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It was the first big thing Johnny had saved up for and bought with his own money. The first thing that was really his. Not even his home was his… the apartment was rented. But his motorcycle. That was special.
And it was also finally time to let it go. After seeing too many accidents, injuries, and deaths from motorcycle accidents, any paramedic that still rode one was insane.
And because Roy had stood there, just last week, watching Johnny wiping dust off the gas tank with his arms crossed over his chest and his lips pursed into a frown of concentration.
"One of these days, that thing is going to turn you into a call," he'd said. And he wasn't joking.
So Johnny put an ad in the paper. A guy from Pasadena was coming by next weekend to look at it. He sounded serious, said he'd bring cash just in case he liked it then and there.
Johnny pulled the bike out from his garage space and put his helmet on.
"One last ride," he murmured with a sad smile. He'd miss it.
The morning was clear as he rode. The air had just enough chill to make the leather jacket worth wearing, and the city fell behind him in bits and pieces. Goodbye to generic storefronts and traffic lights and horns honking. Hello freedom.
Johnny breathed a sigh as his stomach unknotted. He would miss the simplicity of riding once this baby was gone.
He took Canyon Road. The twists and turns that led up higher and higher, leaving the world behind. And when he reached the best lookout, he pulled over and took a break, sitting and looking down over the edge.
For a few minutes he didn't do anything except sit there with one boot on the ground and both arms resting loose over the handlebars, watching Los Angeles sit under its own haze and smog. Ugly up close, but almost beautiful when seeing it from above. Like a photograph in soft focus.
Then he kicked the bike back to life again, engine growling and chopping. He turned and started back down the winding road. He'd have time to give the bike a wash before putting her back in the garage for the buyer next weekend.
The twists and bends curved and he rolled with them, squeezing the brake just slightly to slow his descent.
And for one second, his hand closed on nothing useful. There was some resistance, barely, spongy and soft. He pumped the lever, hoping to catch something, something more substantial. Nothing.
"Shit."
He tried for the front brake, which was desperate enough. He really didn't want to cartwheel forwards if he could avoid it. But that didn't catch either. He just kept going faster, and his reactions were barely able to keep up with the tight turns.
Then the tires kissed gravel. Right at the edge of the pavement and enough to make him slide. Too fast, too hard.
He had just enough time to hope the guardrail caught him before the world disappeared.
Roy wasn't being paranoid. When Johnny didn't answer the phone, Roy just decided to drop by unannounced because they were friends and he could. That was all.
And he only took Canyon Road because his usual route was under construction. It definitely wasn't because Johnny had mentioned the other day that he might take the bike out for a ride and Roy knew his favorite spots.
Johnny could be out grocery shopping. That's why he didn't answer. Or mowing the lawn for the apartment manager as he did sometimes.
Roy was in the middle of thinking up another justification when he saw the guardrail peeking around the bend. As he drove around and got closer, he saw the distinctive gas tank of that damn bike. Johnny's damn bike.
He didn't see Johnny.
He turned the wheel so tightly the car skidded on the gravel before it came to a stop.
He was out of the car quick. He touched the rail, the twisted bike.
For one terrible second, Roy couldn’t find him. Then he saw the brown leather jacket beyond the guardrail, half hidden in the scrub.
"Johnny!"
Roy was over the rail before he remembered climbing it.
Johnny lay on his right side, helmet still on, left arm tucked close against his chest, one leg twisted awkwardly beneath him. His jacket was scraped raw along the shoulder and side. There was blood on his jeans. Blood on the gravel. Blood smeared across one glove.
Too still. He was too still. Roy dropped beside him, unsure where to start, what he could touch.
"Stop, stop…" He muttered to himself. He needed to get under control. He knew what to do. He was trained. This was no different.
He slid two fingers gingerly under the edge of the helmet at Johnny's neck. And he breathed out a sob of relief. There was a pulse.
Good. Good.
He looked back toward the road. No other cars. It was one of the things Johnny liked about it. No people.
No squad, no biophone, no drug box, no trauma box, nothing. Just Roy on the side of the road with Johnny bleeding into the dirt. That part wasn't so good.
He swallowed hard and worked on what he could do. Airway… Johnny was breathing. Shallow, too fast, but he was moving air. And… it sounded clean from what he could tell. If he had a collar, a gurney, an ambulance on the way, Roy would try to keep the helmet on and not move his head until help arrived.
But it wasn't coming. So Roy ran back to his car and grabbed a flannel shirt from under the seat. He carefully removed the helmet and replaced it with a pillow of flannel to keep Johnny's head stable enough while he checked him over.
Johnny's lashes fluttered.
"You waking up? Can you hear me? Johnny, it's Roy. Don't move, okay?"
Johnny moaned and opened his eyes halfway. For a second there was nothing behind them. No focus or recognition, just pain and confusion. Then he saw Roy.
"Roy?"
"Yep, that's me. No—don't move."
Johnny swallowed a few times before speaking again. "Brakes."
"What?"
"Brakes went out."
Roy looked back at the motorcycle. Then back at Johnny.
"'m gonna have to fix it before the guy comes," Johnny mumbled.
And Roy laughed, slightly hysterical. "You don't need to worry about that." That bike was trashed. Nobody was going to buy it now.
Johnny blinked at him slowly before his gaze drifted behind Roy and he saw the wreckage. Then his brow pinched.
"Oh." It was so small and disappointed that Roy almost laughed again.
Instead, he ran one hand carefully down the outside of Johnny's jacket, searching for places where it didn't feel right. Shoulder, collarbone, ribs. Then down his jeans, Blood spread dark and wet somewhere along the thigh, steady enough to make Roy's stomach tight.
"Okay, stay still…"
"I am."
"Good. Stay that way." He didn't have any scissors. Roy found a tear and pulled, ripping Johnny's jeans apart.
"Hey…" Johnny protested, halfheartedly.
"Don't move." Roy peeled away the wet and sticky denim to find an ugly, jagged tear in the flesh of Johnny's thigh. "Okay… I'm gonna need that flannel shirt back…."
Before reaching for it, Roy asked. "Does your neck hurt?"
"Everything…"
"Johnny, your neck."
Johnny was quiet for a moment before he shook his head, an answer and a test in one. Roy gently maneuvered his head, laying it on the ground as he took the flannel shirt and then pressed it hard against Johnny's thigh.
Johnny gasped, his entire body trying to fold in half against the pressure. Roy's other hand came up to Johnny's chest.
"No."
"Hurts."
"I know."
Johnny's face had gone gray under his tan. Sweat was beading up along his upper lip and brow. His eyes were still open, but they weren't focused on anything and kept rolling as he drifted.
Roy pressed harder on the wound, and Johnny's hand came up to push him away. It was easily redirected back to his own chest, and then Roy used the sleeves from the shirt to tie it down over the wound to keep it tight.
"Johnny, there's nobody coming. I need to get you to the hospital."
Johnny blinked up at him, and for a second, Roy thought he was with him, that he understood. Then his eyes slid to the side, and he closed them.
"Squad?"
"No squad, Johnny. Just me and my car."
"Stupid little sports car."
"Yeah, that." Roy looked at the flannel again. It was already getting darker with blood. And Johnny clearly had a concussion at least. And probably other injuries Roy hadn't found yet. But they were running out of time.
"There's no phone," Roy said. "No traffic. You're bleeding, and you're shocky, and I'm not leaving you here while I run down the road looking for somebody who might not come."
Johnny's mouth moved. Nothing came out.
Roy leaned closer. "So I'm going to move you. I'm going to hate it. You're going to hate it. We're going to do it anyway."
Johnny blinked once.
"Okay."
That one word almost undid him.
Roy nodded, more to himself than Johnny. "Good. Okay. Good."
He found Johnny's uninjured arm and guided it carefully across his chest. The left arm was worse. The way Johnny kept it tucked tight told Roy enough. Collarbone, shoulder, maybe ribs. He didn't have time to be delicate in the way he wanted. He had to be careful in the way that mattered.
He moved behind Johnny and slid one arm under his shoulders, bracing as much of his neck and upper back as he could against his own chest.
Johnny stiffened immediately.
"Roy—"
"I've got you."
"Don't—"
"I've got you."
Roy lifted, and Johnny cried out a raw, startled sound that broke off almost at once because he didn't have enough breath to keep making it.
Roy nearly put him back down.
For one terrible second, his whole body rebelled. Every bit of training screamed wrong, wrong, wrong. His hands wanted to stop. His brain wanted to stop. His gut wanted to stop.
Johnny's head rolled back against his shoulder.
"Johnny?"
Johnny's lashes fluttered, but his eyes didn't open.
"Stay with me. Come on. You can pass out at Rampart."
"M'not..."
"Okay, good. Stay not passing out then." Roy got from his knees to his feet in careful, heavy movements, Johnny's body in his arms. He breathed through his teeth as he climbed the steep gravel, unable to use his hands for balance and grip.
By the time he reached the guardrail, sweat was running down his back. The rail was too high to climb over with precious cargo in his arms, so he had to circle around. Precious second being wasted. He looked up and down the road as he carried Johnny to his car, his tiny classic car that was going to have rust stains on the upholstery now.
Still no traffic, no cars, no help.
"Still with me?" He asked, looking down at Johnny's face. The slightest movement of a furrowed brow and Johnny hummed a response. Good enough.
He didn't bother opening the door, the roof was down anyway. He just set Johnny in the passenger seat as carefully and gently as he could. Johnny still hissed and opened his eyes, slightly more aware.
"Where's m' bike?"
"Don't worry about that now. Bike's gone, but you're going to be okay."
"Gone?"
Roy settled Johnny's side up against the door and ran to the driver's side. He slid in and settled Johnny's injured leg on his lap, keeping it elevated. Steering would be awkward in the tiny space, but speed was important.
"Did I wreck?" Johnny lifted his head and looked around, realizing he was in Roy's car.
"Yeah."
"Bad?"
Roy threw the car into gear. "Pretty bad."
"Oh."
There was that small disappointment again. Like Johnny had dropped a plate. Like he had missed a turn. Like he hadn't nearly killed himself on the side of a canyon.
Roy pulled onto the road too fast and corrected when the tires skidded.
"Don't do that," Johnny mumbled.
Roy barked another tight laugh. "Don't you start giving me driving advice."