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Johnny whistled as he walked along the cement sidewalk; the sun's warmth embedded into the limestone, and clay seeped through the thin soles of his dress shoes. A cool breeze offset it, and he breathed deeply, letting it soak into every pocket of space within his lungs. The heatwave was finally abating after several days of misery; all the calls they'd gone on earlier hadn't resulted in any tragedies, his date had gone well, and he'd consumed a few drinks. Life was good.
Oranges and violent red pinks streaked through the violet-blue sky, the setting sun seconds away from slipping below the horizon. Children from his apartment complex, a block away now, screamed in delight as they doused each other with a water hose and played carefree as only children could. Their proof of life echoed around the neighborhood, and Johnny basked in their aliveness—their joy in the simplest things.
He was on shift tomorrow, so he should head home and get a few things done to prepare for it, but the evening was so lovely, and the idea of being stuffed in his apartment and missing out on it didn't sit right with him. So, instead of heading up after he'd dropped off Isla at the house she shared with another nurse, he'd decided to take a walk.
Short sleeves rolled up at the hem, he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his patchwork pants. Roy hated them passionately, and Joanne insisted they should be burnt when he'd shown up for dinner in them last month.
"Johnny, I know you're a bachelor and make questionable fashion choices, but this is too far, and as your friend," Joanne's eyes were large and shiny as she laid her hand delicately on his forearm. "I have to be honest with you. Those should be burned."
"Now, Jo—" Johnny had started to defend himself, but Joanne was having none of it.
Shivering, she shook her head. "Trust me, Johnny. Just trust. Also, never wear those on a date," her nose scrunched. "A girl hates to be outshone, and you would, but not in a good way."
He didn't see the problem. They were nice pants, and they weren't that ugly. At least, to him. And Isla didn't seem to mind when she'd opened the door to his ring. She'd seemed almost endeared by them.
"Nice pants," she smirked, her eyes glittered in the golden hour light, and set her dark brown hair on fire with a reddish hue that made the freckles dusted across her nose stand out. "Too bad I don't have a dress to match. Then we'd really make people talk."
Johnny's cheeks hurt, and he realized he was smiling. Taking a sharp left, he waved to an older woman on the other side of the street and continued on his way.
They were making people talk regardless.
Station 51 had been abuzz after Johnny received a call from Miss Isla Walters, the newest nurse transfer at Rampart. She was undeniably attractive in an East Coast classy sort of way. She didn't wear as much makeup or put on airs as some other nurses did, preferring to be as naturally herself as possible, and laughed when Johnny told her to never stop over dinner.
He could still smell the intoxicatingly gentle scent of her jacaranda perfume on him, and he savored it on his tongue like one would an aged wine.
"I don't like following trends, Mr. Gage, but I think you knew that when I called you."
Looking back, Johnny supposed he did. Known as a charmer and ladies' man, he'd had his fair share of girlfriends, but nothing serious and many more strikes than successes. But Isla was different. He hadn't been looking. When he'd strode up to the base station, she'd just been there, sitting where Dixie usually sat, the eraser end of a pencil trapped behind her slightly uneven front teeth, and when she'd looked up… it was over.
She was confident around him, pushing back as much as he flirted and even sending a few of her own zingers back. They played it coy with each other in the halls, flirting occasionally, although she did more of the flirting, and Johnny did most of the blushing or mumbling pathetic responses. And then, she'd called him—called him—at the station and asked if he wanted to have dinner with her on Wednesday night.
None of the guys had believed it when he'd told them. He, himself, was shocked that it had even happened. It had been weeks, and most of the single guys he knew were vying for her attention, but as much as she teased, no one could pin her down.
That made him the pinned one, then, didn't it?
Roy had clapped his back, the weight of his palm comforting. "Well, look at that, Junior. There may be hope for you yet. Wait till Joanne hears about this."
"She won't believe it," Chet snickered, staring at Johnny like he'd sprouted horns. "A girl asking him out? That's the stuff of a sci-fi movie. Just wait, she's probably whacked up here," he tapped his head.
"Something has to be loose up there if you're asking him out and not being pressured into it."
Johnny sneered at him, a few choice words on the edge of his tongue.
"But it happened," Mike smiled over the rim of his coffee mug. "Congratulations, Johnny."
Everyone had mostly settled after that, but when he and Roy had appeared at Rampart the next day, it was seemingly all anyone could talk about.
"Hey, I heard Isla asked you out." Dixie's hand on his arm was warm; her lips stretched into a knowing smile. "Lucky man."
Later, after bringing in another patient, Dr. Early slapped his shoulder in congratulation. Mike Morton was even somewhat congenial, telling him not to run her off because she was "one of the better new nurses they'd had in a while."
The sun had fallen from the sky, the orange round of fire no longer visible from the street, fading with every breath Johnny took, but he didn't want to go home. Not yet.
He'd been strangely nervous that he and Isla wouldn't hit it off one-on-one, but surprisingly, they had a lot in common, and Isla was quite the conversationalist. If it had been up to her, she would probably be sitting in the Italian restaurant chatting away, talking more than she ate, and drinking an amount of wine he was shocked to find didn't make her drunk.
"My dad taught me how to hold my liquor well," she explained, her lips red and glistening with Merlot. "Does that surprise you?"
It had, but mainly because she seemed to be the exact opposite of it.
Sighing happily, his fingers curled into a fist by his side at the memory of her leaning across the steering wheel and giving him a quick peck on the cheek before leaving in a cloud of wine-soaked giggles.
Yeah. Maybe this could be something.
They hadn't made plans to see each other again, but he knew there would be. Too many sparks and similar interests knit them together, so yeah, there would be a next time. And the thought made him almost giddy, his heart flipping in his chest.
A scream pierced through the night, startling a dove in the branches of the tree above him, and Johnny halted, his instincts kicking into overdrive.
Silence settled over the neighborhood he was in, the glow in the windows of houses spilling out into the shadows and pushing them back, but not enough. A streetlight was on at the end of the street, but it was too far away to help.
Johnny waited, his pulse pounding in his neck. Inhale. Exhale. Nothing. Tentatively, he took another step forward, but the bloodcurdling scream cracked through the air again, stealing all his oxygen with it. A few houses away from him, a door slammed open, and a woman ran out, yelling at the top of her lungs. A large, young man followed her, something in his hand that Johnny couldn't make out.
"Put it away, Tommy. I mean it! Put—"
Another scream when he rushed down the steps she'd taken and started advancing on her slowly. "Somebody help me! He—there's a knife!"
Johnny leaped into action, his legs churning forward before he could stop himself and assess the danger of the situation. All of his focus and concern was on the woman and the knife in the hands of her attacker.
"Hey!" he yelled, and it was enough to take the man's attention off the woman. His wide eyes were white against the dark. The woman sobbed and ran out into the street behind the blue car parked in front of their house.
"Drop the knife, Tommy." Johnny panted now that he was closer, slowing his steps.
The man's breathing was ragged, almost like he'd run a marathon at full speed. The light from their front porch illuminated the beads of sweat blooming along his temples.
Diaphoretic. Respirations are rapid. Pupils blown. This guy is either on a hell of a drug or experiencing some kind of mental health crisis.
"Be careful," the woman called from behind the car. "He's… he's not in his right mind. I—he's been skipping his medication. He doesn't know." Her voice choked off into a strangled wail. "He doesn't know."
In his peripheral vision, Johnny was keenly aware of the numerous sets of eyes on them. Neighbors were pouring out of their houses, curious about the drama, but as soon as they saw the knife, they paused and instead stood whispering among themselves.
"Have you called 9-1-1?" he asked the woman, but someone else answered. A voice he didn't recognize but still feminine echoed from the other side of the street.
"I did!"
Relief blistered through him. Now, he just had to keep Tommy calm until reinforcements came.
"Tommy, he cajoled. "Put the knife down. No one is going to hurt you."
"Hurt…" Tommy hissed. "She hurt me."
"Yeah?" Johnny was sweating, the cool air doing nothing for the overdrive of his nervous system. "She didn't mean to, man. She's just worried about you."
"No," Tommy shook his head, sweat running into his eyes, and he blinked rapidly. "You don't get it!" the knife jabbed aggressively in his direction, and Johnny took a wary step back. "She tried to kill me. Tried—to make—make me take pills."
Exhaling harshly, he dropped the hand holding the knife to his side and rubbed at his temple. Johnny took the opportunity to take a step closer, evaluating the distance between himself and Tommy and whether it was even worth trying to wrangle the knife away.
"She was just trying to help," Johnny soothed. "Sometimes, we don't like that, and it can look like they're hurting you, but I promise you, she was just trying to help."
Where the hell is my backup?
"My head hurts," Tommy rasped after an agonizing minute, his fingers twitching around the handle of the weapon. "I don't—" he jerked his head up. "Why are you here? Who are you?"
His eyes flashed with an unbridled anger that made Johnny flinch, the rage on his tongue lashing out in a venom that hurt his ears. "Hey," Johnny soothed. "I'm on your side, okay? I'm with you. I'm going to help you."
"Alice called you. Didn't she?" Tommy's breathing picked up speed to an extent that Johnny worried he would hyperventilate himself. "She called you to finish me off!"
His yell boomed across the street, bouncing off red window shutters and burrowing itself deep into the porous surface of Johnny's bones. Lunging forward, Tommy brought the knife toward him, and Johnny jumped back, his heart kicking into third gear as adrenaline surged through him.
"Tommy," Johnny switched from calming to commanding. "She didn't. She's worried about you, now put the knife down."
The distant sounds of sirens floated in the air, and he relaxed slightly—just a little longer. Tommy was no longer looking at him, and the muscles in his neck bulged. Johnny's stomach sank—great. His attention was directed toward Alice, standing on the other side of the car.
.
"You bitch!" he raved, and then he started to run toward her.
Johnny's body reacted before his mind could warn it that what he was doing was a very bad idea, but it was too late. Leaping forward, he managed to grab Tommy and spin him toward him. How, he wasn't sure, seeing as the man was all muscle and easily could overpower his skinny strength, but adrenaline didn't do strange things to people.
This wasn't going to be fun.
The sirens were louder now, the bouncing of red lights along the houses further down the street, but he forced himself not to lose focus, holding with all his might to Tommy's arms and attempting to keep him from swinging before the police could approach.
"Put," Johnny huffed, "the knife down, man. I'm not—"
"Tommy! Stop it!" Alice screamed. "Just put it—"
Her scream sent him over the edge because he growled lowly, and then the next thing Johnny knew, he'd wrangled his arm out of Johnny's grip and was bringing the knife up in a wide arc, and then brought it straight down. It was too fast for Johnny to do anything other than—
Hard pressure hit his upper thigh, almost as if he'd been slugged with a bat instead of something sharp, and he stumbled back. Several people began screaming, and he was dimly aware of wanting them all just to shut up so he could make sense of what happened. Tommy still stood before him, but he looked… different. There was blood on his right cheek, a spray of droplets, and a few that hung suspended in his lashes like grotesque ruby gems.
Tommy advanced on him, and Johnny took another stumbling step back—he felt like a newborn foal, which annoyed him. Why are they screaming? He just wanted a moment to think, to try and figure out why his leg felt so… strange.
Wait. Where was the knife?
He took another step, and the pain his body had seemingly waited to register hit, and he gasped. His hand flew down to his leg, and he felt hot liquid roll through his fingers. Glancing down, he blanched at the sight of the knife lodged into the meat of his thigh.
Oh. That's the…
The world swayed around him, and he fell, helpless to break his fall. The action of hitting the ground, shifting at all, caused the knife to slip deeper. Groaning, he panted. Why am I so out of breath? Why?
The sirens were ear-splitting now, and he slumped back in the grass, aware of the tall, lumbering man standing just a foot away from him, his eyes blown wide—his pupils so dilated they were almost black.
He stared at Johnny like he couldn't believe what he saw, and honestly, Johnny couldn't blame him.
The sight of the knife handle sticking out of him from the edge of his vision sent a rush of nausea gushing toward the back of his throat, and he swallowed hard, trying to push it down, away, anywhere but out.
Please, God. Not that on top of everything else.
Distantly, Johnny heard the sound of squealing tires, the slamming of doors, and yelling—lots of yelling—but he couldn't quite make out what they were yelling about, stuck as he was in a haze of shock interspersed with moments of sharp, unyielding clarity. The world exploded around him in the space between lung tissue and bone, his heart pounding so hard that the world shifted in time to the pulsations squeezing blood through his veins, and he groaned.
He saw Tommy standing closer to him than before, and then a tall figure dressed in the dark navy of a police uniform blocked his vision. Vince? The grass under his body was damp; it seeped through his pants and shirt, making him cold, and he shivered. It was funny how, just hours ago, when the sun had been at its highest point, he would have wished for the chills racing across his skin, but now he cursed them as his teeth started to jerk into each other.
A part of him knew that it wasn't so much the cold causing it as the shock, but the thought floated away from him before he could focus too much on it. Closing his eyes, his head hurt, and the world was way too loud. The flashing psychedelic red lights bouncing around made him dizzy.
"Johnny?"
Johnny cracked open an eye. I know that voice. But from where? He felt like his head had been stuffed with cotton, and the things he knew he knew were foreign.
Bellingham.
"Johnny?"
The words came again, clearer this time, and he blinked, opening both eyes with some difficulty. Blood loss.
"Didn't…" Johnny muttered. "Didn't think I'd ever see you from this angle."
Bellingham smiled, but Johnny could see the stress in it. That scared Johnny, and he shifted, immediately regretting it when a fresh wave of pain crashed over him, making his vision white for a second. When it cleared, he could hear himself breathing heavily, and Bellingham's hands were on his shoulders, pressing him back into the grass. At least it's soft.
"Don't move, Johnny." He warned, his dark green eyes intense. "That knife can't move any more than it must, okay?"
"'Ust pull it," Johnny whined, shaking his head. It hurt, every breath making him more than acutely aware of the weapon that was not supposed to be lodged in him like he was a human steak.
Bellingham's partner was busy on his left side, taking vital signs and relaying them to Bellingham.
"Pulse is 120 and thready. BP is 99 over 70. Respirations are 24, shallow. He's definitely diaphoretic.
"Get Rampart on the line, Brett, and bring me some pressure bandages. We have to pack this…"
Johnny tried to hold onto what they were saying, trying to gauge how bad this really was, but the words shifted through his fingers like sand, and he gave up, closed his eyes, and let them do their job.
"Hey, John? Stay awake for me, okay?" Bellingham said, voice terse. "Talk to me, man. What the hell happened?"
Johnny could hear Dr. Brackett's voice somewhere on his left, and he shifted his head, looking for him. When did he get here? Oh, shit. They're not gonna have to—
Heart racing, Johnny watched in horror as the worst-case scenarios shifted through him of losing his leg. Dr. Brackett's eyebrows dipped in concern as he held a blood-spattered saw in one hand, his dark green scrubs drenched in sweat and even more blood.
"Johnny. Johnny. Look at me." Bellingham grabbed his chin and forced Johnny to make eye contact with him. A bright light flashed into his eyes, and he flinched away, but the other man's firm hand on his face kept him from getting far. Tucking the pen away, Bellingham stared at him, the lines in his face deeper than Johnny remembered them being the other day.
"You're going to be okay. I promise. We're getting you all patched up, and Rampart will do the hard work. But you have to calm down and slow your breathing, okay?"
Johnny watched his lips move, the words registering a second behind. Breathe. Yeah. I can do that. Just—
"Roy?" he slurred, closing his eyes again, the effort to keep them open too much when they felt like 100 pounds. "Where's… Roy… he… good?"
"Yeah, John," Bellingham assured him, a hand squeezing his shoulder. "He's just fine.'
"Kay."
He was so cold. His body shivered more violently, and he heard Bellingham swear. Someone draped those plastic blankets over him. He wanted to yell, to tell them that it did nothing, he was still so damn cold, but then there were more hands on his body, and he had a second to prepare for the inevitable when Bellingham said. "One, two, three!" and then he was being moved onto the stretcher, and everything was a blur.
Bits and pieces floated to him from what felt like a long way down. He was awake, but he didn't know how or why. Bellingham kept asking him questions, and Johnny tried to answer; he really did, but everything was so… much.
The wound in his leg burned, and each bump of the ambulance screaming through the streets of LA sent twisting fire up to his hip. His stomach turned, but he forced himself to think about something else. Bellingham was in his face again, talking to him, at him? Johnny didn't know. He needed something from him, but Johnny wasn't clear what it was.
"Rampart, the patient is in considerable pain. Pulse is 135, rapid, and still thready. Respirations are elevated, too. Permission to administer another 5 milligrams of morphine."
Oh. Morphine was good. Very good. It paid not to hit your head. They could give you the good stuff.
Opening his eyes, Johnny stared up at the white ceiling of the ambulance; the clear plastic container of what he assumed was D5W hung in the corner of his vision and realized with devastating coherency that once he got to Rampart, they were most likely going to have to cut away his pants so they could remove the knife.
Damnit.
~ ~ ~
Dixie McCall stared at the sweat-soaked, dark-haired man on the gurney, her heart falling ten stories at his disheveled appearance, pallor, and the blood drenching his lower half and smeared dark red over his fingers.
She hadn't been on call at the base station for the past hour, working upstairs with a nurse who was having a hard time with an irate seizure patient the paramedics over at Station 18 had brought in. Until his postictal state wore off, Dr. Early had wanted him in a room and checked periodically. He'd given them all a run for their money when he'd proven to be a more than pleasant post-seizure victim and, in doing her best to help a frazzled second-year nurse, had missed the call when it came in.
Now, she was grateful she hadn't known because, looking at the amount of blood and his down-trending vitals, she would have been inundated with stress waiting for the ambulance to arrive, and she couldn't be that way for him. She had to give him her best, and she would be damned if she didn't.
"Hey, handsome." Smiling with a lightness she didn't feel, she smoothed the hair away from his forehead while the chaos of the paramedics, attendants, and Dr. Brackett barking orders swirled around them. She leaned in close. "How did you get yourself into this mess?"
The heart monitor Bellingham had helped hook him up to was beeping steadily, and the screen readout jumped up and down erratically. Johnny's eyes were half-mast, and his smile lacked his usual Gage charm.
"Dropped off my date," he slurred, groaning when someone jostled the table.
Dixie quirked an eyebrow and deftly wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm to get a new set of vitals. "It went that badly, huh?"
"Nah," he puffed. "Was trying to—" his voice trailed off, eyelids closing.
"He's out again, Kel," she said, her voice deeper than usual with worry. “His blood pressure is 80/69, his pulse is 100. Respirations are the same."
"Dix, let's get his pants cut away, and then we can see what we're dealing with." Dr. Brackket commanded. His eyebrows were deeply furrowed, so they were almost touching. He was usually an intense man, passionate about his field of choice and the people he served. Some took it as rudeness, and sometimes, it was, but Dixie saw beneath all the bravado and the soft heart beneath the callouses.
Glancing over his shoulder at the other nurse, he asked for blood draws, gas lab workups, and cross-matches. "..Stat! Oh, and page OR to be on standby."
Up until now, Dixie had managed to avoid looking at the knife protruding from Johnny's leg, but now she needed to. It was a gnarly sight, and she was surprised his attacker hadn't pulled it after stabbing him. The blade was embedded into the flesh almost to the handle, and she could only pray that there was no major muscle or nerve damage involved that could potentially be career-ending.
The pads Bellingham and Brett had packed around the knife and secured to keep the weapon in place were soaked in blood, the edges just barely white, and several new pads of gauze put on just minutes ago were starting to pinken.
She swore under her breath and grabbed the shears from the instrument tray. Hesitating for a second, her fingers ghosted over the hem of Johnny's pants. They were the ugliest pair she'd ever seen; different shades of brown, white, and yellow she didn't know could exist, complete with patterns and solid color blocks all patchworked together.
Normally, she would be thrilled to rid the world of a fashion catastrophe that should have stayed someone's inside thought, but this was Johnny. The few times they'd had dinner together—platonically, of course—he'd worn them with pride and seemed generally attached to them.
"The sales girl said it made me look delectable. Whatever that means."
"Dix?" Kel asked brusquely. His dark eyes met her briefly before he moved above her and unwrapped the bandages. "We need those off now," he said.
Right.
Without hesitation, she started cutting swiftly, the blood-soaked fabric peeling away from Johnny's leg as she went. Crimson threads ran in rivulets down his thigh, streaking down his tibia and collecting in a grotesque pool in the bony area of his ankle.
"There's a lot of blood," Dixie muttered as the scissors worked around the knife embedded into Johnny's thigh. Kel sighed in response, his lips pressed into a firm line. "That's what worries me. We can't do X-rays with the knife still in him, but I also don't want to pull it out here. There's a possibility the blade nicked an artery. If we pull it now, and that's the case?"
He shook his head, and Dixie's mind filled unwillingly with images of blood, hot and slick, gushing over her hands and soaking through the white sheets of the exam table, Johnny's face getting paler and paler and paler with each pulse of blood from the wound.
"We can't take that risk. Who's on call in the OR?"
Dixie threw the now bloodied scissors aside, her gloved hands covered in the red hue. "Dr. Oakley and Dr. Jimenez."
Dr. Oakley was the head of general trauma surgery and specialized in stab wounds, and if the artery were nicked like Kel thought, Dr. Jimenez would be right there to take over. Johnny was in excellent care all around, but she knew how these things went, and no matter how routine something looked, it could go sour in the space of a breath.
"Good girl," Kel smiled and then turned to Carol. "Have four units of his blood type waiting for us and ready to go in the OR. Also, have a nurse on standby with more in case it's more involved than we thought."
Bracing his hands on the edge of the exam table, Dixie watched as he had a silent conversation with Johnny. His face betrayed worry where there was usually cold professionalism. She knew the two of them butted heads at first and didn't always see eye-to-eye, but she also knew it was only because they both were passionate men who cared. Cared about the patients and how they were treated.
Clearing his throat, Kel ducked his head, and Dixie pretended the extra brightness in his eyes was from the abrasiveness of the overhead lighting, but she knew better. She knew that her own were worse, maybe even red-rimmed.
The room was still bustling with activity, the attendants doing their job, adjusting oxygen, and Carol bustling around, but it felt hushed. It was almost like someone had thrown a veil over them, the fabric gauzy and cloying against her mouth as the doctor they admired took a moment to be human and steadied himself.
"All right, let's get him up to surgery. We can't wait any longer."
The room burst into an instant flurry, and Dixie slipped in alongside them, barking orders, adjusting IV lines so as not to tangle, and helping them to the elevator that would take him up to surgery. With a stone in her stomach, she watched Johnny's face for any flicker of life as the gray metal of the elevator doors slipped shut. His face was turned toward her, dark lashes contrasting the white of his usually tawny skin, and she found herself biting back tears.
Swallowing hard as the door slipped shut, she stood longer than necessary in front of them, begging a God she'd thought she'd given up on for her friend—hell, who was she kidding? Her family—to be okay.
A child's cry from the emergency waiting room shattered her pensive reflection, and she glanced down at her hands. Johnny's blood was streaked all over them, and while she knew that plastic separated her from really touching it, she could still feel the warmth of it as it streamed over her hands.
Closing her eyes to steady herself, she turned and headed to the base station, preparing to make the call she dreaded to one Roy Desoto, Johnny's emergency contact.
The line rang. And rang. And rang.
She checked the time.
10 PM.
Just before she knew the line would direct her to the answering machine, the receiver clicked, and a concerned, slightly sleepy voice greeted her.
"'Ello?"
"Roy?" Dixie steadied herself against the edge of the desk, her knuckles white. "It's Dixie. They just brought Johnny in."
~ ~ ~
Joanne’s fingers traced the rough cuts in the tattered fabric resting in her palms, a lump of emotion throbbing in her throat. She hadn't known what to do when Dixie had handed her a bag of Johnny's things when she'd been visiting earlier. The other woman's eyes were bright with an emotion Joanne couldn't name.
Roy had stopped by briefly before he had to go to work, but had been stressed that Johnny would wake up alone and be confused, so Joanne had volunteered to sit with him while the kids were at school. It was strange to see the vibrant young man who riled up her children when he came over for regular dinners and filled the house with an energy that put an extra bounce in Roy's steps and who brought her flowers with that sheepish smile of his that made her want to pinch his cheeks.
To see him lying so still and pale… well, it was unnatural.
The surgery to remove the knife had gone well, but Dr. Brackett had said he'd been lucky. The blade had nicked the femoral artery, but thanks to Dr. Jimenez's quick thinking and experience, they'd been able to repair the damage and were hopeful that there was no nerve involvement. The muscles would need time to heal, but with some physical therapy, he would be fine.
Then, Johnny's body had done what Johnny's body does, and a nasty bout of pneumonia set in. It was always a possibility with being hospitalized and Johnny's susceptibility toward it, so Dr. Bracket had tried to get ahead of it with antibiotics, but it hadn't been enough.
They'd only just moved Johnny to the ICU step-down room last night after his fever had broken after days of flirting with cooling blankets and one scary late-night call to their house explaining their young friend had taken a turn for the worse and they should get down there.
Joanne doesn't remember praying harder for someone than she had for him that night in the hospital chapel while her husband fed ice chips to his delirious partner.
Seeing him with fewer tubes and wires attached to him was comforting, but she knew neither she nor Roy would feel entirely relaxed until he came home with them. If Johnny wanted to, that was, but she had a feeling he would, and Dr. Bracket wouldn't release him unless someone could watch him.
"Mrs. Desoto? Are you all right?"
A voice broke into her thoughts, and Joanne jumped, clutching the multi-colored fabric to her chest. A nurse stood beside Johnny, her full lips twisted in a worried line. Long dark hair was pulled up in a low bun on her head, and several loose strands framed her heart-shaped face. Joanne's eyes drifted to her nametag.
Nurse Walters.
"Mrs. Desoto?" she asked again, stepping toward her.
Joanne inhaled sharply and lowered the mess of fabric to her lap, a flush spreading across the ridge of her nose. "I'm sorry. I didn't even hear you come in. I'm fine."
Nurse Walter smiled and then turned her attention back to Johnny. "He's doing better today. His vitals are stronger."
Joanne watched how her fingers stayed a few seconds too long against the skin of Johnny's limp inner wrist, and the young woman looked at him almost wistfully.
"I'm glad," Joanne said emphatically. "He gave us quite the scare."
The woman nodded. "Me too. He had just returned from dropping me off after our date the night it happened. I didn't… know anything was wrong until I came to work the next morning, and you know what happened."
That explained some things.
Joanne sat up straighter, her spine aching from the chair. "I didn't know Johnny was seeing anyone."
Nurse Walter laughed. "It was our first date. Technically, I asked him. So, no, you probably didn't."
Joanne smiled tiredly at her, fingers unconsciously stroking over the pants in her lap. Walter's smile faltered at the sight of the tattered seams. "He loved those pants."
"I know," Running her finger over the rough cut edge of the fabric, Joanne surprised herself by adding. "I'm going to try to mend them for him. The pattern is a bit forgiving with how chaotic everything is tied together, and trust me, I would rather burn them for him than anything, and they probably won't be the same, but—"
She was rambling now. She knew it, but if she didn't, she would cry, and she didn't want to cry. Her tears would be saved and not wasted on a man who was, in all regards, going to be fine. However, she'd seen the lines on her husband's face when she'd kissed him before he'd left for work—lines of exhaustion, worry, and a few days of unknowns.
Roy cared so much for his partner, friend, and brother, and she'd grown more fond of him than she had thought possible. It was stressful to be here for something… so classically Johnny. He hadn't been on duty, but, according to Vince, when he'd given them an update on what he thought happened, he had tried to help a woman in danger as best as he could.
It was valiant and heroic, but Joanne wished he'd worry more about his safety. A selfish part of her wished he would keep throwing himself into things before he thought because it meant Roy would have a greater chance of walking through the front door and into her waiting arms, a kiss planted along his jaw.
Hers. Alive. Whole.
"I think he would love that," Nurse Walter said quietly.
She'd moved away from Johnny's bed after writing down his updated vitals and was now kneeling in front of Joanne, the dimple on her cheek shining through when she met her eye.
"I didn't get your name," Joanne murmured, wiping at her suspiciously watering eyes.
"Isla. Isla Walters."
Joanne smiled. "Well, Isla, I hate that we had to meet this way, but I'm glad. You seem like a nice girl, and I hope we have a chance to get to know you better outside of—" She waved her hand around the room. "Here."
Isla squeezed her hand and stood up. "Me too, and good luck with your sewing. That looks like quite the undertaking."
Groaning, Joanne shook the fabric in good nature. "You're telling me," her eyes trailed to the prone figure on the bed. "It'll be worth it, though. For everything he's done for us. For me." Joanne's voice broke. "It's the least I can do."
~ ~ ~
Johnny stared at the ceiling above him, the pattern in the plaster boring now that he had traced every possible angle and failed to unveil anything new.
He was finally getting discharged today. After a three-week stay in Rampart, he was finally cleared to continue recovering at "home." It wasn't his apartment because he couldn't do stairs yet, but Roy and Joanne had insisted on having him take their spare room on the ground floor.
"Let us take care of you," Roy said emphatically, his fingers white-knuckled around the HT. Johnny, please."
Johnny relented, but only if Joanne promised to let him help fold laundry and do small things around the house as he healed. She did enough, and he didn't want to add to her load.
His leg throbbed, and he sighed, counting his heartbeat in the wound. It had been fairly deep, with some muscle damage but no tendon or nerve involvement. He may not be waiting for Dixie to bring up his discharge papers and instructions if it had been deeper or half a centimeter to the left.
Shivering, he listened to the sounds of the hospital bleeding through the door to his room. The squeak of rubber-soled shoes against shiny vinyl and the low murmur of nurses swishing in and out of other units. He didn't know how he managed to get a private room—with a view, nonetheless, but he had an inkling that Dixie was behind it. Although when he'd asked, she'd only winked and walked out before he could force her hand.
"Hey, Partner."
The door swung open to his room, Roy materializing behind a wheelchair, and for once, Johnny didn't complain about it. He knew the rules and couldn't walk out of here yet, even if he wanted to. He was still weak from all the blood loss and fighting for his life from pneumonia on top of it. His body was tired, and just this once, he was grateful for the damned thing.
"Hi, Pally." Johnny smiled, sitting up a little straighter. "Ready to bust me out of here?"
Roy laughed. "The nurses are practically begging me to."
Pouting, Johnny shook his head. "Hey! I haven't been that bad."
The look Roy gave him tells him he was deluding himself.
.
"Okay, so maybe a little bad. But can you blame me?" he waved his arms around the room. "It's so… white."
Roy snorted and slid the wheelchair up alongside the bed. "Too white, huh?"
Johnny nodded briskly. "Haven't you read those books? About people who get locked in white rooms with next to no one for company? They start going crazy!"
Roy's lips twitched. "Well, lucky for you, that happened a long time ago."
"Roy!"
Truthfully, his hospital stay hadn't been too bad. Joanne visited him regularly while the kids were in school, his landlady brought him treats, the guys from the station came by multiple times when they could, and Isla occasionally worked shifts on his floor, making breathing exercises and other treatments easier.
Stepping closer, Roy put his hand on Johnny's shoulder. "I'm kidding, Junior. A little bit. Oh, the man you got tangled with?"
Johnny's nose scrunched, "Tommy?"
"Yeah," Roy said quietly. "He's doing a lot better. I talked with Dixie, and she said he's back on medication, and after another week of inpatient therapy, he'll be transferred to outpatient."
"That's great," Johnny said, and he meant it.
Tommy almost killed him and probably would have, too, if there hadn't been help right around the corner. Johnny didn't blame him for the accident. It was what it was. An accident. One Johnny put himself in the middle of. Man, I really need better self-preservation skills.
A silence fell between them, and Johnny could feel Roy's energy shifting. A stubborn sadness clung to him like a wet uniform beneath their turnouts. Something was bothering him, and Johnny felt he knew what it was.
"It's not your fault I'm in here, you know," he said cautiously, tiptoeing on the thin ice of his friend's mood. "It just was a freak thing. It's my fault for putting myself in that dangerous situation. I didn't think at all. I just saw the knife, saw the woman, and just… I blacked out."
Roy's hand drifted to his shoulder, the look on his face too serious for Johnny's liking. It made him uncomfortable. He didn't know what to do with sad people. Run into danger without a second thought? Sign him up. Sit with someone deep in their feelings? He'd rather be toasted on a hot grill.
"I know," Roy said, his words stiff. "I just… You were very sick, Johnny. I don't know how much you remember, but you were really sick."
"Worse than Koki?" Johnny stage whispered.
Roy's face twitched. "Nearly, yeah."
Oh. Johnny dropped his gaze to the blanket covering him. So far, he'd avoided this thought, the idea that he almost didn't make it. And Roy was right. He didn't remember most of it. After arriving in the ER, everything was a blur of distorted faces, sounds, and memories stained with fever-rich dreams.
"But I didn't," Johnny tilted his head, trying to look Roy in the eyes, but the other stubbornly avoided his gaze. "I didn't. Aren't you the one always telling me to focus on the facts and not the what-ifs?"
That got a small smile, and those blue eyes Johnny knew so well, could read like the back of his own hand without words, and whose thoughts were only seconds ahead of his own, met his.
"Yeah, you're right. Still, I'm glad you're here. I've been stuck with Brice for the last three weeks."
Johnny laughed, a genuine one. It traveled from the depths of his soul and splintered apart in the air. "Brice, huh?"
Roy grimaced. "Great guy, but extremely rigid. Get better soon, okay? He’s giving me heartburn."
The doors swept open, and Johnny's heart stuttered when Isla walked through with the paperwork and Joanne trailing behind her.
Joanne stopped at the foot of his bed, her lips pulling back into a smile that revealed her teeth. "You look good, Johnny. Like a man ready to be free of this place."
"Nearly," Isla reminded them gently, handing Roy what Johnny assumed were the discharge papers. "You still have physical therapy here, and I want to see you at every session. All right?"
She stared meaningfully at Johnn, and he glanced around, a finger pointed towards himself. "Who me?
You know I'm a star patient, Isla."
The woman rolled her eyes good-naturedly and moved to help Roy with the paperwork. Johnny was pretty sure he knew it by heart now, given how often Johnny ended up a guest here.
.
He noticed the bag in Joanne's hand, and his curiosity piqued. "What's in the bag, Jo?"
Joanne chuckled. ''I was wondering when you were going to ask me about that. Let's say it's a little "congratulations on surviving the gift."
Anticipation swirled in Johnny's stomach. With his parents so far away, he mainly spent his adult Christmases and birthdays alone. Although joining Station 51 meant that he'd seen the wrappings of a gift more often than he'd used to.
"You didn't have to, Jo. Being alive is a gift enough." He offered her a floppy grin, but she just shook her head and squeezed his good leg through the blanket.
"Nonsense, and besides, I think you'll like this one."
Cautiously, Johnny peeled back the shopping bag's brown plastic, revealing another package nestled in the bottom, wrapped in white paper. Pulling it out, he gently unwrapped it and froze when he saw what lay in the center.
My pants.
"They're not the same as they once were, but Dixie worked so hard to get the stains out of it, and I did my best, but—"
"Joanne," Johnny whispered, the lump in his throat making words hard. This is perfect. Thank you." He unfolded the pants and saw what Joanne meant. It wasn't quite the same, but it was very nearly identical.
The only difference was the stitching, which could easily get lost in the pattern from a distance. "This is… I don't even know what to say. I thought you wanted to burn these?"
Joanne wiped her eyes. "Well, yes, and I still do, but—because you care, I care. Although they do still deserve to be burned."
The smile on her face said otherwise.
"She stayed up way too late working on those, Junior." Roy threatened good-naturedly, wagging his finger. "So, I'd better see you wearing them when you're up and about again."
Johnny couldn't believe it. From threatening to burn his beloved pants to now being begged to wear them, Johnny wondered if he'd made a convert of them yet. Smiling at Isla, he winked. "Oh, I will, don't you worry about that. Besides, I think Miss Walters and I should go dancing to kind of break them in."
Isla raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, the clipboard clutched to her chest. "Only if you go to physical therapy and don't give your therapist any problems."
It was the easiest bargain Johnny's ever made. Smiling widely and ignoring the twinge in his leg, he sat up a little straighter.
"Deal."