God damn it, he'd better be in there.
The thought races through Roy's head on repeat as he digs, playing like a broken record. Half the damn county's been up here all night working a massive tunnel collapse and just when it looked like things were finally getting to the wrap-up stage of course the floor gave out from under Johnny, and the walls gave out in front of Roy, and the next thing Roy knew they had a code I, man trapped underground. The county engineers said it was probably an old mining shaft, and based on historical maps and the geometry of the collapse they thought they could safely dig a side access from an accessory tunnel…which was also clogged with debris.
And so they've been digging.
Roy had a shovel to start with, but the man with the probe thought he heard sounds and now Roy's pulling bits of rubble away with his hands, because they're so close or at least they'd better be.
God damn it, he'd better be alive.
He keeps pulling away fragments of rock and handfuls of loose dirt until suddenly there's only air beneath his fingers. He's broken through. Roy catches sight of movement on the other side, a bit of sleeve, a flash of skin—
"Johnny!" If Roy weren't already on his knees, they would give out.
Johnny crawls forward—alive—scrabbling over the rock, through the barely-adequate opening and before he's even out Roy has his hands on Johnny's face. Roy's heart pounds and his thoughts change track, beating in time with it. Alive. Alive. Alive.
Wide, dark eyes meet Roy's and the vise of panic around Roy's heart squeezes paradoxically tighter. He thinks of the look on Johnny's face when the floor gave out and it makes him ask, too sharply, "Did you hit your head?"
Johnny takes his time answering, enough time for Roy to worry. And then he speaks—a single word, "No", that does nothing to allay Roy's fears. Roy's drops his hands from Johnny's face to try to help pull him out, and as he does Johnny gropes for purchase in the rubble and heaves himself forward. Once he's freed he sits on his heels, resting for a moment, his eyes searching Roy's.
He's got his helmet on, for once in his life, thank god. Roy grabs his forearms and hauls him to his feet, away from the hole he just crawled out of. The rest of the digging crew crowd in, doing what they do, shoring up walls and stabilizing rubble and Roy ignores all of it because that's not his purpose, here. Roy's hands can't stay still; no sooner has he hauled Johnny up than he starts patting him down for injuries, and finds that Johnny's drenched, absolutely drenched, from his shoulders down to his boots.
Roy doesn't know what to make of that, and when he speaks his voice is too loud and he can't seem to rein it in. "What happened?"
"'S water in there," Johnny says, and looks away.
The words sink in. Roy stares at the pile of debris, feeling an all-new horror sweep through him. His fingers tighten their grip on Johnny's sodden coatsleeves. "Did you swallow any?"
"No," Johnny answers softly, half-breathless. He shakes his head, once, collects himself, and when he repeats himself his voice is stronger. "No."
"Where are you hurt?" It comes out harsher than Roy means it to, but damn it, there was water in there.
Johnny looks every which way but at him, wild-eyed, and Roy starts to pat him down again, watching his face for clues. Finally Johnny steadies, and his gaze meets Roy's, and his hand—dripping wet, freezing—wraps around Roy's wrist, halting his ministrations. "I'm not."
Roy's pulse pounds, in his ears and in his chest and in his wrist, too, under Johnny's hand. Bullshit you're not, he thinks, but he can't say that, so he goes about doing what he's here to do, and checks him. As he's pulling out his penlight, Johnny keeps his eyes locked on Roy's and recites, methodically:
"My name is John R. Gage. We're in LA County, California. I don't know the time because I spent all night stuck underground, but today is November 15, 1975 and I just fell down a goddamn mine shaft."
All right, alert and oriented times four. Pupils equal, round, reactive, extra-ocular movements intact. Pulse 90. Respirations 18. Lungs clear. No broken bones. Minor scrapes on his hands, but somehow no other lacerations. There's bound to be some bruising, and he's soaked through to the skin, but—
"I'm not hurt, Roy."
"You're not," Roy concludes, almost accusatory. There was water in there, and if they hadn't broken through—
Johnny shivers, once, and the harsh light of the utility lamps glares off his wet skin. Something takes hold of Roy and he doesn't know what it is or what it means, so he reacts by taking hold of Johnny, grabbing him by the sleeve and pulling him along, rougher than he needs to be. "Come on," he says, "Let's get out of here."
The dawn after the battle is no better. They emerge to find the world blanketed in the deep desaturated gray that means it's nearly sunrise, but not there yet. The semilucid kind of four-a.m. light that makes a person feel sick for being out in it too long. From the center of the site, portable spotlights poke useless holes through the gloom; not enough.
They make their way through it, squinting a little and walking stiff and slow, and give report. Johnny doesn't really need the hospital and while Roy would normally drag him there anyway, just in case, he can't find it in him to do it today. Can't find it in him to haul him in and leave him sitting in a cold fluorescent-lit room while other people poke and prod and take him over. Roy's shoulders tense at the thought, and he shakes his head, ignoring Johnny's quizzical glance.
Johnny just needs to get dry and get warm, and they're sure to be stood down any second, so there's no point in doing anything but waiting it out. With the practicalities squared away, they get sent to cool their heels until everything's officially put to rest.
The squad's parked at the edge of the site, facing the steep hillside, and if they stand on the far side of it, it just about blocks the wind. The dim glow of the spotlights can't penetrate here, and all they can do is wait for dawn or dismissal, their only ways out of the dark.
Johnny's still got his helmet on; probably a new record. At least it'll keep his head a little warmer. The air isn't so chilly out here, above ground, unless you're soaked through to the skin like Johnny is.
Thank god he kept that helmet on when they went down into the tunnel.
God, the tunnel.
There was water, and there was rubble, and Johnny was down there for so long that now Roy stares at the hillside and it feels to Roy like there's some part of himself that's been left behind, buried there in the dark. Some key part of Roy that fell through the floor when it went and without it, the rest of him is falling to pieces.
Roy tries to force himself to not think about rubble and water and darkness, and focus on Johnny instead. It doesn't much help. Johnny hunches his shoulders, leaning against the squad, letting it hold him up, his chin ducking down to touch his coat collar. His lips aren't blue, yet, but they're getting there, and Roy doesn't like it. Johnny'll catch his death of cold like this.
Something twists deep in his gut.
Johnny stands there, staring straight ahead, jaw set, grim and determined. Roy knows he can tolerate all kinds of punishment and not even flinch, but it doesn't mean that he should have to.
"The squad's unlocked," says Roy. Roy could start it, could crank the heat. Hell, he could grab a blanket. He should do both those things, and he knows that. But Johnny's out here and somehow he can't bring himself to leave Johnny. His fingers flex, aching to do something, but he doesn't know what and he doesn't know why and he can't take action until he does.
"I know," Johnny says softly, unmoving. "Just need some air, first." He exhales, long and slow, skirting around the edges of a sigh, and stares at the side of the hill.
How bad must it be, for him to admit that?
Roy has to do something, so he does the only thing he can do. He unbuckles his own turnout coat, slides it off, holds it out. Johnny watches him, mutely, stock-still.
"Put this on," says Roy.
"You sure?"
It's a stupid question. Roy wants to tell him it's a stupid question, and he never calls Johnny stupid, never, not even when he's cooking up one of his harebrained schemes, not even when those schemes inevitably backfire, but this time he almost does it. He bites his tongue, and settles for giving Johnny a pointed look.
Johnny takes the coat from him, warily. "Thanks."
It's Roy's turn to sigh, now. He's beginning to wonder if he hit his own head and doesn't remember. He knows what he should be doing and for the first time in his life he can't make himself do it. He tells himself to pull it together. Focus on Johnny.
Johnny's gone silent, and it makes Roy think he's missed something. Roy's never seen him so quiet, not as long as he's unhurt, not even when he's this exhausted. He doesn't understand. There's so much of Johnny he's never understood. Roy tries to put the pieces together, feeling half-dazed. If he doesn't understand this, he can't fix it. He know that he needs to fix it.
Johnny sheds his own coat - soaked and filthy - and slips his arms into the sleeves of Roy's, and Roy sees that the skin under his fingernails has gone bloodless, too. He really doesn't like that.
He needs to fix it.
Roy steps in, close. He reaches for the buckles, and Johnny doesn't react.
Johnny would have flinched at that two years ago. Six months ago, he would have squawked a protest and stepped back and good-naturedly smacked Roy's hands away and talked a mile a minute. Now he stands there, placid and wide-eyed and quiet, and lets Roy get in close enough to see the topography of scratches crisscrossing his helmet, see the dirt spatter in the four-a.m. dark. It sets something off in Roy that Roy can't identify but he knows he needs to act on.
He feels a vague compulsion to gather Johnny up and never let anything hurt him ever again, but that's not how this works. It's not how their job works. It's not how the world works. Roy can't do that, so he reaches out and does up the buckles for him instead. Brushes away a nonexistent smear of dirt just below the collar, and ignores the way his mouth goes dry. When he's finished he gives the front of the coat a brisk tug, settling the too-broad shoulders into place.
Johnny tilts his chin to look at him, unsmiling, helmet on his head and strap dangling free. Roy's coat hangs loosely on him, and Roy can feel Johnny's breath ghosting across his cheek. Johnny's here, now, and Roy isn't; he's scattered into a million pieces somewhere under the hillside. He doesn't know how to put them back together, so instead he claps Johnny on the shoulder, once, and still Johnny doesn't flinch. He just stares at Roy, too earnest for his own good, and Roy's hand freezes on Johnny's shoulder and Roy's breath catches in his throat.
Johnny's the perfect poster child, the model rescue man, the good boy they put in the recruitment campaigns and hold up as an example; he got buried underground and nearly drowned and now he's freezing half to death but he doesn't complain, boys, he doesn't complain, and Roy's heart fucking breaks to watch him.
It takes a long time to find his voice.
"You're freezing," he finally says. "Just—take it easy for a minute. I'll be back."
There's a canteen set up at the other side of the post, and the coffee's hot enough to burn Roy's fingers through the thin paperboard cup. Maybe hot enough to warm Johnny up again. He grabs one for each of them and when he returns Johnny's still staring at him.
"I'm okay, Roy," Johnny says, unprompted. His brow furrows, his mouth angles into a frown. He's thinking, hard, and Roy doesn't know what about. It used to worry him when Johnny made that face, and now that Johnny's attention is fully turned on him he suddenly feels broken open, the sharp edges of all the shattered pieces exposed.
He might never have seen Johnny make that face again.
"Here." Roy hands him a cup and turns from him abruptly, leaning against the side of the squad, feeling the warmth of the steam against his skin.
Johnny mirrors him, leaning, but his posture is laxer, looser. He sips the coffee almost casually, huddled in Roy's too-big turnout coat, and Roy watches his throat work as he swallows. Roy abruptly breaks his gaze away and stares down into his own cup, spiraling.
Johnny's lips have color in them again.
Suddenly, Johnny sighs, and takes his free hand to tip the brim of his helmet up and back. He casts a searching glance at everything around the both of them, at the squad and the hillside and the trucks and the far-away spotlights, his eyes narrowed, the whites of them bright in the darkness. When he's done he fixes Roy with that same deliberate look, and before Roy has had a chance to understand it Johnny seizes his collar with one hand and kisses him.
It's a thunderbolt, a sniper's bullet, cold and hot and intense and shocking and there and gone so very quickly that Roy barely even knows what happened. Before he can comprehend the sudden onslaught of coldairwarmmouthwetskinJohnny, Johnny's already pulled back, leaning against the squad again, half-casual. The only evidence that Roy didn't imagine it is that Johnny's hand grips the coffee cup white-knuckled, and Roy's lips taste of coffee even though he hasn't drunk any yet.
Adrenaline courses through his veins, down his back, to his groin with a terrifying warmth. He licks the coffee from his lips, reeling.
Suddenly he understands—something.
Oh.
What Johnny just did could have brought an end to himself and everything he's worked for faster than that tunnel, and more painfully. A thought comes unbidden into Roy's mind, an axiom from training, drummed into him so thoroughly that the words themselves are half-forgotten even as he lives by them: risk a little to save a little; risk a lot to save a lot.
That was a monumental risk.
What's being saved?
He looks at Johnny, and Johnny looks back at him. Even, steady. Strong.
Oh.
The broken pieces start to mend, to pull together, stitches approximating the edges of a wound. Roy takes a deeper breath than he's taken all night, and slowly turns toward the hillside again. There's nothing left in there, anymore.
Roy knows, now, what he wants to do. He wants to reach over and pick up where Johnny left off. Wants to take Johnny by the collar of his own damn turnout coat and pull him in and hold him there and chase away the dark. Wants to warm some color back into his skin and never, never, let him go. He wants it, and he can't do it, not here, because that's not how this works, either.
He reaches his free hand up, instead, and takes Johnny's icy fingers in his own. He squeezes them, and Johnny squeezes back.
Not long afterward, the radio goes off, officially releasing them, and they drop the handhold. Roy has the heat cranked full-blast before Johnny's even finished climbing into the squad. He puts the truck into gear and his hand finds Johnny's across the bench seat, and stays there the duration of the ride.
When they get back, he kills the engine, and reaches for the door handle with his free hand. Hesitates. Looks to Johnny.
Johnny's fingers squeeze his, warmly.