Warnings: mild language, blood, major trigger warning for childhood suicide.

Mike woke up slowly, blinking in the sunlight filtering through the blinds as Marco fumbled to shut off their alarm. A moment passed before both groaned. It's the Bicentennial… shit… Mike grumbled as he sat up and scrubbed at his face. Marco simply rolled over, pressing his face into the pillow. The cats meowed outside the door, gently scratching at the frame.

Today was July 4, 1976, America's Bicentennial… or at least the bicentennial of the Declaration of Independence. Celebrations had been going on across the nation since last year, marking notable events like Lexington and Concord, Paul Revere's ride, and the meeting of the Continental Congress. There had been TV specials and books and red-white-and-blue themed everything, but today was the culmination of all this celebration. July Fourth was always a big day for the fire and police departments, saw much of the population drinking and setting off fireworks and having illegal bonfires and getting into fights.

Obviously impatient, Rosa and Tito made their way into the bedroom, meowing loudly. Marco said something too muffled to be intelligible.

"Hey, babe, ya better get your face outta that pillow before ya suffocate," Mike told him teasingly, swatting him on the ass for emphasis, "That wouldn't be an attractive way to die."

"Guess that's true," Marco agreed, finally rolling over on his back to look up at Mike, "Ay Dios, we're gonna be so busy today… It's gonna be horrible."

"I know, and I can't say I'm lookin' forward to it, but at least we're spending it together."

His words earned a sleepy smile from Marco. He leaned down to kiss him, but Rosa chose that moment to let out a particularly indignant meow, demanding breakfast for her and her brother. The two firemen laughed quietly. Mike said, "I'll go feed the monsters. Be right back," and gave him a quick kiss before getting to his feet. Tito trilled happily, both cats trotting ahead to meet him in the kitchen.

He stood and watched them eat for a moment, smiling to himself. Soft footsteps sounded behind him, arms wrapping around his waist, warm lips pressing to his shoulder. Mike hummed low in his throat and leaned back into the touch. These were the moments he liked best, the quiet, domestic ones where they could simply bask in each other's warmth and love. He sighed contentedly. Peace like this wasn't going to be available in the upcoming twenty-four hours.

xXxXx

These were the moments Roy hated. Holidays were always a mixed bag of runs. Some were basic where others were outrageous, and for whatever reason, Squad 51 had gotten outrageous for their first few runs. It was midday now, and Roy and Johnny were on their way to a call for an unconscious child. Runs involving children always got Roy's blood pressure up, his own two kids always coming to the forefront of his mind. It's like I'm treating Chris or Jenny and not someone else's child. He gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter. Johnny shifted on the bench seat beside him.

It was a nice neighborhood they'd been called to, with large houses and manicured lawns.

"Roy… it's up here on the left… yeah, that's 1847 there," Johnny pointed.

A man was standing on the porch as Roy pulled into their driveway. He didn't come running, like so many parents did when their child was hurt. He looks numb. What the hell happened here?

"Sir…" Roy asked, "Sir, are you the one who called us? Can you tell us what happened?"

The man blinked slowly, took an agonizing moment to simply stare at them, finally ushered them in wordlessly. They pushed past him roughly. A girl of about eight lay on the couch, very pale, a young woman crying silently on the floor beside her. She looked up at the two paramedics, begged, "Please save her."

Johnny got right in there, instinctively knowing how bothered Roy was by the whole scene. Roy carefully pulled the woman to her feet and led her away, saying gently but firmly, "Ma'am, you need to tell me what happened here."

"She did it. She really did it."

"She-? What?"

She wiped at her face, took a deep breath, explained in a shaky voice, "That's my daughter, Billie. She, umm… She took my antidepressants."

"What are you on?"

"Amitriptyline. I went into a major depression when my first husband, Billie's father, died in a car accident about four years ago. Billie was very upset by it. They were very close. Mark was a very good friend of ours, and he helped us through everything. Billie likes him, which was the most important thing. We got married last year, and it all started to feel alright again when…"

"Roy, I've got some very depressed vital signs… slow heart, low BP, the works."

"Mother says she overdosed on Amitriptyline. I'll call it in…"

Johnny's questioning stare said it all.

"Ma'am, the ambulance is almost here," Roy told her after they had treatment started, "Can you tell me what happened today?"

"A few months ago, Mark's brother committed suicide," the woman explained, "Hanged himself in his apartment… wasn't found for a few days. That's when Billie started acting strangely. She became very preoccupied with death, very interested in death. She kept asking us what happens when a person dies, what happens to the body, everything. She claimed Uncle Matt came to talk to her after he died and tol-told her how nice it was in Heaven an-… and then she started saying she wanted to go with him… with her daddy…"

Roy's stomach rolled, but he forced himself not to show it. She continued as the ambulance sirens neared, "We didn't believe her. Who believes an eight-year-old wants to kill herself? Who really believes a child is capable of that?"

He hated the dead, frightened look in this woman's eyes, hated that there was nothing he could do to alleviate her suffering. The ambulance arrived, and Roy helped Johnny load up the patient, her body so small on the full size gurney. Roy's stomach rolled again.

"Boy, that was-…" Johnny started, looked at Roy back in the squad, said, "well… that was somethin'…"

Roy didn't know what to say, so he said nothing; neither did Johnny. There was nothing to say. Roy carefully pushed it all down, knowing their day was going to be busy. He took a deep breath and put his hands on the steering wheel, Johnny on the bench seat beside him.

xXxXx

Holidays had never been Brice's favorite. He didn't really like crowds or unfamiliar people as a child, and he was fairly certain his parents were vaguely ashamed of him, their strange boy who refused to make eye contact or carry on a normal conversation. If only they could see me now. Brice sighed, looking at the surrounding crowd. He didn't always like parades, and it was still mostly true. He couldn't find enjoyment from floats or marching bands or seeing the fire apparatus he looked at all the time. People stood about cheering and screaming for no real reason, letting their children eat candy thrown by strangers, maybe a quarter of them already drunk at midday.

Bellingham was grinning beside him. He obviously enjoyed this spectacle, but that was Bellingham. People liked him because he reminded them of just a regular person. Brice was a bit aloof and hard to understand sometimes, couldn't really relate to people, but Bellingham could. He made people feel calm and at ease, used words they could understand. Messy and unorthodox he may be, but no one could deny he was also patient and kind and hardworking… and smart. First glances didn't often instill confidence in his mental powers, but Bellingham had passed the paramedic program as well as anyone and knew what he was doing. Brice sighed again.

The day was hot and bright. Brice could feel the sweat rolling down his face and chest and back, could feel it pooling, wrinkled his nose slightly. Keeping a clean uniform in this kind of heat was more of a chore than usual with all the sweating they did. I heard Cheche got badly sunburned the other day on a call, was as red as his squad. Brice and Bellingham were standing in the shade at least, but it was so hot that it almost didn't matter. With the temperature being so high, it was really only a matter of time before tempers flared, too.

Squad 16 was called to an unknown incident at a bar called The Emerald Café, which turned out to be a dump of a hole-in-the-wall. Bellingham said, "Probably a fight. Two drunks got into it and bashed each other's heads in. Happens all the time there."

"And how do you know that?"

"Because I been runnin' rescues there longer'n you been in the department, that's how."

Brice pursed his lips but said nothing else. The paramedic program had only been around since 1969, but many of the paramedics had been firemen long before that, including Bellingham.

"Squad 51, respond with Squad 16. Report of a fight, Emerald Café…"

"That does not sound like two drunks simply bashing each other's heads in," Brice commented.

His partner simply shrugged, directing Brice to make a turn. Four squad cars sat outside, lights and sirens blazing. Several bloody patrons were cuffed with zipties and sat on the concrete in front of the bar. Brice could feel the adrenaline starting to pump through his system.

"Hey!" a police officer called from the door, "We need you fellas inside quick! This guy's bleedin' out!"

"Brice, you go," Bellingham told him, "I got the equipment."

The officer beckoned him once more. Brice jogged over and went in behind the officer. The bar reeked of body odor, alcohol, and blood, the stench almost making him stop in his tracks.

"Over here!"

An officer was on the floor by a supine man, holding his thigh, blood spilling through his fingers and onto the floor. Brice immediately ran over and took his place, putting pressure on the artery just above the wound. Hot blood covered his hands and soaked into the knees of his pants. His stomach barely rolled. Bellingham wasn't far behind him, carrying all the equipment they'd need.

"What've we got, kid?" he asked.

"A deep laceration to the inner thigh, likely severing the femoral artery. I need a pressure bandage and a tourniquet," Brice told him, asked the officer, "What happened to him?"

"A big fight broke out in here for one reason or another, and this guy got caught up in it. Someone broke a bottle and cut him. He was so drunk he didn't even realize it until he hit the floor."

Brice pursed his lips and continued to work on the patient's leg while Bellingham called Rampart. The sirens of Squad 51 sounded outside.

"Brice, IV D5W and transport," Bellingham stated.

"You start it. I want to keep an eye on this tourniquet to make sure it won't be too tight. Over here… no, the other arm…"

If the tourniquet is too tight, he loses his leg. If it's too loose, he'll continue to bleed out and die. Brice reached to adjust the tourniquet. Pain exploded through his face and behind his eyes. He let out a cry, falling back and landing hard on his rear. Stars burst in his vision. Warm blood spilled from his nose, filling his mouth with the taste of copper, dripping off his chin. Brice brought his hands up to stem the flow of blood, but someone caught his wrists, a familiar drawl telling him, "Now, don't do that, Brice. Won't do ya no good anyhow. You know that. C'mon…"

He blinked up at Gage, who was smiling kindly at him, then turned to look at his partner and patient. Brice raised his hand, pointing at them, ready to protest, but Gage stopped him again.

"No no no," he said, "You come with me, pal. Bellingham's takin' care of the patient. C'mon, let's go…"

Gage carefully helped Brice to his feet and led him outside, setting him down on the running board of the squad. Blood was still running from his nose. Gage got to work, handing Brice a thick bandage to stem the flow of blood, and gently probed the bridge of his nose, making him wince and flinch.

"Sorry, Brice… Doesn't feel broken, in any case, so that's good. Y'know, we gotta stop meeting like this."

"I don't understand," Brice said, his voice muffled by the bandage and distorted by the swelling.

Gage chuckled softly, told him, "I keep findin' ya hurt, pal. Now, I like to give ya grief, but I don't like seein' ya hurt. That fella in there sure got feisty in a hurry. Had a quick knee. You're lucky your glasses didn't break."

"I s'pose I ab."

He received another soft smile from Gage. I wish I knew why he did this, why he keeps being so nice. No one has ever been this nice to him before, no one but Bellingham. It was different with Bellingham, though, because he was patient and kind by default. Gage was spontaneous and excitable and impatient and sometimes he went off at the mouth. Brice found him grating at first, didn't understand his personality, but he did now. He understood Gage, he thought, understood that under his unrefined exterior was one of the kindest people anyone could hope to meet. I just don't understand why he's so nice to me. Gage wore a soft, crooked smile.

"We're lucky, I suppose. Only one has to go to Rampart is that fella bleedin' from his femoral. Bellingham's goin' with him in the ambulance. I'll drive ya in your squad, that okay?"

Brice simply nodded, hating the distortion in his voice. Gage carefully took Brice's wrists and moved his hands away from his face, squinting at his nose.

"Yeah… Yup, looks like the bleedin' stopped. Ready for Rampart?"

"I think so."

"Alright, lemme go tell Roy. Be right back…"

He was back in a moment, and the two paramedics climbed into Squad 16. Gage was not smiling anymore.

"Is something the matter, Gage?" Brice asked quietly.

"Hmm… what? Yeah, no… not really, no. Why?"

"You seemed to be in good enough spirits before you spoke with DeSoto but not when you returned. I believe the two of you are good friends, so I find it unlikely that you had some sort of fight. Does it have something to do with an earlier run?"

"Guess I can't put anything past ya, huh?" Gage replied, sighed quietly, ran a hand through his brown hair, "Yeah, we had a pretty bad run earlier. Involved a kid. Only-… Only eight years old and tried to kill herself with antidepressants, you believe that? Never knew at eight what suicide was, myself. Roy feels awful about it, though. He's got two kids of his own, after all, can't help but feel different about calls with kids. I just-… I can't believe she wanted to kill herself that young…"

Brice hummed in agreement, looked down, said nothing. His blood covered hands twitched in his lap.

xXxXx

Johnny walked with Brice down the corridor to a treatment room.

"Hello, Johnny. Hello, Brice, what can I- oh, my… What happened, Brice?" Early asked.

"A patient."

"He took a knee to the face, doc. Wanna be sure the nose isn't broken."

"Well, I think I can do that. Just let me have a look… I'm sorry if it hurts, Brice."

Johnny simply stood to the side and watched. Brice was a ghastly mess. Half his face was covered in blood, big splotches of it on his shirt, caked on his hands, soaked in his pants.

"Brice, you're pretty lucky," Early said after a moment, "Your nose doesn't seem to be broken. You're gonna have some pretty spectacular bruising for a week or so, but the soreness will go away soon."

"Thank you, Dr. Early."

Johnny stepped up as Early left, saying, "You oughta get cleaned up, Brice. Ya look like a horror show. Here, lemme help."

"I don't require assistance."

"I want to help, how 'bout that? Just sit…"

He grabbed a clean towel and a bowl of cold water. Brice was fidgeting in his seat slightly, not looking at Johnny, and something occurred to him. He wet the towel, stepped up to Brice, carefully took his chin in his hand. As gently as he could, Johnny swept the damp fabric over Brice's face, cleaning up the dried blood.

"Say, Brice… can I ask you somethin'?"

"I suppose."

His eyes were shut.

"It's just-… well… You didn't really seem fazed by what happened, by gettin' hit in the face. I mean, ya looked hurt, definitely, but not, I dunno, not bothered by it."

"That isn't a question, Gage."

"You know what I mean."

Brice gave a little sigh, explained softly, "My childhood was neither exemplary nor horrible. I wasn't neglected, but my parents didn't particularly know how to care for me and didn't care to figure out how. At school, I was bullied, even by my teachers on occasion. The other children were physical and enjoyed hitting me, so I'm actually used to bleeding from the nose. If you would like me to be entirely truthful, some of the other firemen in the department haven't been too kind to me, either."

Johnny's hand stilled, the towel resting on Brice's chin. If he was being perfectly honest with himself, he knew Brice had been bullied as a kid. Kids were horrible and quickly ostracized anyone who was different. He hadn't expected adults to be worse. I really can't believe anyone in the department would hurt him. Johnny was no angel, had said his fair share of meanness aimed at Brice, but he would never dream of harming him.

"Who was it?"

"Who was what?"

"In the department. Who hurt you? I wanna know."

Brice was irritating, but he didn't deserve to be abused by the men he was supposed to trust. The younger man shook his head, saying, "No. I don't want any more trouble. It's over. It's all in the past."

"It's bullshit," Johnny told him, resuming his gentle ministrations, "You're supposed to be able to trust your fellow firemen, shouldn't be afraid of 'em. They're grown men. They oughta now better."

They both fell quiet, Johnny carefully cleaning the blood off Brice's face, something rolling in his gut that felt like anger. Had anyone ever shown this young man any type of affection at all? Had he ever been touched in a way that was pleasant and gentle rather than hurtful? I grew up an orphan, but I grew up loved by the family I had left. He couldn't imagine what Brice must have gone through as a child, what he went through now as an adult. A sudden and cold realization washed over him, and he thought he understood now why a child would know about suicide. He clenched his jaw, anger roiling up inside him again. It just ain't right.

"Gage… Gage?... John?"

He finally looked up, blinking, almost confused. Brice had never used his given name before, never used anyone's given name. Johnny, without even realizing it, had finished cleaning Brice's face and had started on his hands.

"Umm-… shit, I'm sorry, Brice. I don't- I just- I wasn't even-"

"Thank you, John."

He looked up into the round face, the bright eyes, the big glasses. He heard the unspoken words following the thanks. Thank you for helping me. Thank you for being patient. Thank you for your kindness and gentleness and righteous anger. It was all there. Johnny smiled at him.

"You are very welcome, Brice."

Bellingham came in shortly after, smiling broadly, asking, "Everything okay, kid? Nothin' broken?"

"No, nothing broken."

"Well, that's good. I was worried about you, y'know? Ya looked like a guy in a horror movie or some shit, you were covered in so much blood," the big paramedic said, stepping up close to Brice, gripping one of his shoulders in a thick hand.

Brice offered him the merest smile, told him, "Gage took excellent care of me. I'm feeling fine, Bob, really…"

Johnny left them to it, suddenly felt like an intruder on a private moment, and went to find his own partner. Roy and Dixie were standing at the bay station with Morton, who left as Johnny approached. Roy's expression was dark.

"That little girl, Billie… she hasn't woken up yet," he said quietly, "Morton isn't sure she ever will. She's up in ICU."

"Morton's a Debbie Downer. He always expects the worst."

Roy said nothing, only shook his head and walked away. Dixie beckoned Johnny closer and whispered, "Take care of him, Johnny. He's really torn up over this."

"But the kid'll be alright, won't she? Morton's exaggerating again, right?"

"Not this time. Billie took a lot of pills. Chances are more likely she'll die than live at this point."

Johnny's stomach lurched. Dixie reached out and took his arm, whispering, "Take care of yourselves," before she was called away. He watched her go, his stomach rolling uncomfortably, a dull ache starting in his chest.

The rest of the afternoon was busy enough for them to forget. After half-past nine, the crew shuffled in after a grease fire had gotten out of control, all ready for a shower and bed. Johnny and Roy went first, and the phone rang partway through Cap and Mike's. Chet went to pick it up, then called in, "Johnny, Roy, it's for you. It's Morton."

Johnny said, "I'll take it," getting to his feet, trying to ignore the way Roy had blanched at Chet's words.

"Hey, doc, what is it?" he asked, "Is it Billie? Did she wake up?"

"No, Gage," Morton replied, "I'm afraid she didn't. She died about an hour ago. I tried to call but you were out. She just took too many pills too fast. Her body simply couldn't handle it and shut down. I thought you and DeSoto would want to know."

"No, yeah… yeah, thank- uh, thanks, Morton. I really appreciate it. I'll tell Roy… Thanks."

"Of course… and Johnny?"

"Yeah?"

"I really am sorry. I was really hopin' she'd pull through."

"We all were. Thanks again, doc. See ya around."

The dull ache was back in force, his stomach twisting itself into knots. He blinked rapidly, forcing back tears. This couldn't be. How could a child do this to themselves? How could anyone? Chet poked his head in, looked at Johnny, stepped in all the way. His eyes were full of concern and sadness.

"Johnny? Is everything okay?"

"No… no, nothin's okay."

"Is it that girl?"

"She's dead."

Chet made a soft noise, and Johnny swallowed against the lump in his throat. His breath hitched. Chet stepped closer to rest a hand on his bicep, gently rubbing, saying nothing. Johnny stood for a moment to compose himself, to allow himself the momentary comfort.

"I-I gotta tell Roy."

"I know."

He made his way into the dorm, where Roy was still sitting on his bunk, Marco beside him. The lineman got up as Johnny made his way over, giving Johnny's shoulder a squeeze as he passed. Roy's lip was trembling. I don't like this. Roy doesn't cry. I've never seen him cry. Johnny sat beside him, simply said, "Billie died."

Roy sucked in a gasp, covering his mouth with one hand, his tears spilling over. Sharp pain stabbed through Johnny's chest. His partner pulled in a few hiccupping breaths, obviously trying to maintain his composure and obviously failing. He let out a sob, and Johnny draped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him close. They weren't supposed to get involved with patients, weren't supposed to care so much, but how could they not care? How could they not care about the children and parents and sick and wounded? They tell us to be strong, to pretend we don't care, to be aloof and professional. They don't tell us how. Roy let out another sob.

Johnny didn't know how to be strong just now. He shifted, wrapped his arms around Roy, held him tight, gently cradled the back of his head. Roy's body shivered and shuddered against his. Forcing down his own grief for the time being, he held his sobbing friend, stroking his hair and rubbing his back and shushing him quietly. He whispered, "You-You're okay, Roy. I got ya. Just go 'head and get it all out. I got ya, pal… Just get it all out, Roy… get it all out…"

He offered no platitudes on life after death or better places or new life. He barely believed any of that himself, knew he couldn't make Roy believe it, not when Roy had been raised Catholic where suicide was a mortal sin. The sound of Roy crying pierced his heart. It was just so sad and broken and horrible. Johnny never wanted to hear it again. He closed his eyes against his tears and ducked his head, lips close to Roy's ear, his soothing whispers slipping into the language of his Seminole ancestors, the Mvskoke flowing from his tongue with practiced ease. He only wanted his friend's grief to end. He couldn't bear to hear Roy cry anymore.

After a few minutes, Roy stopped sobbing and pulled away slightly, looking at Johnny. His cheeks were wet and splotched with color, his eyes glassy, the cloudy-sky irises rimmed in angry red. He was still shaking finely, sniffed loudly, whispered hoarsely, "It-It isn't fair."

"No… No, it isn't."

Roy carefully got to his feet and slumped into the latrine. Johnny watched him go, the ache still heavy in his chest. Slowly, he rose and left the dorm, heading out to the little parking lot, unable to be inside any longer. It felt cloying and heavy and suffocating. He needed to be outside, needed to feel the wind and see what stars he could and smell grass and leaves, needed to see the world was still moving.

"Johnny?"

Chet stood in front of him in his t-shirt and bunker pants, his suspenders loose enough that the pants were slung low on his hips. He approached Johnny and the Rover slowly, climbed up to sit next to him on the tailgate, pressing close in spite of the warm night. It felt nice, comforting, solid. He leaned into Chet. A warm, strong arm slid around his back to hold him there. Johnny felt the tears return to his eyes, but he didn't try to stop them, simply allowed them to spill down his cheeks. His breath hitched.

"Why did this happen?" Johnny whimpered, "She was just a-a kid, Chet-…"

"I wish I had an answer, babe… I really do. God, Johnny, I'm so sorry… so sorry…"

Johnny felt his expression crumple, couldn't stop the sob from escaping his lips, brought a hand up to cover his mouth. Chet's hand came up to cradle his head, gently keeping it pressed to his shoulder, fingers stroking along his scalp. His chest ached violently, something in his deeply wounded by this experience, something that might never fully heal. At least Chet knows. He understands.

"You'll be okay," Chet told him softly, "Maybe not tomorrow and maybe not the next day… but you will be okay. I know. I promise."

Johnny sniffed again, giving a weak sob and pressing impossibly closer into Chet's side, soaking in the love and comfort of his friend.

xXxXx

Marco sat on his bunk, almost numb, no longer having the energy to get his shower. Roy was in the latrine now, anyway, and Marco was loath to interrupt the man's grief. If he didn't wanna be alone, he would've stayed with Johnny. Johnny, too, had retreated from the dorm, with Chet following, and Cap had ventured into the office. Marco sighed softly. It seemed no one would be sleeping much tonight.

He jumped as the bunk dipped under added weight, looked to his right, automatically leaned into the warmth of his lover. Mike's arm wrapped around his shoulder, holding him close. Normally, Marco would balk a bit at such a display of their affection in the station, but under the circumstances, he was sure no one would even blink. It's just so hard to believe… He had thought of killing himself after seeing his brother and younger sister die, but when it came time to do it, he couldn't go through with it. He knew how it would hurt the ones he'd leave behind. I guess maybe an eight-year-old can't think that far ahead.

Fingers began to play in Marco's hair, rubbing against his scalp, toying with the strands at the nape of his neck. Marco sighed quietly and nestled further against Mike. It was strange to think such an awful thing had happened to a family today, and no one would take any notice of it in the world at large. There wouldn't be a story about it in tomorrow's paper, no anchor lamenting a little girl's death on the news. Someone else should know. Someone other than the family and the people like us… He closed his eyes as Mike continued his ministrations.

"Voy a llamar a mi madre mañana," Marco whispered to no one, "Me gustaría pedir que ella rece por la niñita… Rezos a Santa Felicidad de Roma…"

"Hmm? What was that, babe?" Mike asked.

"Nothing… Nothing, I just need to call Mama tomorrow."

"Okay, I'll remind you in the morning," Mike replied, daring a quick kiss to Marco's temple, "Hey, why don't you get ready for bed. I'm gonna see if I can corral everyone and try to get them to rest. It's only a matter of time now before we get another run, and I think it'll best for everyone if we've had at least a little rest. We've been lucky up 'til now. C'mon, go to bed…"

Marco hummed in agreement and went to do as he was bid. It's been too quiet for us. Other stations have been called out. I've heard it. He sent silent thanks to whatever higher power granted it them, granted them time enough to grieve, especially Roy and Johnny. Mike had only just gathered everyone into the dorm when the tones dropped for an unknown type rescue at a bar. Everyone got together and hurried to the apparatus, ready for the work to take their mind off the sadness.