So, here it is... the mega whump I promised in the last chapter. I hope it was worth the wait. :)
More whump to come in the next part.
As always, any mistakes are mine and mine alone.
As always, my days off go by far too quickly.
By the time I got home on Monday morning, I had just enough time to take a shower before the air-con guy turned up and I turned the water temperature down until the icy-cold stole the air from my lungs. I lasted less than a minute but it was enough to wake me up and, at the same time, calm me down before I ended up biting someone's head off over something trivial. Once the air-conditioning was declared A-okay, I fell into bed and slept for well over twelve hours, leaving me to spend Tuesday in a kind of not-quite-sure-if-I'm-in-my-own-body-or-now post-migraine haze. It was only when Katie caught me trying pour vinegar over my chicken fried rice that she took pity on me and shoved a cup of strong black coffee under my nose.
Wednesday was spent doing the laundry I'd neglected while on nightshift and catching up with my parents in Illinois (Mom's been referred to an oncologist by her doctor, which is a little worrying, while Daddy's been keeping himself busy converting my old bedroom into a nursery for his first grandbaby), and then it was back to work on Thursday.
Heather and I had one of the quietest shifts in the history of quiet shifts, spending the best part of a quarter of it parked up waiting for a job to come through. She quizzed me on advanced life support protocols and then later, we sat with containers of spicy shrimp on our knees while we familiarized ourselves with the new CPR regs (more chest compressions, less rescue breathing). All in all, it was a pretty uneventful twelve hours.
When I go to sign in for my shift on Friday, Heather's been marked down on the daily log sheet as being off sick and I frown as I scribble my name next to the number ID of the rig I've been assigned, and then take the radio and keys the shift supervisor is holding out to me. "What happens when your partner has called off for the day? Will I get sent out on my own?" I ask Christina, who looks like she could be Melissa McCarthy's older sister.
"No, honey, it's only the EMT Paramedics who get sent out solo," she says, rolling her office chair backwards to grab one of the clipboards from the row pinned to the wall behind her. Running her finger down the list on the top page, she tells me, "You're with Michael Halia today," as I sign the radio log and then push it back across the desk towards her.
"Okay, thanks." Gathering up my things, I clip my keys to my belt loop and my radio to my waistband, and then head for the locker room to change out of my Chuck Taylors. Work boots laced, I check my makeup in the square mirror on the inside of my locker door (mostly concealer because the bruise under my eye has gone from purple-red to a horrible greeny-yellow) and then take a moment to prepare myself for the day ahead before I pull the door open and head out into the hall.
The break room is pretty crowded and I end up leaning against the counter in the small kitchen area until Jill, one of the quick response medics, leaves to start prep. I quickly snag her chair and sip at my cup of coffee as I try to pick my partner out of the assembled medics. It's harder than I thought and I end up ticking three potentials off of my list when they get up and leave without a second glance around the room. Glancing down at my watch, I decide to give Michael another five minutes before I head out into the garage to start prep – God knows I can't afford to piss off my watch commanders by being late but as long as I'm ready to go by the time we're supposed to start taking calls (at or just before seven, because that's when the nightshift clock off) then I should be okay.
The room is almost empty by the time I finish my coffee and my phone rings as I'm washing my cup in the sink. I answer the unknown local number with a quiet 'hello?' as I set the 'he told me I was being delusional – I nearly fell off my unicorn' mug down on the draining board and quickly recognize the voice on the other end of the line as being my partner, who apologizes for ditching me today - her words, not mine.
"Matthew's been up all night with a stomach ache. My darling husband's just started being sick, too, so I've put Matty in our bed with him," Heather tells me around a jaw-cracking yawn as I turn to lean against the counter. "Kalani couldn't get out of the house quick enough when I told her to get in the car to go to school."
"Poor Matty," I sympathize. "And poor Ross. There's obviously a bug of some sort going round."
"Yeah," Heather sighs. "Like I said, I'm sorry to ditch you today, but I don't feel comfortable leaving Ross to look after Matty when he's not well himself."
"Don't apologize. You did what you had to do," I tell her, glancing up when I notice a young-ish guy sauntering into the break room. "Hey, I gotta go. Tell Matty and Ross I hope they feel better and text me if you need anything brought by after work."
"Thanks. I'll call you later," Heather replies before hanging up and I do the same before quickly shoving my phone into my pocket. The young-ish guy is making a beeline towards where I'm standing and I smile at him as I venture, "You must be Michael. Hi, I'm Chloe." He's short and stocky, kind of like Danny, and his warm dark eyes and kind smile make me feel at ease as he hold his hand out to shake mine.
"Call me Mike - the only person who calls me Michael is my mom and only when I've done something to piss her off."
"Okay, noted," I say, pushing myself away from the counter. "Let's go, Mike." I follow him out into the hall and we walk side by side until we reach the door to the garage. Mike holds it open for me like a gentleman and then helps me up into the back of the rig where he divvies up the start-of-day chores up between us; I pull out the drugs box while my new partner checks the defibrillator and then we take turns wiping down the flat surfaces in between trips to the storeroom for Demerol and more IV kits. Thankfully, we finish prep just as my watch beeps to signal a new hour and I breathe a sigh of relief as I head round to the driver's door to start the rig's engine.
Mike follows me and I look at him questioningly when he motions for me to give him the key. "I thought we'd switch things up a bit today," he says, plucking them out of my hand when I narrow my eyes at him. "I'm going to drive. That means you get to be the senior crew member."
"But I only have my Basic qualification. What if something happens and I don't know what to do?"
"Relax, Chloe," my new partner drawls. He winks at me as he turns the key in the ignition. "You'll be fine."
Yeah. Right.
By mid morning, I've treated a broken leg, a possible spinal injury and a heart attach without killing anyone (pretty good, if I do say so myself) but it's like my first day all over again because every time the onboard computer beeps, I get a rush of adrenaline that sends my heart into overdrive. When our next job pops up on the screen, we're waiting to turn left onto Puuloa Road in Moanalua and I lean forwards in my seat to accept it, tugging at my seatbelt when it locks into place and nearly strangles me.
"Head for Luakaha Street in Waimalu," I tell Mike. "HPD are waiting for us."
I flip on the lights and sit back in my seat as Mike guides the bus in and out of the traffic on H201 towards Halawa and then merges onto H1. He takes the exit for Newton Park around four clicks later and after the park we turn left and then left again. Luakaha Street is the second on the right after that.
There's an unmarked patrol car parked across the width of the road to block it off and I roll down my window when the uniformed officer standing next to it motions for us to stop; he points us towards a black Ford Fiesta across the street, saying, "Wait over there behind that car. Someone will come and get you if you're needed."
"What's going on?" Mike asks, leaning over the steering wheel to see around me.
"Hostage situation."
Once we're parked up, Mike leans forwards in his seat to peer nosily down the closed-off road. I have a pretty good view of what's going on from the passenger-side seat and I rest my elbow on the doorsill, and rest my head against my fist as I watch HPD's SWAT team being waved through by the uniform I spoke to; as soon as they're through, the officer starts stringing Police line tape across the road to block it off completely and I watch as the van pulls in to the curb in front of a familiar-looking silver Camaro only to groan, and let my head fall against the window with a quiet 'thunk', when I spot a geared-up Steve jogging along the pavement to meet them.
I haven't spoken to him since I stormed out of his office. He called a couple of times but I couldn't bring myself to answer after the good job jibe that had felt like a knife being twisted in my back; I sent every single one of his calls to voicemail and then deleted the text message that followed without reading it. I had a sneaking suspicion that Katie may have sent a rather pointed (read: bitchy) reply while I was in the bathroom because Steve stopped calling after that.
So yeah, I don't really want to see, let alone have to deal with him right now, but that would probably be a whole lot easier if the man didn't get himself into trouble on an almost daily basis – someone should probably call the Oxford English Dictionary and tell them that the definition of trouble maker has been changed to 'Steve McGarrett'.
"Have you ever been to something like this?" I rub at the sore spot on my forehead as I glance over at Mike, who shakes his head and tells me, "No, but I've patched up Commander McGarrett and his partner a couple of times – those two are like an old married couple, always arguing about something."
"Commander McGarrett could start an argument in an empty room," I mutter snidely, which is met with a bark of laughter from my partner. Grinning, he asks, "I'm guessing there's a story behind that fine example of sarcasm?" and I shrug in reply, and turn back to the window as I tell him, "I just can't be bothered dealing with Super SEAL's macho-stoicism bullshit right now."
"Macho-stoicism bullshit?" Mike questions with a raised eyebrow as I pull my hair out of my ponytail and slip the elastic around my wrist.
Pulling down my sun visor, I flip open the small mirror on the back as I tell him, "It means he's a stubborn jackass who doesn't know when to quit."
"Ah…"
"Yup."
Dividing my hair into three sections, I twist it into a messy braid and then snap the visor back into place above me. Along the street, a small group has gathered around the trunk of the Camaro and I watch as one of the figures – Steve, I think - points to one of the houses on his left. He barks a few orders and then the group disperses; the SWAT officers head across the street while the former SEAL pulls something out of the Chevy's trunk and slots it into his pocket (or maybe it's the loop at the front of his Tac vest, I'm not sure) before he slams the trunk lid shut and jogs across the street. He disappears behind an overgrown hedge about halfway down the row of houses and a few minutes later there's a loud bang, and then another, and lots of shouting as (I assume) the house is stormed.
When it's all over, and the hostage-taker has been subdued long enough to be cuffed (wrists and ankles), it takes four uniforms to carry him to the waiting HPD van. He's still kicking off when they get there so he gets manhandled into the cage at the back and put down on his front, and then two of the officers climb into the backseat to keep an eye on him on the way back to HQ.
I wait for the door to slide shut behind them before reaching for my seatbelt and I tell Mike, "I'm going to start getting my stuff together," as I curl my fingers around the door handle. I glance around to make sure it's safe before I slide out of my seat and then quickly make my way round to the back of the rig to grab my kit bag from the locker behind the passenger seat. I grab Mike's as well and set it down on the foot of them bed while I get the defibrillator out of the locker by the door. When he appears in the doorway I hold his bag out to him and then swing my own up over my shoulder. "If you take the defib, I'll take the oxygen," I say, standing on my tiptoes to pull the portable canister from one of the high lockers.
The uniform standing guard by the cordon lifts the tape for us to duck underneath it and then points us towards the SWAT captain, a tall imposing black man dressed in navy HPD SWAT fatigues, who's standing in front of the tall hedge across the road. He, in turn, points us through the wrought iron gate on his right, where we find a shaken-looking young women perched on the top step of the porch. Danny's crouched down beside her and he looks up at the sound of our boots on the gravel path before pushing himself to his feet.
Indicating the young woman at his side, he calls, "Over here, guys," and then explains, "This is Steffi – she was in the house with Kono and forced to barricade the bedroom door shut while Kono had a gun held to her head." Stepping out of the way so Mike can kneel down to check Steffi's pulse, he then motions over his shoulder and tells me, "Kono's still inside. Steffi said she took a bit of a hit when one of our suspects went for her gun; she was caught off-guard. We all were – none of us thought we were looking for more than one person."
"Am I okay to go in there?" I ask as I set the oxygen canister down beside Mike's bag and then reach out to squeeze Danny's arm comfortingly. He nods, telling me, "Try not to touch anything but let someone know if you do."
"Sure." Bumping my bag higher onto my shoulder, I slip past the detective into the bungalow's long, narrow hallway and press myself back against the wall when I meet someone about a third of the way down. Just my luck, that someone just happens to be the one person I'm actively trying to avoid and I drop my head when he clocks me. I can feel his gaze burning a hole in the top of my head and it's a relief when, a few seconds later, he seems to think better of talking to me and walks past without saying a word.
Letting my eyes slip shut for a moment, I breathe out and give myself a shake before pushing away from the wall to follow the long dark hallway around to the right. Steve's silence has left me feeling unsettled, the same way I feel before a summer storm rolls in over the Pacific, and I do my best to push the fist-sized ball of anxiety in my chest to the back of my mind as I follow the sound of Kono's voice to a bedroom at the end of the corridor. I knock before I enter and then raise my hand in greeting when the cousins look up from the evidence bag Chin's holding.
"Sorry to interrupt. Kono, are you okay?"
She nods and offers me a small smile as she tells me, "Yeah, I'm fine." When Chin Ho raises an eyebrow at her, she rolls her eyes at him before insisting, "Seriously, Cuz, it's nothing ice and painkillers won't fix."
"I can help with that," I chip in, letting my bag slide down off of my shoulder. Kneeling, I tug at the zip and then pull an instant icepack – the type you pop to activate – and a sleeve of Ibuprofen from one of the internal pockets. I cut off a section containing two tabs and slot the remaining meds back in with my other painkillers before standing up and holding them out to Kono. "Here, take them. I'd rather you had them and didn't need them than need them and not have them. If that makes sense."
"Yeah, thanks," Kono says, smiling gratefully as she steps forwards to take the painkillers and icepack from me. While I crouch down to close up my bag, she slips the meds into her pocket and then sets the icepack down on top of the bed. Standing, I swing my bag back up onto my shoulder and check she doesn't need anything else before I head back along the hall towards the front door. Outside, Mike's still monitoring Steffi's vitals and he sends me off in search of blanket to wrap around the young woman's shoulders as he presses his fingers into the underside of her wrist once more; one of the uniforms outside saves me from walking back to the rig by providing me with a blanket and a fleece-line HPD windbreaker from the trunk of his patrol car, and I hand both over to Mike, who gently drapes the grey woolen throw over Steffi's shoulders while I lean back against the porch railings and watch him.
He gives the young woman's shoulder a reassuring squeeze and then settles himself down beside her on the top step as I ask her, "How're you holding up?" I get a small shrug in return and she wraps the blanket tighter around herself when I continue, "I bet it was pretty scary in there, huh?"
Nodding, Steffi's gaze drifts towards the gate and when I follow it, I notice a young man approaches us from the bottom of the garden path. He's wearing an HPD uniform and he makes a beeline for me, stopping just in front of the empty plant pot at the bottom of the porch steps.
"Are you busy just now? Detective Williams is looking for a medic."
"No, I'm free. Where am I going?" I ask, bending down to scoop my bag off the ground where I left it while I went off in search of a blanket.
"Down the street, next to the Five-0 vehicles."
I leave Mike to finish up with Steffi and follow the officer down the path. When I reach the gate, I pause for a moment to scan the street for any sign of Danny and then head for the red Cruz that's parked at the rear of the Camaro when I catch a glimpse of blond hair behind it. Skirting around the red car's front bumper, I step up onto the sidewalk to find Danny hovering over his partner, who's looking a little pale beneath his year-round tan; the commander's triceps is streaked with red where the blood from the nasty-looking lacerations around his elbow has run down the back of his arm under the sleeve of his t-shirt despite his partner keeping that arm elevated in an attempt to slow the bleeding.
But it's not the bleeding that's making me frown as I kneel down beside the former SEAL. His cheekbones are noticeably more prominent and there are dark smudges under his eyes that make me suspect he hasn't slept properly since I saw him on Monday morning. Whatever it is that's caused his insomnia, add to it a hostage situation involving a civilian and one of his own, and the result is one tired, run-down looking SEAL. If I weren't still pissed at him, I'd probably hug him, because he has this 'puppy that's been left out in the rain' thing going on and God, if that isn't doing all sorts of weird things to my head.
Letting my bag slip down over my shoulder, I reach into my knee pocket for a pair of gloves and swivel round on the balls of my feet to take a look at Steve's arm. "What did you cut yourself on?" I ask, using my thumb to wipe away the blood that's welling up in the groove of the wound as I fumble with the zip on my kit bag. It's Danny who tells me, "The bathroom window," which earns him a halfhearted glare from his partner as the dark-haired man leans his head back against the door of the car he's using to prop himself up. "Super SEAL here didn't want to wait for a crowbar so he used the butt of his gun to smash the glass and then caught his arm trying to undo the catch on the inside." Danny shifts his grip on Steve's arm and eyes the blood spotting the sidewalk behind with veiled concern as he snarks, "If he had waited all of thirty seconds, he wouldn't be bleeding out all of the pavement right now."
"A civilian, whose safety I am personally responsible for had a gun pointed at her, Danny!" Steve snaps, using his good arm to push himself upright. I haven't seen him this riled up since that day at the warehouse and I quickly jump in between him and Danny when I see the detective's eyebrow narrow into an angry-looking vee.
"Okay, enough." I pin Danny with a look that could melt ice and then push Steve back against the car door, telling him, "You'll have plenty of time to finish your argument later," as I sit back on my heels to swap my soiled gloves for a clean pair. I pull wipes, gauze and tape out of my bag and get Danny to hold Steve's arm a little higher so I can press a temporary dressing to the underside without having to twist myself into a pretzel. Steve holds it in place while I feel around behind me for my roll of tape and I tear off three strips when I find it, and stick the edges down before smoothing the third piece down over the middle.
Leaning back, I drop the tape back in my bag and ask my patient, "Shoulder or elbow?"
Steve's brow furrows like he doesn't know what I'm talking about and I raise my eyebrow at him in a don't-you-even-think-about-lying-to-me warning as I say, "You wince whenever Danny moves your arm, so which one is it – elbow or shoulder?"
"Shoulder," the former SEAL admits grudgingly as he reaches up to tug at the neck of his Kevlar. Dropping his hand down to pull at the side tabs, his fingers scrabble at the sticky Velcro fastening until I take pity and lean forwards to undo it for him. Danny leans down to unsnap the clip at the shoulder so I can pull the restrictive vest off over Steve's good arm; I twist to set it down on the ground behind me only to turn back sharply when I hear Danny ask, "Hey, you okay, babe?"
The former SEAL is bent over at the waist, good arm propped up on his knee, hand pressed against his forehead, like he's suddenly come over faint, and I slip my hand in around his arm to check his pulse as Danny crouches down across from me.
"Do you feel dizzy at all?" I ask, pressing my fingers into the underside of Steve's wrist. He shakes his head almost automatically in reply and I feel the need to check, "Are you sure?" as I let go of his wrist and go to note his heart rate on the back of my gloved hand; it's at the higher end of the normal range but I put that down to the adrenaline rush of dealing with a hostage situation as I peel off my gloves. The one with the former SEAL's heart rate on it gets stuffed in my pocket in case I need it later (the reading, not the glove) and then I press the backs of my fingers against my patient's flushed cheek - he feels a little warm and I make a mental note to check his temperature again when we get back to the rig incase the heat I can feel isn't down to having spent the last hour or so running around in ninety-odd degree heat whilst fully geared up.
As expected, Steve tries to pull away when I press my hand to his cheek and he groans when a hand – Danny's, not mine – pushes him back down until he's almost folded in half. "Stay put for a minute, moron," the detective scolds sharply when the dark-haired man shifts uncomfortably against the hold he has on the back of his neck.
"I'm fine, Danny," Steve grumbles as I quickly shove my gauze and tape back into the respective pockets. "C'mon, let me up - I can't breathe all folded up like this."
"No," his partner snaps back even as he eases his grip. "And you're not fine, you weren't even fine to begin with. Do I need to remind you of the conversation we had in your office this morning? Because I will…"
"That was before we realized we'd fucked up, Danno."
Zipping up my kit bag, I lean on my thighs to push myself up and step of Steve's outstretched leg as I motion to Danny to let him sit up. "I'm parked at the end of the street," I tell my patient before asking, "Think you can make it that far?" He nods so I wrap my fingers around his good wrist and tell him, "On three." At two, I brace myself, pushing my heels into the ground as I tighten my grip on the SEAL's wrist and get ready to pull him to his feet. He's not as heavy as I thought he'd be – or maybe I'm stronger than I thought – and once he's upright, he leans against the door of the Cruz while he bends down to remove the holster from around his thigh. While I'm waiting, I grab his Tac vest and hold it out to Danny, who swaps it for the oversized green backpack containing my equipment.
TBC...