Thank you so much to everyone who's taken the time to favourite, follow and review - I really appreciate it. :)
I've decided to split this chapter into two parts since a) it's not quite finished yet and b) it's already sitting at a little under 6000 words. I *promise* I will have the second part finished and posted by the end of next week.
Those of you who asked for more whump and some Danny comfort - ask and ye shall receive... Kind of (some of it's in the next part).
Okay, so that said, please take everything I've written regarding medical/ambulance staff/police procedures with a pinch of salt. I'm pretty much making it all up as I go along.
When I get home from work, the first thing I do is turn the TV on. Then I rummage through the kitchen cupboards for a packet of instant noodles, to which I add chicken, broccoli, bean sprouts and carrots, and voila! Dinner. I carry my bowl over to the living room and sink down onto the couch, sighing when the squashy oversized cushion molds to my body. I imagine this is what sitting on a big fluffy cloud is like: Sheer. Unadulterated. Bliss.
The TV is tuned to one of the local news channels and I fumble for the remote to turn up the sound when the screen cuts to a photography of a little girl with long chestnut curls, rosy cheeks and sparkling blue eyes. She looks like she belongs on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel with Raphael's cherubs.
The news anchor is saying:
'Six year old Mackenzie Adams was abducted from the home she shared with her mother yesterday morning. This afternoon, the body of a child was recovered from a property in the A'eia Heights area and a man arrested in connection with the discovery. Sources have named the man as twenty-eight year old Jason Saunders, who, until recently, was in a long-term relationship with Mackenzie's mother. Lieutenant Commander Steve McGarrett, whose Five-0 task force lead the search for Mackenzie, provided us with this update.'
The picture jumps from the new studio to the grounds of the Iolani Palace. Someone has set up a podium with a microphone in front of the arched entrance and there's a crowd of journalists gathered around it, camera lenses and notebooks poised, waiting. I lean forwards in my seat when Steve walks through the tall wooden doors accompanied by Danny and Duke Lukela. The two men stand off to one side as Steve steps up to the microphone.
"I can confirm that the body recovered from a property in the A'eia Heights area has been identified as that of Mackenzie Adams. Mackenzie's mother has asked for privacy as she tries to come to terms with her loss. On behalf of the Governor's office and the Honolulu Police Department, I would like to extend my sympathies to her and Mackenzie's family."
He pauses to clear his throat before continuing:
"A twenty-eight year old male found in a bedroom of the property with a self-inflicted gunshot wound was transported to the King's Medical Centre but later succumbed to his injuries. As a result, we are not looking for anyone else in connection with Mackenzie's death at this time. Sargent Lukela will take your questions."
The crowd erupts and the cameraman zooms in on Steve as he turns on his heel. Danny falls into step with him as they head back into the palace and he lays a hand on Steve's shoulder just before the camera pans back to Duke, who has stepped up to the mic and is addressing the crowd.
I click the TV off before the first question can be asked and let myself fall back against the sofa. My stomach twists and I push my noodles aside untouched. The unusual tension between Danny and Steve yesterday finally makes sense – they were waiting to hear if Jason Saunders had survived.
Wiping away a tear for poor little Mackenzie, I head into the kitchen and start hunting for some Tupperware to put my leftovers in. I look in between saucepan lids and instruction manuals, and eventually find what I'm looking for in the dishwasher. Then I turn my attention to looking for a matching lid, which I find hidden amongst the cookie cutters Katie bought on a whim last Christmas.
But instead of cleaning up, which is what I had intended to do, I find myself running my fingers over the glittery protective cover on my phone. I can't get the image of Danny's hand on Steve's shoulder out of my head. The case obviously got to them - how could it not? Their rumpled clothes and bloodshot eyes at the hospital yesterday and at the press conference today are testament to how hard they worked to find that little girl.
Picking up my phone, I scroll through my contacts and let my thumb hovers over the phone icon next to Steve's number. I kind of want to call and see how he's holding up because that's what he did for me all those months ago when I found myself feeling like I was in over my head. But at the same time, I'm hesitating because trying to get Steve to open up about not being able to save Mackenzie is probably going to be about as easy as getting blood from a stone. But it's worth a try, right?
Taking a deep breath, I jab at the call button and put the phone to my ear. It rings once, twice… six times and then goes through to voicemail but then Steve answers with a clipped sounding 'McGarrett' just as I'm about to hang up.
"Uh, hey. I heard what happened. I'm sorry…"
I end up anchoring my phone between my ear and my shoulder so I can scrape my leftovers into that Tupperware container I found and put the container in the fridge. Nudging the fridge door shut with my hip, I push myself up onto the counter. I don't know what it is about this spot but it's leant itself to some of the more difficult conversations I've had since I moved out here. I was sitting right here in this spot when Mom told me she'd found a lump in her breast and was waiting to get it checked out. Same again, when Jack, my brother, told me he'd eloped with a girl he'd met online and that I was going to be an Auntie in the fall. The most uncomfortable conversation was probably the one I had with Eddie's parents because he'd conveniently 'forgotten' to tell them we'd broken up. Let's just say I called their son more than a few choice names before hanging up. Oops…
Steve's silent on the other end of the line but I can hear the clink of glass on glass and assume he's attempting to drown the last 36 hours in a bottle of Jack D. I don't blame him – I did the same thing the last time something at work got to me. I say last time but it was actually the first – the night little Sadie's mom died. My liver is probably still recovering from the epic Tequila binge I subjected it to.
I hear Katie's key turning in the lock and wave at her when she opens the door. Turning back to my phone, I twirl a loose strand of hair around my finger and ask, "Are you okay?"
Katie shoots me a curious look when she gets close enough to hear what I'm saying but when I frown and shake my head at her, she shrugs and turns to dump her bag on one of the stools at the breakfast bar. Reaching into the fridge, she hands me a bottle of water and sets a second down next to the cooker. She hums under her breath as she flip on one of the burners and breezes past me to grab a clean bowl from the dishwasher, and it's almost enough to distract me from the silence that Steve is yet to break.
Almost, but not quite.
"Hey, are you still there? Steve?" I pull my phone away from my ear to check we haven't been disconnected but no, the numbers at the top of the screen are still flickering away, counting the seconds since I made the some-what spur of the moment decision to call. He hasn't hung up on me. Yet.
When I mention Steve's name, Katie looks up sharply from where she's standing at the stove reheating her half of my chicken noodle creation. I shake my head and mouth 'later' at her, which earns me a threatening jab from the spatula she's holding. The look she gives me tells me I won't be going anywhere until I tell her everything, last night's dalliance with Eddie Ray included.
"I'm fine."
Steve's voice is flat when he answers and I wonder if I've maybe crossed a line by calling. I mean, we're friends but Steve is a grown man and a Navy Seal, to boot; he doesn't need me to tell him that drinking himself into oblivion isn't going to do a damn thing to bring that little girl back.
"Right. Well, I just wanted to make sure. I guess I'll see you around," I say somewhat awkwardly, watching Katie decant food into her bowl. She slides onto the counter beside me, shoulder to shoulder, her thigh pressing against mine. Sighing, I hang up on Steve and lay my head on Katie's shoulder.
"Want to talk about it?" she asks around a mouthful of noodles. "We could have a couple of glasses of wine while you catch me up on everything. I feel like I haven't seen you in days."
I roll my eyes and sit up. "You saw me last night," I remind her, jumping down off the counter. "You tried to make me wear a dress and five-inch heels to a sports bar, remember?"
Katie shrugs. "I still maintain they were a better choice than skinny jeans and your ratty old Chuck Taylors. The whole point of the exercise was to get you laid, after all. Owww!" Laughing, she rubs at the spot above her knee where I've just smacked her with a wooden spoon. "Hey, I was helping!"
"Is that what you're calling it?"
"Yes." Sliding down , Katie pulls two wine glasses from the cupboard behind her and decants a healthy slug of red from the open bottle next to the fridge in each before pushing one at me. "Okay, now spill," she orders. "I want to hear everything, starting with who, if any, has a cute, single brother."
H50*H50*H50
"I still can't believe you brought that… Asshole… back here," Katie mutters, massaging her forehead with the tips of her fingers. She's hungover, thanks to last night's 'glass' of wine – hers had somehow turned into a bottle by the time we hauled ourselves off the couch just after midnight – and slumped over the breakfast bar with her head in her hands. She sounds absolutely wretched and I can't help but chuckle when she groans dramatically and sinks down further in her chair. I stuck to one glass, not willing to risk being late for work two days in a row.
"Kill me now," Katie moans, flopping down onto the countertop. "I swear to God, I am never drinking again."
That makes me snort. "You say that now, but we both know it's not true." When she glares at me – albeit weakly – I shrug and steal a sip of her coffee. "As soon as Friday rolls around, you'll be opening another bottle and – " Katie's shakily pushed herself upright and is halfway out of her seat. "Where are you going?"
"Gonna be sick." She half staggers, half runs along the hall with a hand clamped over her mouth and I stare at the back of her hand until she disappears into the small bathroom we share. The sound of retching fills the air and I sigh, and go to fill a glass with water from the cold tap, which I take with me when I slip into the bathroom to kneel beside her. My suggestion that she eat something greasy and drink a can of full fat Coke goes down like a lead balloon; Katie heaves and grumbles 'I hate you' into the toilet bowl. Any other day she'd be dragging me to Kamekona's shrimp truck.
"Go to work. Leave me to die in peace," she mutters, resting her forehead on the seat of the toilet when the loco-moco-induced bout of puking is over. She looks so pathetic that I can't bring myself to say 'I told so'. Instead, I pat her arm and push myself up from where I've been kneeling rubbing her back, and head to the kitchen to grab my ID badge and my keys.
Heather holds up a bright pink envelope when I walk into the break room at the depot. "From Archie's daughter. She flew over from Molokai last night," she explains, watching me over the rim of her coffee cup as I drop into the chair beside her and rip open the envelope to find a thank you card inside. There's a cute little duckling on the front and inside there's a scribbled message that reads Thank you both for the kindness and respect you showed my father yesterday.
"It was nice of her to drop this off," I say, setting the card down in the middle of the table. "Did she say how her dad was doing?"
Heather nods. "Yes, she told Jim that he's doing really well and is hopefully being discharged today. Anyways, you know what Jim's like…"
Jim is the night guard who sits at the front desk from 7pm to 6.30am Monday to Friday. He's 6'4 and built like a tank but, despite looking like he could give a certain Navy Seal a run for his money, he's actually about as scary as a marshmallow and just as fluffy on the inside.
"He promised to personally pass that on," Heather finishes, getting up to rinse her mug in the sink. She sets it down on the draining board to dry and checks her watch, which is usually my cue to move. "It's a little early yet," she says, waving my back into my seat.
"It's fine, I'll go make a start on prep." I still feel bad about being late yesterday. The least I can do is check the drug box and sort a few trach tubes.
Heather climbs into the back of the rig just as I'm finishing up cleaning down the hard surfaces. "What still needs done?" she asks, looking around. I haven't quite managed to get through everything on our to-do list so Heather busies herself testing the defibrillator and making sure there are plenty of disposable razors and wax strips, while I stow the disinfectant spray and paper towels in one of the lockers and move onto checking the rig's lights.
As soon as Heather tells dispatch we're available the interface 'pings' cheerfully two, three, four… five times in succession and the screen starts to fill with information. Heather leans forwards to accept the first job in the list, which is getting longer by the second, and quickly scans the details on the job card.
"Head to Chinatown," she tells me, settling back in her seat without activating the lights or sirens. "North Beretania. A couple of users jumped a tourist. HPD are helping him pick his teeth up out of the gutter as we speak."
"Ouch…" I grimace in sympathy. Glancing at the clock on the dashboard I ask, "Drunk?"
Heather shrugs. "Who knows?"
There's a marked patrol car sitting outside the Chinatown Cultural Plaza Centre and I pull up the curb behind it. One of the officers is standing over two men who are both sporting the drawn features and sallow skin of habitual drug users. Their hands have been cuffed in front of their bodies and I find my gaze being drawn to the purple-gray needle tracks marring the delicate skin on the insides of their elbows. It shouldn't make a difference, the fact that these guys regularly inject themselves with God-knows-what, but if I'm being honest, I'd be lying to you if I told you that it didn't.
The older of the two men openly leers at me when I walk past him with my kit bag and he cackles when I automatically shrink away. The officer standing over him just smirks, choosing to ignore the one-sided exchange in front of him.
"Okay?" Heather asks when I kneel down beside her. The man's behavior and the officer's subsequent attitude has left my heart racing in my chest but I nod 'yes' and pull my pen from my pocket, ready to note our patient's vitals down on the back of my hand. Only, Noah – who's sporting a split lip, bloody nose and the beginnings of an impressive black eye – refuses to let us treat him. I guess he's embarrassed about Bill and Ben over there getting the drop on him. I would be, too, considering both users look like a strong breeze could knock them over.
Heather's attempts at checking Noah's blood pressure are met with enough protest that she ends up tossing the pressure cuff she's holding to the floor and hangs her stethoscope back around her neck with a muttered 'suit yourself, then'.
"If you don't want to get checked out you need to sign this," she informs the California native, pushing a Refusal of Treatment form into his hand. Once it's been signed by Noah, Heather and a witness – in the case, me – Noah's free to stagger over to the patrol car that's waiting to take him back to his hotel and the so-called buddies that left him to wander the streets of Honolulu by himself for most of the night. "Oh, to be young," Heather mutters, shoving her copy of the refusal form into her pocket. She packs the pressure cuff and stethoscope away and stands, swinging her kit back up onto her shoulder. "Okay, let's go, Chloe."
The officer standing over the two handcuffed users steps out to meet us as we walk past on our way back to the rig and he points at the man who'd leered at me.
"That one's complaining about his arm, says my partner – " he gestures to the officer standing a little ways along the pavement, talking into his radio " – roughed him up when he was being cuffed."
Sighing, Heather lets her kit bag slide down over her shoulder. Holding up Noah's refusal form, she tells me, "I'm going to put this in with the rest of the paperwork before I end up losing it. Have them separate those two and maybe double up on your gloves, just to be safe."
I take her advice and pull a second pair of gloves on over the first as the officer waves his partner over and hauls the younger of the two arrestees to his feet. He's surprisingly rough but the young man must realize that complaining isn't going to get him anywhere. "Sit there," the officer tells him, pointing at a spot on the ground by his partner's feet. When the user silently sinks to his knees, he lumbers back over and positions himself on my left, where he can watch as I treat his prisoner.
"My el-bow," the guy says in heavily accented English when I crouch down beside him and ask where it hurts. Glaring, he points at the officer's partner and says, "Dat guy dere, he grab me. S'police bru-tality."
I gently palpate the area around his elbow, feeling for swelling and-or abnormalities. He hisses and quickly snatches his arm away when I press on the inside of the joint.
"Ri' dere. Dats where it hurssss."
There are no obvious injuries when I look and I can't feel anything that could be a cause for concern. Watching the user's weathered face for signs of discomfort, I gently pull on his wrist and get him to straighten his arm.
"Does that hurt?"
He tests it out a few times, bringing his cuffed hands in towards his chest as the officer's radio crackles to life somewhere behind us. I ignore it and focus my attention on how well my patient is moving his arm. It's a bad move on my part because it means I'm not aware of what's going on around me and, unfortunately for me, the user I'm treating uses that to his advantage. Suddenly lashing out, he catches me across the side of my face with his forearm.
So, this whole 'Five-0 from a paramedic's viewpoint' idea was actually inspired another story I started working on a good six months ago. I figured it would be kind of fun to post it as a 'sister fic' so you could see what the gang get up to when Chloe's not around. Don't worry - she does make an appearance and there's plenty of whump, of course. The two stories would intertwine.
So, what do you guys think? Is that something you'd be interested in reading?