have the world's worst hangover when he does wake up. Here, I think I got everything…"

They briefly went over the contents of their various boxes, putting everything in its proper place. On the way out, they ran into Bellingham, Brice's partner.

"Oh, hey, fellas."

"Hey, Bob," Roy replied, "What's up?"

Bellingham shrugged, "The usual, I guess. Been on four runs, all alcohol related. 'Bout par for the course for holidays like this. Brice rode in with our patient. What about you guys?"

"Kid made this big funnel and ingested like four beers via enema," Johnny said.

"Really? Christ, people are obsessed with their asses anymore."

"Tell me about it. Anyway, we gotta head out, man."

"Yeah, give Brice our best," Roy added.

Bellingham gave them a smirk and a wave, heading toward the bay station for his own supplies. Johnny stayed fairly quiet in the squad, but if Roy noticed, he said nothing. Johnny was actually grateful for it. He didn't know what he would say if Roy asked him anything.

Chet was making dinner when they arrived, his chili, the only thing he was really any good at making. Johnny sauntered up and leaned against the counter beside him, watched him work.

"Hey, Gagey-baby, you just gonna sit there and look pretty, or do you wanna make yourself useful in some way?"

"I was stayin' outta your way. Isn't that useful enough?"

"True. You're not exactly a world-class cook yourself. Somethin' on your mind?"

"That obvious?"

"You're an open book, Johnny. C'mon, spill it…"

Johnny repeated the events of their runs that day, especially the last one, to Chet, who listened carefully, nodding when appropriate.

"I just don't get it, Chet," he continued, "I mean, these kids have all the opportunity in the world. They got parents who love 'em, who have money enough to send 'em to college, to give 'em an education… and they're practically throwin' it all away on drugs and alcohol. I just don't get it."

Chet shrugged, "There's plenty of poor kids who throw it all away, too."

"I know, I know… Just-… There's poor kids who don't throw away their opportunities but still don't get half what these kids get even when they try their hardest."

"No, I know what you're gettin' at. I guess… I dunno, I guess it's just a pastime, somethin' fun to do when there's no pressure on 'em. Poor kids do that stuff to escape. Reckon rich kids do, too."

Johnny made a soft noise of agreement but said nothing else. One of his younger cousins succumbed to alcoholism and almost died before pulling his life back together. It had been a long and messy road, but Josh was doing much better now. Johnny regretted he hadn't been there for much of it, but he was there through the worst of it. He looked to the fireman beside him. I did tell him about Josh. He hadn't known very much about Chet's past, but he somehow knew Chet could be trusted to understand that. It turned out Chet knew plenty about alcohol abuse. Johnny stepped a little closer to Chet, saw him smile gently.

"Hey, man, cheer up," Chet told him finally, "You're gonna get me down, too. That kid you rescued, he'll shape up. He'll figure out he's an idiot and turn himself around. Usually do."

"If he doesn't?"

"Then he doesn't. We know better than anyone that you can't save everyone. Some people don't change, and that's just the way it is. Ours is not to question why… Anyway, c'mere and help…"

Johnny huffed quietly, a laugh, and stepped up to help as he was asked.

"Now, Johnny, just do what I tell ya and try not to fuck it up, okay?"

"I'll try not to."

Chet nudged him with his elbow, smiling, encouraging Johnny to smile in return.

xXxXx

Marco smiled, quietly snuck away from the kitchen, went back to Mike and Roy in the bay.

"He's fine, Roy," Marco told him, "Him and Chet are havin' a good ol' time."

"That's good. He was just awful quiet after that last run. It's never good when he's quiet."

"Don't we know it. Well, he's not quiet now, so I think we're all safe."

Mike spoke up, "Don't be so sure. He's helpin' Chet cook."

Marco and Roy hummed in agreement. He'll be alright. There were some runs that just got to a guy. It was occasionally inexplicable, sometimes made no sense. A fireman could go on a hundred similar runs with only one soliciting such a reaction. They'd all been there before, all knew the feeling. Johnny would be just fine in no time at all. He was just one of those people that bounced back in a hurry.

The paramedics were called out again not ten minutes later for a heart trouble case, and Chet had just finished his chili when the engine was called to an unauthorized bonfire. Time to be the fun police. At the scene, they found a group of kids, drinking beer and playing records, along with a patrol car.

"Alright, kids," the cop said, "Fun's over. Fire department's here. Everyone clear out."

There was a lot of grumbling, but no one really protested. The sun was just getting ready to set. Marco and Chet easily put out the bonfire and cleaned up the debris, making sure there were no embers remaining. The way a few of the kids looked at them, though, made Marco's stomach twist slightly. I get the feeling we'll be back here later. They're not happy we broke up their party. He and Chet climbed back up into the engine so Mike could take them back to the station.

Roy and Johnny were waiting on them, having started in on the chili.

"Sorry, we didn't wait," Roy said, "Just never know when the next run is comin'."

"I understand completely," Cap agreed, "C'mon, fellas…"

The paramedics, sure enough, were called out not long after, when they were not quite done with their dinner, and they quickly left for the seizure call.

"You okay, Marco?" Mike asked as they washed the dishes, "You seem a little down."

"Do I? I dunno… I just have a-a feeling… kinda a bad feeling."

Mike's blue eyes were concerned, clearly remembering the last time Marco had a bad feeling about a shift. Marco sighed, explained, "It's not a bad feeling like that, querido. It's not dread. It's-… I dunno… It's just I know we're gonna go out on a run and it's gonna be a mess. Maybe it won't be bad for us, I mean, I don't think it will, just… it's gonna be a mess, y'know?"

Mike hummed in agreement. Marco took a deep breath and continued to wash the dishes. There was no use worrying about what might or might not happen. I've learned that. It was hard to believe that it was almost two years ago now that Marco was severely injured and came quite close to dying. Two whole years since he and Mike fought, since all that bad happened, and Marco told himself after everything that he had to live life to the fullest, to not worry what the next shift would bring. Mike likely did not feel the same way, worrier as he was, but Marco felt good about it. Still, old habits died hard, and there were times when that niggling feeling came back that maybe he ought to worry just a little.

"Station 51, Squad 43, unauthorized bonfire and report of a fight…"

Chet asked, "That's the same place we put out a bonfire earlier, isn't it?"

"Sure is," Mike told him, turned to Marco, said, "You were right, babe."

Marco didn't reply, only pulled on his turnout and climbed into his seat beside Chet. Of course I was right. My gut always is.

"Holy shit…"

He looked up at Chet's words, felt his mouth fall open slightly. Chaos was the only word that could accurately describe the scene. Police were corralling drunk teens, many of whom were screaming about their rights and police brutality and all the other things drunk teens scream about when being arrested. Several were being tended by paramedics, including a particularly rowdy boy Johnny was having trouble calming down. Mike pulled the engine up to the hydrant, and Marco dutifully jumped off to hook up the line. The bonfire was hardly their biggest problem, however. Marco was easily able to put it out on his own, which was good since Cap had called on Chet to help Johnny with his patient.

"Jesus, this is a mess, Marco," Mike commented.

"It's somethin' else, alright…"

They were cleaning up the bonfire when Johnny swore loudly, causing both men to look. The paramedic was curled up on the ground, clutching his midsection. Chet had the patient restrained with his arms pinned behind his back. Marco and Mike hurried over, Marco to help restrain the patient, Mike to check on Johnny.

"Hey," Mike asked, "Hey, Johnny? You okay? What happened?"

Johnny shook his head briefly, wheezing quietly. Chet spoke up, "Got nailed in the gut by this genius."

"He was hurtin' me, man!"

"Only 'cause you were bein' an idiot and not listenin' to him!"

A cop came over and took the young man away while Cap called for help for one of the guys from Squad 43, who was trying to restrain a rowdy girl. Marco took off. Fitzpatrick was struggling with a young woman who was obviously on something more potent than alcohol, evidenced by the way she was screaming and cursing at a rapid pace, a cut in her hairline still bleeding sluggishly.

"Lopez, I just need someone to hold her so I can clean and bandage the cut," Fitzpatrick shouted over her, "Try to keep her still, would ya? Christ, she's feisty…"

Marco carefully held her arms behind her back, not wanting to injure her but not wanting to get hit or kicked like Johnny had. She screamed like she was being murdered the entire time.

"My ears are gonna be ringin' for days," he complained to Mike, "She was so damn loud…"

"I'll bet. I've never heard anyone scream like that in my life."

"Try havin' it right in your ear for five minutes. Ay Dios..."

Mike chuckled, and Marco stuck out his tongue at his lover. I'll just have him make it up to me later…

xXxXx

The men at 51s woke barely refreshed on Sunday morning, none of them having really slept due to the quantity of runs. Mike, for whatever reason, hadn't been able to sleep very well even when he could, kept waking up and tossing and turning. I'm surprised I didn't wake everyone up. He slumped into the kitchen, yawning widely, running a hand through his hair.

"Mi querido, you look exhausted," Marco commented, "You didn't sleep?"

"Not really, no… not sure why… just couldn't get comfortable, I guess…"

"Well, you've got all day to sleep and rest up before the big day tomorrow."

Mike groaned quietly. Tomorrow was Memorial Day, and amid the somber ceremony and remembrance would be raucous drinking and rowdy behavior. Fuck, we'll be running all day and all night. Thankfully, the next shift was right on time, and Marco wisely offered to drive home when they left.

"You look ready to sleep standing up, corazón," Marco whispered.

Mike blinked, not entirely sure he remembered the ride home or the walk up to their apartment. His brain felt all fuzzy, his eyelids as heavy as his limbs. A warm hand rested on his cheek. He smiled, leaned into the touch, swayed slightly where he stood. Marco laughed softly, told him, "C'mon, querido, let's get you to bed before you fall over right here."

"Mhmm, whatever you say, babe…"

Marco led Mike to their bed where he carefully undressed him, stripping him down to his shorts, occasionally pressing a kiss to newly bared flesh. It felt nice, very nice indeed to be shown such care and love. He knew, deeply and innately and intimately, that he was loved. Warmth rolled over him in waves, though he couldn't be exactly sure if it was due to joy or exhaustion.

"Stay with me, baby," Mike murmured.

"You want me to stay?"

"Yeah… I wanna go to sleep with you right here next to me… just wanna feel you… smell you… touch you… maybe kiss you a little… Please, babe, just stay…"

Marco's expression was soft and warm and open, and he quickly gave in, stripping down to his own shorts and climbing into bed beside him. Strong arms wrapped around him. Warm lips pressed against his throat. He turned to capture those lips, smiling into the kiss, bringing a hand up to gently touch Marco's face. The kiss was soft and slow, a gentle display of the love between them.

"I love you so much," Mike whispered, stroking Marco's cheek, "I love you-"

He kissed Marco again, gently sucking his lower lip between his teeth. Marco smiled against his lips, pulled away slightly, told Mike softly, "I know. I love you, too… I thought you were tired, corazón."

"I am. I just wanted to do that first… wanted to show you I love you…"

"You do that every day. Every day you show me how much you love me. I mean, this is nice, don't get me wrong, but I want you to sleep now, Mike. You need it."

Mike smiled sleepily up at Marco, his beautiful love, kissed him once more, and was asleep not a few minutes later.

As always, if anything is wrong, shoot me a message telling me how to fix it, and I will do so as soon as possible. I'm not a paramedic or medical professional, but I try to research as best I can.

To the anons who commented on the last chapter: Stoker (the actor) was born in June '41, so at the time of that chapter, he would have been 34. I generally go with the actor's ages when thinking of the characters, only making a slight change to Chet's for story purposes. Therefore, assuming Mike went into the department right at 18, my calculations were correct. I understand that many did do some military service during the Cold War, but that was by no means everyone. I do appreciate your concerns and hope this answers some of your questions. Thank you for continuing to read this fic.