Alrighty... Here's the Danny whump that I promised. And before the weekend, too...
Just FYI - the last few chapters have been un-beta'ed so any and all mistakes are my own. I do try to catch them all in my last check before posting but some do manage to slip through the net.
Those of you who have said you'd be interesting in reading my sister story - the first chapter will be posted once the next one (possibly two) chapter(s) of this story are up. I don't want to spoil to fun.
Thanks again to everyone who followed, favourited and reviewed. I really appreciate it. :)
The blow leaves me seeing stars. I fall backwards and land butt-first in the gutter, clutching my throbbing cheek in shock, while the guy that hit me scrambles to his feet and takes off running along North Beretania. Cackling maniacally, he dodges in and out of the cars parked along the street and then disappears around the corner onto Maunakea street with the HPD officer hot on his heels.
"Chloe!" Heather drops to her knees beside me as I carefully push myself up to sit. "Shit. Are you okay?" I think I must nod because she mutters 'okay, good' and goes to peel my hand away from my face. "Let me see."
I let her because I'm not sure what else to do; no-one's ever hit me in the face before, unless you count the time when Jack and I were kids and he threw a My Little Pony Fluttershy toy at me, and the pointy bit of its wing poked me in the eye. She gently presses on the skin around my eye and then waits while I blink back tears. "Can you see okay? How many fingers am I holding up?"
"Yeah. Three." I grimace and awkwardly push myself to my feet, my skinned palm stinging when it comes into contact with the pavement through my glove. I shove it in my pocket and wipe my grazed hand on my trouser leg as I follow Heather back to the rig.
"Sit down," Heather tells me when I climb into the back. She points at the stretcher and then turns away to pull an ice pack from one of the lockers, and an Incident Report form from the stack of drawers by the side door. Handing me the ice and wipes, she sinks down onto the stretcher beside me to fill out the form. "Sweeting has two E's, right?"
I nod and hold the ice to my face, watching as she writes my last name in the box headed 'About the person involved' and then scribbles Care of Emergency Services Department, Koapaka Street, Honolulu where the form asks for my address. Under 'Provide a brief description of the incident' she writes assault on a crewmember and treated for minor bruising and swelling.
"Sign and date it at the bottom," she instructs, passing me the form and her pen. Nodding towards my eye, she asks, "How does it feel?"
It's sore. My cheekbone is throbbing and my eye is starting to swell. The ice is helping, though, and I'll get some painkillers slash anti-inflamatories out of the drugs box in a minute to help stave off the red-hot ache that's radiating across the entire right side of my face.
Leaving the icepack sitting on the stretcher, I scribble my name and the date at the bottom of the Incident Report and hand it back to Heather, who drops it in the drawer with Noah's Patient Refusal form. Paperwork complete, I hunt through my kit bag for the Motrin that I keep in with the Aspirin and Tylenol tabs, and pop two out of the foil sleeve. I swallow them dry before shoving my green bag back into its locker.
There's a quiet knock on the back door as we're tidying up and I lob my now-warm icepack in the trash container before opening the door to find the officer who ran off in pursuit of the runaway addict standing outside. He's breathing hard and wipes the sweat from his forehead with his shirtsleeve before climbing up onto the back step.
"Did you get him?" Heather barely looks up from where she's noting the Motrin on the drugs log but her tone is enough to make the officer quickly rethink his earlier attitude.
"Yes, Ma'am. We did," he tells her. Turning to me, he asks, "Do you want to press charges?"
If I'm honest, I hadn't really thought about it. I glance over at Heather but she just shrugs and goes back to filling in the drugs log. Part of me is wondering if it's even worth the bother of filling out the paperwork because the guy's a homeless drug addict – chances are he'll disappear before the case goes before a judge, if it even goes that far on the original assault charge– but then my cheek gives a particularly pain throb and I know what my answer to the officer's question is going to be.
"Yes, I do."
H50*H50*H50
A new job pops up on the interface in the cab just as we're passing junction twenty-five on the Lunalilo Freeway, heading South East towards Diamond Head. We're back on the road after what has got to be the quickest lunch break we've ever had. And when I say 'lunch break', I mean the six minutes it took me to scarf down some more Motrin and a gas station hotdog.
"We're going to Waahila Ridge," Heather says, accepting the job. "Thirty-six year old male. Query head injury, query loss of consciousness." Leaning forwards to flip on the lights and sirens, she points to the next turn off and says, "Come off here. We can take 5th onto Waialae."
The road we're following to the recreation area starts to climb almost as soon as we leave Waialea Avenue. The houses peter out as we travel higher until the only things that surround us are trees. A patrol car is waiting for us at a fork in the road a little further up and the officer motions for me to roll down my window when we pull up beside him.
"Once you're through the trees, take the second road on the left and follow the service trail until you hit the clearing. They're waiting for you there. Someone will show you where to go," he says, pointing us towards the bank of trees ahead.
The winding service trail is barely wide enough for the rig; the lower branches of the trees on either side of us scrape along the bus's sides as we drive and I wince, imagining the look on our watch commander's face when he sees the damaged paintwork.
"There." Heather points ahead to where the trees have been stained blue by the lights of the gathered emergency vehicles. Unclipping her safety belt, she perches on the edge of her seat while I guide the rig into a space between a marked patrol car and a red Chevy Cruz. As soon as I shift into park, she's out and sliding open the side door to grab her kit bag. She holds mine out to me when I climb in beside her and I swing it up onto my shoulder and pull on a pair of gloves before jumping back out in the clearing.
"This way, guys," a uniform says, gesturing towards a gap in the trees behind us. It's just about wide enough for a car to get through but the floor is littered with leaves and exposed roots, which rise from the ground like gnarled fingers, making it tricky to navigate. We follow him about twenty-five meters off the trail into another, smaller clearing. There's a Traverse sitting at one side with its front bumped hanging off and it's grille lights flashing. At the other is a dilapidated wooden hut, complete with rickety porch, that I'm guessing used to be a ranger's station or supply shed.
Our patient is sitting on the top step of the porch with his head in his hands while an older Asian man crouches beside him and I recognize the blond hair almost instantly despite the addition of a little blood and what I'm guessing is plant matter from the forest floor. The other man is a little trickier to place so it's not until I get a little closer that his dark hair and loud printed shirt click.
"Lieutenant Kelly?"
He glances up when I address him and then pats Danny's shoulder. "EMS are here, brah." Standing, he motions for us to follow him and then leads us a few feet away before he gestures to Danny and says, "He got clipped by a local dealer's getaway car, went down pretty hard."
Heather asks, "Did he lose consciousness at all?" and Kelly nods, and runs a hand up over his face.
"Yeah. He was out for about a minute."
We head back over to Danny armed this new information - as much as we're going to get, apparently - while Lieutenant Kelly walks off in the direction of the service trail with his phone pressed to his ear. Since both Steve and Kono are noticeable absent, I'm guessing he's calling to update them on Danny's condition. Or maybe it's the other way round and they're calling him to say they've caught the guy that ran Danny over?
"Detective?" Heather crouches down and gently tugs one of Danny's hands away from his face. "Detective, it's Heather. Can you tell me what happened?"
Danny squints up at her blearily and mumbles, "I dunno. My head hurts."
The pressure cuff is wrapped around the detective's bicep and then Heather unhooks her stethoscope from around her neck. "Can you remember hitting your head at all?" she asks, pressing the bell to the skin just above the crook of Danny's elbow but underneath the inflated cuff.
"I'm not sure," Danny decides after a few seconds. "Don't remember."
"That's okay," I tell him, patting his arm kindly as Heather removes her stethoscope and hooks it back over her neck.
"Pressure's fine," she says, noting the numbers down on the back on her glove. "Can you take over? I'm going to go grab the stretcher."
I nod and stand to swap places with her. Crouching down where Heather was, I pull the pressure cuff from around the detective's arm and ask, "How're you doing, Danny? Still with me?"
"Yeah," he mutters, bringing a shaky hand up to rub at his forehead. "Feel sick, though."
"That can happen with concussions. Try breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth – that should help. I can get you some Compazine if it doesn't." Pulling my penlight from my pocket, I reach for his chin. "I'm going to check your pupils - look straight ahead for me."
Danny's right pupil is completely blown; there's only a sliver of blue visible when I check to see if his pupil are equal and it doesn't react when I shine my penlight in it. I'm not really surprised because Danny's showing a few of the symptoms of a concussion – slurred speech, unequal pupils, a massive goose egg on his forehead – but if I'm honest, the thing that's got me the most concerned is how lethargic he is. The Danny Williams I know is constantly in motion. The man finds it almost physically impossible to talk without using his hands so it's a little disconcerting to see him moving like he's stuck in a vat of treacle: slowly and overly deliberate.
"God…" Danny moans and sucks in a breath as I click off my penlight and shove it back in my pocket. Leaning forwards, he swallows hard and then gags.
"Deep breaths," I remind him, patting his back awkwardly as he coughs and splutters into the dirt. "Try to relax. Tensing is only going to make it worse."
"Can't," he mutters breathlessly in between heaves. "Gonna ruin my streak."
"Streak?" I glance over my shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of Heather's blue and navy uniform through the trees. She's been gone a while – I guess maneuvering the stretcher across the rutted forest – or should that be jungle? – floor is proving harder than she anticipated.
Oh no, wait… There she is. And she's drafted in two of the uniforms to help her carry the gurney. Smart thinking. Maybe they'll stick around and help us on the way back, too.
Danny still hasn't answered my question by the time I turn back so I ask "Danny, what streak?" again as I get started rechecking his vitals, pressing my fingertips into the underside of his wrist while he mutters something about May '96 under his breath and swallows convulsively between sentences. When I go to recheck his pupils, he moans and pulls away.
"Ugh…" Pitching forwards, he gags and retches into the dirt between his feet. There's not a lot I can do other than wait for him to finish throwing up. It's a good thing I have a strong stomach because Danny pukes the way he talks – loudly. Sighing, I concentrate on rubbing soothing circles over his lower back while I wait for Heather and her helpers to set the gurney down beside us.
"Do you need a hand back?" the taller of the two uniform asks, watching Heather lock the metal frame into position and unfasten the bright orange safety straps. She nods and says, "Give us a minute to get the detective settled and I'll tell you what I need you to do."
"Okay, Danny, let's get you lying down." Climbing to my feet, I brush the dirt from the back of my pants and between us, Heather and I manage to haul the detective to his feet. Keeping him there long enough to navigate the three steps between the porch and the gurney proves to be a little trickier, though. We stagger under his weight when he sways precariously at the top of the steps and I end up calling out to the two uniforms as we fight to stop him falling forwards.
"Guys, a little help here, please?"
Thankfully, they both come running and duck under Danny's arms just in time to stop us dropping him. It sounds pretty bad, but I have actually dropped a patient before and, just between you and me, the looks I got from the people watching made me like an incompetent idiot. I mean, never mind the fact that I saved the guys life (he collapsed onto a bar stool mid-heart attack and the way he was slumped effectively cut off his air supply) by opening his airway so he could breathe and then made sure he didn't choke on his own vomit – everyone was more concerned that he went down like a rock when I tried to lift him out of the chair. Now, in my defense, he was a dead weight and surely it's better to have a sore butt than to be dead. Right?
The uniforms lift Danny down the steps and then help ease him down onto the stretcher. Heather kneels down to secure the safety straps around his waist and his legs while I grab the kit bags and swing my own up onto my back. Heather does the same with hers and then starts positioning the two officers either side of Danny's head. We do the same at his feet and then Heather says, "Okay, up on three. One, two, three…"
Together, we lift the stretcher up off the ground and Heather and I lead the way through the trees, trying not the bump it with our legs as we walk. It's harder than it looks; several times, I catch my foot on an exposed root and stumble, knocking the stretcher with my thigh. It's a relief when the ground turns smooth beneath our feet and we start to climb the slight incline into the clearing where we left the rig.
It looks more like a parking lot than a forest park now; there are patrol cars parked two deep (they've left us enough room to get out this time) and a white van with 'Hononlulu Police Department Scientific Investigation Section' on the side is sitting off to our right with both of it's door lying wide open. Its occupants - the crime scene investigators - nod as they pass us on their way to the spot where Danny got hurt.
I can hear the wail of yet another siren drawing closer as we navigate our way between the parked cars and then, about thirty second later and in true SuperSEAL style, Steve's blue Silverado truck comes skidding around the corner, grille lights flashing. He slides to a halt beside the white CSI van and then both he and Kono are out of their seats and running.
"Hey, grab the door, would you?" Heather calls out to them as we reach the red Cruz that's parked beside us. Kono drops to a halt when she draws level with her cousin but Steve keeps going, sprinting round to the back of the rig to pull open the back door as we carefully lower Danny to the floor. I jump into the back of the bus to lower the ramp while Heather busies herself with the catches on the stretcher frame once more.
"Thanks for your help, guys," she says to the two uniforms as we raise the stretcher to waist height and lock it in place again. "We're good from here."
Steve watches from the sidelines as we raise the head of the stretcher and rolls Danny up the ramp into the back of the bus; the gurney frame folds under the bed when it slides onto the rollers that are built into the ambulance's floor and then it locks into place with a quiet snick. While I shove the kit bags back into their lockers, Heather smoothes a light blue blanket over Danny's legs and then sets an emesis basin on the bed by his hand. "Just in case," she tells him before settling herself down on the bench seat across from him to write up the handover sheet for when we get to the ER.
Steve's hovering impatiently just outside the doors when I turn back from storing our kit away and he looks up at me with concern etched on his face when I appear in the doorway.
"He's okay. You can go in and sit with him if you want," I say as I lift the ramp and jump down next to him. I'm expecting the former SEAL to leap up the steps in a single bound but his eyes find the purple-red mark high on my cheek and he takes a step towards me instead.
"What happened to your face?"
I raise a hand to my cheek, suddenly conscious of the bruising around my eye. I noticed it starting to come out when I nipped into the bathroom at the gas station and I ended up cursing like a trooper when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the sink.
"It's nothing. A patient got a little rowdy, that's all. I'm fine," I mutter, feeling my face go hot under the scrutiny of Steve's gaze. "I better get on. Heather will pull one of the chairs down for you."
"Chloe, wait…" Steve wraps a hand around my wrist as I turn to leave. "Did you at least report them to HPD? Even if you don't want to file charges, they can make a note of the assault on the person's record."
"HPD was there – the guy was already under arrest for attacking a tourist when he hit me." Tugging my arm out of Steve's grip, I say, "Look, Steve, I appreciate the concern, but I'm fine - my eye doesn't even hurt anymore. I just want to finish my shift so I can go home, scrub the smell of baby sick out of my hair and my shirt, and forget today ever happened."
Ah, babies… Adorable little puke machines with legs. And yes, that may sound a little cynical but I spent almost an hour and a half covered in sick this morning after Mommy's Little Angel projectile upchucked all over my shirt. By the time we took Mom and little Seth to Kapi'olani Women's and Children's Hospital and then drove back to the depot, it had soaked right through into my bra and I ended up having to squeeze myself into one of Heather's size two crop tops because I'd forgotten to replace the spare I usually keep in my locker. I got stuck trying to pull it down over my chest and had to be rescued by Jill, one of the quick response medics.
Whoever said the life of a paramedic was glamorous lied. I find it kind of funny now because pretty much everybody I talked to before starting this job told me how exciting it was, how every day was different and that you never knew what you were going to find when you pulled up to a scene. Not one person mentioned being puked on or bled all over or smacked in the face. Not one.
Surprisingly, Steve grimaces when I mention having to wash the vomit out of my hair.
I mean, the idea of having to scrub someone else's stomach contents out of your clothes isn't exactly a pleasant one but I would have thought that it paled in comparison to some of the things he would have seen as a SEAL on active duty. Part of me is wondering if it's because he feels sorry for me – getting puked on and punched on the same day tends to do that – but for all I know he could just be squeamish.
Rubbing a hand up over my face – making sure to avoid the bruises – I gesture toward the open door and say, "You better get in there if you want to see Danny before we leave. No, wait, let me guess…" I hold my hand up when he opens his mouth to interrupt. "You're coming with us."
I guess it's one of the unwritten rules of having a partner: When your partner is injured, you ride with them to the hospital whether the EMTs want you to or not because it's your job to watch their six.
"Heather will tell you where to sit," I say, waiting until he's pulled himself up into the back of the rig before I step forwards to close the back door behind him.
Sliding in behind the wheel, I start the engine and fasten my safety belt before turning in my seat to look through the small window behind me. "Ready?" I ask, shifting into gear. When Heather gives me the thumbs up, I ease the rig across the clearing and onto the service trail, and follow the brake lights of a retreating patrol car back through the trees towards the road.
"You okay, man?" I hear Steve ask, as I turn right onto Peter Street and follow the sweeping curve down into the Palolo Valley towards Honolulu.
"Feels like my brain's leaking out my ears," is Danny's surprisingly eloquent reply.
"I can gove you some Tylenol to take the edge off," Heather offers. The metallic click that comes next tells me she's unclipped her seatbelt to rummage through the kit bags for the over-the-counter painkillers. If it doesn't make a dent in Danny's pain, then the ER doc will prescribe him something stronger, such as Percocet or Demerol.
"How's the nausea?" my partner asks, securing the locker door above Danny's head. "Still there?" I'm guessing the answer is yes because she continues, "Okay, let's see how you get on with the Tylenol just now and if the nausea doesn't improve, we'll get some Phenergan on board."
Heather settles herself back on the bench seat and there's silence for a while as I guide the rig down the curving streets towards the H1 and the Queens Medical Center. I've just joined the freeway when Steve says, "Hey, Danno?"
"Yeah?"
"Nausea?"
"Yeah…"
There's a pause and then Steve asks, "So, your streak?"
"Dead as a Dodo. Just like that's driver's going to be when I find him."