Standard "They-don't-belong-to-me-they-just-come-out-to-play-now-and-then" disclaimers apply. Everyone from the television show "Emergency!" belong to Universal Studios and Mark VII Limited. No copyright infringement intended, no money being made--just ask my checkbook! <g> Anything not already belonging to someone else is mine, all mine! Bwa ha ha ha!

Expiration Date
by inkling

 

Within the fire and out upon the sea
Crazy Man Michael was walking...

Despite his best efforts, the fire had grown continually smaller, while the gathering gloom pulled more and more of his surroundings into itself. Brushing away the cobwebs of his weariness, Mike ignored the creeping shadows as best he could. All that mattered was staying awake, keeping the fire going--keeping the light and warmth and himself alive as long as possible. If the fire went out, he'd never get out of here at all. *IF* the fire went out, he repeated to himself, and tried to ignore the "when" shuddering through his bones as the tiny flames flickered and died briefly before flaring up again.

Steel beams and girders from the collapsed building lay twisted about him like spaghetti, creaking and groaning, the metal moans shivering away into the distance as the wreckage shifted and settled. Occasionally something larger and more solid shrieked and succumbed with a crash to the structure's slow death, but Mike didn't jump at the sudden noises any more. He was too drained, too exhausted now to deny that his own end was creeping relentlessly nearer with each strangled boom in the distance. Hunching his shoulders against the latest wail of tortured metal and stressed construction, Mike fought his body's willingness to surrender to the sleep the shadows urged upon him. He concentrated instead on keeping the tiny fire alive with his ever-dwindling supply of fuel. As long as he had the fire, now licking hungrily at an old-fashioned particleboard clipboard, he could delay the inevitable.

He refused to just give up, to just lie down and sleep.

The clipboard burning down to its last edge, Mike again dug for fuel, his available circle of light circumscribed even further by the advancing darkness. This time his scrabbles in the dust netted him an entire box of pencils, which he fed to the fire two at a time. But it was useless--the gloom about him kept oozing forward, taking more and more of the faintly lit space about Mike for itself. Despite the minuscule fire that threw almost no heat out, Mike felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead, and he wiped anxiously at the ones that were dripping around his eyes. He'd known this day was coming, had known it for the last twenty-two years, but that didn't mean he had to like it, didn't make it any easier to accept now that the time was actually here. He didn't want to do this, he didn't want to sleep, to slip away in the darkness and dirt, like--

Shuddering, he pulled his thoughts away from that particular picture, and concentrated on feeding the pencil box to the fire, one panel at a time.

He met with a raven with eyes black as coals
And shortly they were a-talking
'Your future, your future, I would tell to you Your future, you have often asked me
...Crazy Man Michael will curséd be.'

The secret to being inconspicuous lay in the timing. He'd learned to arrive at work before anyone else, to be settled in as part of the scenery by the time the rest of the crew got there. Add the newspaper for him to hide behind, and Mike had gotten through his mornings lately without having to talk to anyone, without having to answer any questions at all.

"Oh, come on, Gage! Even you have to see that 'SATURDAY Night' is a classic! It's gonna be right up there with 'Satisfaction' and all those other famous songs, just you wait and see!"

"Chet, you have to be the only person in the world who thinks that men who dance around a stage in plaid pants--*highwater* plaid pants, if you'll notice--are gonna have any place outside a, a, a *dumpster* in rock'n'roll history."

Mike slumped further down in his chair and held the newspaper up a bit higher as Chet and Johnny's squabbling preceded them into the day room. Not even eight a.m. and those two were already at it. The day just got immeasurably longer.

"Gee, Johnny, how'd you know they wear plaid? Are you a closet fan of their show? You know, the Saturday Night one? How many episodes did you watch? Come on, 'fess up. You know what they say: 'Confession is good for the soul.'"

Mike sighed. Only Chet could get Johnny all worked up over the relative merits of the Bay City Rollers--if there were any, that is.

"Your soul, maybe, Chet, but not mine." A cabinet squeaked; Johnny was after his morning coffee. Chet would be right behind him, dogging his mark all the way. Johnny's voice continued over the gurgling sound of pouring coffee. "And I never watched that stupid show at all! *I* have better things to do on a Saturday night than sit around watching guys strut around on a stage in *plaid* and make fools of themselves."

"Well, you're the resident expert on that subject, Johnny. Nobody makes a better fool around here than you do."

"Hey!" Johnny protested as the coffeepot landed with a bang on the stove, and Mike didn't have to look to see the smirk on Chet's face. The silence lasted for all of two seconds; Chet wasn't gonna let Johnny catch his breath when he already had him on the ropes.

"And I still say 'SATURDAY Night' is a classic--in anybody's book," Chet asserted.

Okay, if Mike could hold out behind the paper long enough, Cap would come in and announce roll call, putting a stop to the insane discussion. Of course, he could always leave the room and read the paper somewhere else. But then he ran the risk of someone coming in and finding him alone and actually wanting to carry on a conversation with him.

"Oh, come ON, Kelly. Even *you* can't believe that!"

Nope, best to stay here, look as normal as possible, and try to pretend he wasn't lost in his own private episode of the Twilight Zone, made all the more macabre by the ridiculous debate swirling around him.

"I don't have to believe, Gage, I *know*. My great-grandma Fahey had the Sight, you know, and I take after her. In anybody's book that song is an absolute classic. Absolute."

"Looks like Chet has a promising career as a bridge salesman if he ever decides to leave firefighting."

Mike nearly stopped breathing when he realized he'd spoken aloud.

"Mike? You say something?" Damn Johnny's sharp ears. Fortunately, they were used to him not talking by now--or they should be.

"Nope." Paper crinkled as Mike ducked further behind the day's issue of the Times. After a second, the argument resumed around him.

"Maybe it's a classic in your book, Chet, but not mine." Marco? When had he walked in? Marco continued, "I'm with Johnny on this one."

"Yeah, right, Marco, the only rock group you listen to is Santana. How classic is that?" Chet sneered.

"Very," Marco stated calmly, before throwing fuel on the fire. "Besides, everybody knows Carlos Santana is the god of all guitarists."

Mike knew Marco would play it straight, if nothing else just to get both Chet and Johnny going again. He had spent some great days off with Marco in the last few years, hitting hole-in-the wall record shops to hunt down the obscure music they both preferred over the current pop faves. Marco looked for Tom Rush and Muddy Waters, Mike for some rather obscure British folk rock for which he'd developed a taste in college. Twice this last week Marco had asked when he wanted to go again, and Mike wasn't entirely sure he'd successfully disguised his reluctance. Why bother? He wasn't going to enjoy the music he had for much longer, let alone anything new.

"Now, I really hate to do this, Marco, but I'm gonna have to tell you I've got a different opinion on this one."

"Hey, did everyone get that? Gage has an opinion!"

"Chet!"

Mike felt safe rolling his eyes; he did have the entire sports section between him and the rest of the room. And he thought *he* was going nuts...If they wanted to talk guitarists, Mark Knopfler of Dire Straits was the best, along with a Brit named Graeme Taylor--not that anyone here had heard of the man or the band he played with. Three months ago Mike would probably have joined the debate, putting his two cents worth in and enjoying the sport along with everyone else. In the seven years they'd been at it he had yet to figure out which was more entertaining: winding Johnny up, or laughing over Roy's longsuffering gloom when he had to deal with his wound-up partner.

But taunting someone else wasn't going to ease the twisted knot Mike's stomach had become lately, wasn't going to erase the leaden dread that weighted his every waking moment. Today he hadn't even been able to face breakfast, settling for a now stone-cold cup of coffee when he got to the station. Trouble was, the lack of both sleep and regular meals was beginning to show, in his face, and in the way his hands sometimes began to shake at odd moments. Thankfully he was good at keeping quiet and staying unobtrusively out of everyone's way. Besides, a few more days and it wouldn't matter anyway, so if he could just keep the hounds at bay a little longer...

The argument continued, and Mike decided he should probably turn the page, just for appearance's sake. Someone pulled out the chair next to him and sat; a coffee cup thunked on the table about the same time as the smell of Old Spice hit his nose. Roy. Good, the quieter half of their paramedic team would probably leave him alone. He shook the paper out just a little bit, and continued his pretense.

"Eric Clapton and Cream," Roy stated calmly as there was a sudden collective pause for breath, and they were off again, this time dropping the bands and going for guitarists alone.

As the debate ebbed and flowed around him, Mike wondered briefly if he should try to say goodbye to his friends. How to actually start such a conversation, he had no clue--not to mention the fact that he couldn't come up with a way to say what he'd like to without giving everything away entirely.

It took a lot of work these days to keep his thoughts from dwelling on things better left unrealized, a lot of effort to keep at bay the fear that had been steadily building within him for the last year. At this late date his hold on things was tenuous at best, and if he wasn't careful the beast would slip its leash and Mike would be undone in front of God and everybody. And he wasn't ready to face that particular hell. No, the best approach was the one he'd been taking for the last six months: Say nothing and don't think about it and do your damnedest to ignore the sick feeling in your gut every time the tones sounded.

The first note of the tones blasted through the kitchen and the paper was a crumpled mass between his hands before Mike realized the call was for the squad alone. Roy and John fled the kitchen as Cap's voice wafted through the door, acknowledging the call for them. Ignoring the quizzical look Marco was giving him over his coffee cup, Mike shook the paper hard in a vain attempt to straighten the kinked-up newsprint. He refused to acknowledge the footsteps coming his way, mentally cursing whatever god had gifted Chet Kelly with an unerring nose for fresh pigeon. Usually Johnny was enough to distract him, but this time Chet's radar had Mike squarely in its sights.

Mike swore out loud as the Times tore instead of coming out of its kinks. The newsprint rattled when he shook it again. Chet put both hands on the table next to him and leaned forward.

"Whatsamatter, Mikey? Reliving the traumatic newspaper attack you suffered as a child?"

Mike ignored him. He dropped the paper down onto the table, grabbed the top and bottom and yanked. There was silence as all three men stared at the resulting two sections of newsprint in his hands.

"Ouch." Chet's solemn tone couldn't hide the glee he obviously felt at Mike's sudden and all-too-rare vulnerability, while Mike silently cursed the fate that made him so off-kilter today. Thankfully Marco and his coffee were still settled against the counter across the kitchen, staying out of things. Chet, however, leaned further over the table until Mike couldn't avoid looking at him. He put as much wattage as he could into the glare he gave Chet, but he knew as well as the next man that when Chet Kelly was on a roll it took either a tone-out or the wrath of Captain Stanley to shut him up. Unfortunately neither act of God took pity on Mike Stoker this morning. Imperturbable, Chet met Mike's glare and, in a stage whisper, he offered, "Arts and Crafts class isn't until this afternoon, pal, and I don't think papier maché was on the list--at least, not using the Captain's paper."

Mike closed his eyes and took a deep breath. There really were days he wished his friends would just drop off the face of the earth. Ignoring Chet to look down at the mess he'd made of the station's paper, he carefully laid the two sections of wrinkle-free print out on the table and eased them together. He leaned over to be sure he had them lined up exactly, and then tried to lay the other ragged fragments right. Of course, he'd be free of Chet and all his other friends soon enough, whether he wanted to be or not. Or they'd be free of him, whichever way you wanted to look at it. His stomach lurched, and Mike closed his eyes, fighting the sudden nausea and trying to stop the shudder that ran through him at that thought. But he should have known it was too much to ask.

"Mike? Hey, Mikey--" Chet's tone had gone from insolent to concerned in an instant, and sympathetic Chet was definitely scarier than pigeon-hunting Chet. Without looking, Mike shoved the ruined paper across the table and straightened. He shouldered past Chet's outstretched hand and, head down, still avoiding the incredulous stares of his crewmates, stalked across the common room toward the door into the vehicle bay. Captain Stanley materialized in the opening while he was still two steps away from safety.

"Roll call, gents."

His own eyes averted, Mike refused to meet Stanley's gaze, just waited patiently as Cap took in the silent tableau before him. He felt rather than saw the shrugs his crewmates must have offered for explanation, and then Cap stepped back and out of the way and Mike escaped out into the other room.

~~~~~~~

Michael he ranted and Michael he raved
And beat at the four winds with his fists-oh
He laughed and he cried, he shouted and he swore
For his mad mind had trapped him...oh

It was a quiet morning for the engine crew; the squad was in and out four times before the engine got a single call. Even then it was just to assist the squad at an "unknown" rescue. It turned out some five-year-old kid had climbed too far up into the cottonwood tree behind his house to get himself down, so Mike was safe staying in the background and facilitating things, hauling equipment, holding a rope, that sort of stuff. He didn't have to get involved, didn't have to get up in the tree, and didn’t have to risk himself at all. Not that that was going to make any difference. When your time came, it came, and there was nothing to be done about it. Mike should know that, and better than most.

The afternoon was slow as well, and the early evening hours found Mike without any chores to keep him busy. The engine shone spotlessly; the bay floors were mopped. He had even finished up in the latrine for Johnny, shrugging the garrulous paramedic's thanks off when the squad came in from its tenth run. Now supper was over and done with. Chet washed dishes as penance for some Phantom prank; Marco had taken pity on him and was helping out while they resurrected the argument with Johnny about the best rock-n-roll guitarist. Cap kept sniping at them to keep things down, he couldn't hear the clues on Jeopardy, and Roy was trying to get the squad's logbook caught up. Mike decided escape was the best defense, and headed into the locker room on a mythical errand.

Once there, Mike washed his hands, and then his face, for no better reason than to be doing something if someone happened to walk in on him. His friends suddenly seemed to have developed an allergy to leaving him alone. The pine-scented cleanser he'd splashed on his shirt finishing up the floors earlier was as good an excuse as any to linger. Going over to his locker and opening it, he spent a long moment staring at the blue uniform shirts hanging in a neat row, before slowly choosing one and taking it out. Five minutes later Mike had finally gotten the old shirt off and the new one on. These last few weeks he had become an artist at procrastination, learning how to draw even the simplest task out to occupy his mind as long as possible. He had to keep his mind busy, otherwise his thoughts had a nasty tendency of rabbiting back to unthinkable topics.

Buttoning the last button on the clean shirt, he reached for the one lying on the bench, carefully pulling the photograph from the front pocket. The shirt dropped onto the bench beside him as he sat, staring at the gray-on-gray tones of the picture.

He didn't know exactly why he'd started carrying the photograph, he just knew that these days he felt incomplete without it on his person somewhere. It went into his shirt pocket at the beginning of every shift, and Mike made sure it stayed there. Nights it stayed beneath his pillow; he didn't think anyone had noticed him carrying it out to the engine when they got toned out, and once there it only took a second or two to slip it into his helmet. If they had noticed, no one said anything. Hell, they were all superstitious--Chet kept a St. Florian's medal in his helmet, Johnny had something tied inside his that he wouldn't discuss, and Marco had a small picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Roy's talisman was a cheap silver fire engine his daughter had given him; Cap's, couple of poker cards left over from a winning hand.

So no one should think twice about Mike's new talisman. Why should they? Just because he'd never felt the need before, just because Mike the Engineer had always felt that the big red fire engine was his talisman, his good luck charm...But lately he'd lost that feeling of being protected, of being looked after. Maybe that was why he'd brought the photograph with him. Too bad it didn't seem to stop the shivers that shook him now every time they went out on a run.

"That's a nice bike."

Mike jerked, swiveling around on the bench and nearly losing the photograph as he grabbed for the crumpled shirt before it fell on the floor. Tightening his grip on the picture, he pulled the shirt back from danger. Then he focused on the picture again to avoid Captain Stanley's concerned gaze as the man swung a long leg over and sat, straddling the bench next to him. Great, just great. He didn't need this, didn't need to try to defend himself or explain himself or anything. The beast had to remain caged and leashed and discussing things was a sure way to let the cat out of--

"What is that, an old Harley?"

Mike pulled himself out of the whirlwind of his thoughts with an effort.

"It's an Indian."

Cap whistled in surprise.

"Really? I've never even seen one of those. They were supposed to be some kind of ride."

Mike nodded. The bike had been a good ride, there was no doubt about that. Both men stared at the picture, but Mike knew Cap couldn't see what he saw. The black and white images gave no indication of the future, either the one immediately following or the one twenty-some-odd years down the road. He swallowed against the sudden sensation of dry dust in his mouth.

"May I?" Captain Stanley held one hand out diffidently, and after a second, Mike allowed him to take the picture, fighting back the panic that rose within him as he felt the thin paper slip through his fingers. He concentrated on breathing slowly and normally as Cap looked closely at the three people in the photo.

"Is that you?" He pointed at the leggy, skinny kid at the tail end of the bike.

Mike hoped the Captain didn't notice how long it took him to answer the question, wouldn't make note of the fact that he couldn't find his voice and simply nodded instead.

"How old were you? Fourteen, fifteen?"

Mike shook his head, and smiled in spite of everything. People always made that mistake. Thank God he'd filled out some as he got older, even if his body weight had taken several years to catch up to his height. The momentary amusement was enough for him to find his voice.

"Eleven. I was eleven that summer."

Cap's mouth said a silent "oh" and his eyebrows went up.

"You got your height early then."

Again, Mike just nodded. And because Cap kept staring at the picture and Mike really wanted it back in his hands, back in his pocket where it needed to be, he answered the question he knew was coming next.

"The man at the head of the bike is my Uncle Rick, and that's my Dad behind me." That information offered, his hand went out automatically. Cap didn't say anything as he gave the picture up. Mike slipped it carefully into his pocket, and then stood and finished tucking in his shirt. Hands on his thighs, Cap watched silently until Mike was done and reaching for his dirty shirt.

"What's your dad do now?"

Mike was proud of himself. He kept the shudder at that inquiry down to what should have been an unnoticeable shiver. He shook the shirt out and folded it before answering.

"Nothing."

Cap frowned.

"He's retired?"

Closing his eyes, Mike turned away from the question, launching the shirt blindly at his locker. Behind him he heard Cap's knees creak as he stood, and Mike flinched infinitesimally away from his quiet concern. Looking everywhere but at the man beside him, he concentrated on shutting his locker door, quietly, carefully. He stared at the pale wood before him for a long moment before he could get enough of the dry dust out of his throat to correct Cap's innocent assumption.

"He's dead," Mike croaked, and couldn't have stopped the words that rushed out afterwards even if he'd tried. "He died less than a week after that picture was taken."

The tones took pity on him this time, and Mike wheeled about and bolted like the coward he was for the engine.

~~~~~~~~

'You speak with an evil, you speak with a hate
You speak for the devil that haunts me...'

Mike pulled the engine in behind the squad and killed the motor. While everyone else scrambled out to survey the damage firsthand, he just sat and stared, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly in a vain effort to stop their shaking. The nausea he'd have to live with.

White with a brick half-face, the two story Cape Cod sat in the midst of an upscale neighborhood, one of those places with lots of "atmosphere." In this case "atmosphere" translated to lots of massive trees and picturesque houses--and roads that were a firefighter's nightmare, winding without rhyme or reason between the large, park-like lots. This was the kind of place folks dreamed of raising their kids in, where the neighborhood sold the house for the owner. Of course, the large oak tree cutting the south end of this particular house off from the north end might affect its resale value just a bit.

LOOK OUT!

Mike shuddered and opened his door. Luckily, Cap was busy enough with the frantic woman standing in front of the ruined house that he didn't seem to have noticed Mike lagging behind in the rescue effort. Coming around the front of the engine, he stood just behind Chet and Marco as Cap got what details he could.

"I--we thought it was a gunshot, but then there was this huge crash and the whole house sounded like it was coming down!" Short black hair framed a chubby face streaked with make-up, clown-like in the long shadows of sunset. The woman was probably pretty, but her tear-swollen eyes and runny nose made it impossible to tell. She grabbed Cap's arm with both hands. "Please, my babies, Walter, they're still inside. You have to--"

"That's what we're here for, ma'am," Cap cut in. He looked over and gestured with his free arm at the firefighters behind him. "Kelly, you and Lopez check the power lines. Make sure we don't have any danglers." The two men nodded and took off at a run around opposite ends of the house. Cap turned to the woman, and gently disengaged his arm. He took her by the shoulders. "How many people are still inside, Mrs...?"

"Bretthauer," she responded automatically, one hand coming up to cover her mouth after she said it. Her eyes brimming over again, she looked up at Cap pleadingly. The hand dropped away, and she answered, "Th-three. My babies, Amy, and, and Greg--We couldn't find them! Please, they're so little--"

Mike? Where are you, Buddy? MIKE! Rick, can you see Mike anywhere?

"Where were they?" Cap's voice was sharp, and Mike flinched, involutarily bringing one hand half up to block--he wasn't sure what. Dropping his hand down to his side, he shifted from foot to foot, and hoped no one else had noticed. But Cap's command had done it's job, gotten the poor woman to focus in spite of her fear, so they could get the information they needed to save her family.

Mrs. Bretthauer jerked a hand behind her, at the house.

"In, in the back bedroom. O-over there, in the corner. Sec-second floor."

"Okay, we'll get them, ma'am. Now, who else is in there?" Roy and Johnny were at the squad, pulling out equipment. Mike hesitated, and then waited behind Cap. He realized his hands were clenched into fists, and forced them to relax.

"Walter, my husband..." She gulped loudly, and closed her eyes. "He tried...he tried to get up to the kids' bedroom, and it all just came down on him. I...I went to call for help." She looked up at Cap, her face crumpling into tears again. "Please, they're...Amy's three, Greg's four. They were asleep, in the nursery. Amy gets scared of the dark, so they share a room..." Her voice was a mere whisper as it trailed away into a soft sob, and Mike's gaze helplessly followed hers back to the devastated house.

It was a tortuous mess of tree and boards and sheet rock. Behind the tree limbs jutting out of the ruined roof into the sky, Mike could see the upper story, the interior opened up like the backside of a dollhouse. A child's bed was tangled ominously with the tree branches between the ground floor and what had been the ceiling of the living room. Choking down the nausea, he looked away, stared at the ground, the air, anywhere but at the sight directly in front of him.

"Okay, where's Walter?" Cap's voice helped him lever things back a bit, and Mike tried to concentrate on the here and now.

In answer the woman waved at the front door. "In there, in the living room...."

In what had been the living room.

Cap patted her shoulder gently as Chet and Marco reappeared. Both men shook their heads, and Cap nodded, returning his attention to the woman. Johnny and Roy were dropping their equipment on the lawn.

"And that's everyone?"

Miserably, she nodded. With a final pat on her shoulder, Cap gratefully handed the sobbing woman off to one of a number of friendly neighbors who were hovering nearby. That done, he let the Sheriff's deputy who had appeared at his elbow shoo everyone back away from the house, and they got down to doing what the Fire Department paid them to do.

"There's no danglers, Cap. Looks like the tree just missed the lines." Chet made his report official as they gathered around Cap, and he nodded. He stared blankly at Mike for a second, ignoring the rest of the knot of firefighters awaiting his command. Mike told himself that Cap was just thinking, and attempted to look as nonchalant as possible. He wasn't sure he'd done a good job of it at all when Cap's gaze finally turned away from him.

"Okay, Kelly, you and Lopez assist Roy on the inside. Chain saw, chocks--make sure it's stable before you go climbing on anything, got it?" Like twin dolls, both men's heads bobbed, but Cap had already turned to the rest of his crew. "Gage, you and Stoker get a ladder and go around to the back of the house. See if you can't get through to the kids' bedroom that way." That said, Cap headed for the cab of the engine. Mike knew he'd be asking dispatch to be sure the power was shut off at this location--and ordering additional ambulances.

We'll need to call the coroner, Mr. Stoker.

The knot of firemen shifted and then unraveled as the men ran to their appointed tasks. Swallowing bile, Mike automatically turned to follow his crewmates. No one would say anything if he was the last man in, would they? Mike shook his head, willed the nausea away, and began helping to gather gear from the vehicles. Shouldering ropes and one end of the ladder while Johnny grabbed the other, he took two steps toward the house, then hesitated.

"Johnny, just a sec." He set his end of the ladder on the ground, ignoring Johnny's impatient tapping of the axe handle against his leg. Returning to the engine, Mike opened a compartment and grabbed a yellow blanket. He tucked it under his arm and then rejoined Johnny at the ladder.

Keep this wrapped around you, Mike, okay? You've got to stay warm while I'm gone.

Cap had disappeared into the house after the rest of the crew. Mike and Johnny ran around the house toward the back. Forcing their way through a spreading sugar bush, they broke through into a spacious back yard. The base of the fallen tree stood about ten feet behind the house, the jagged yellow of its heartwood stark against the soft greens of the rest of the yard. A blue rope double snaked across the grass at their feet, ending at a yellow child's swing lying upside down beside the shattered trunk.

Roy's voice, calm and patient as always, floated out from the huge gash bisecting the house.

"My partner is looking for your children, Mr. Bretthauer. My job is to get you out of here. Please, don't move around anymore."

Ben, don't try to move! I'll take care of Mike, okay?

Set in the corner of the house, the large, second-story window was remarkably intact, though the wall it was set in disappeared a scant foot from its edge. Dropping both blanket and rope, Mike concentrated on getting the ladder set. As Johnny started to climb, Mike leaned against the ladder, closing his eyes and praying to any god who might be listening that he wasn't going to lose what little bit of Roy's tuna casserole he'd been able to stomach at supper. The ladder shook beneath his cheek as he swallowed his rising nausea back, fighting to keep his mind focused on the job at hand. Why did it have to be like this, taunt him this way? Why didn't it just happen and be over?

"No! You have to find my kids! Can you see them? Forget me, you have to help them first!"

Get Mike out first; find him and get him out of here, Rick! Dammit, don't worry about me!

Roy and Johnny spoke almost simultaneously.

"My partner's gonna take care of your kids, okay? You just relax and let me do my job."

"Look out below, I'm gonna break the window."

Mike obediently ducked his head against falling glass. >From the house a quiet command came from Cap; the sound of wood being hammered and shifted accompanied the continued tinkling of breaking glass. The ladder creaked and shifted as Johnny leaned in the window. Given the huge slash that had torn the house wide open, it was almost macabre when the back door of the house opened and Cap came out. Mike straightened up in a hurry, but Cap didn't seem to notice. Pausing a moment to stare at the tree lying quietly in the yard, he shook his head and then walked around everything to join Mike at the base of the ladder.

"What have you got, Gage?" he called up.

"There's a lot of big pieces, Cap." Johnny's voice was muffled as he hung half in and half out of the window, poking and prodding at the debris. Mike didn't envy the paramedic; he knew what Johnny was looking for; moreover, he knew exactly what it looked like. He fought another shudder, and tried to look less nauseous than he felt.

"Amy? Greg?" Johnny's voice called his attention back to the here and now. There was a small sound, like kittens mewling, and all three men tensed.

"AMY? GREG?" Johnny tried again, but the men waiting tensely below couldn't tell if the sound came again. There was no guarantee of anything, at all in this business. Johnny leaned further in the window, before a sharp "GAGE!" from Cap stopped him. With a last look inside, he scrambled down the ladder. Mike took the axe Johnny handed off to him.

"Cap, the ceiling came down in a bunch of large chunks. I can't see anyone, but that noise is coming from the far outside corner of the room, and there's a whole bunch of building material and insulation between that and the window. It seems secure enough, Cap, and there's enough floor space to maneuver. I should be able to get in, no problem."

"That matches what we could see from inside. The outside frame is sturdy?"

"As near as I can tell."

Cap didn't hesitate.

"Okay, I want you roped up. If that floor goes, I don't want to have to dig you out. Mike can man the lines down here." He turned to Mike, but as he opened his mouth, Mike nodded, grateful for any excuse to escape the scene replaying itself before him. He nodded before Cap could frame the question.

"I'll get the belt." Dropping the axe, he was gone, around the house and out into the front yard, the grim scene behind him, where it couldn't make him think about things he'd rather not remember. There wasn't any time to really get himself together, not with the kids' mom over there, still frantically sobbing in the arms of a neighbor.

Pausing at the corner of the house, half behind a narrow oleander bush, Mike gave himself one deep breath, then set his face in his best "everything is under control" mask and headed for the squad. He pointedly ignored the people gathered around the outskirts of the scene as he yanked the compartment open and grabbed the belt. If he hurried, he wouldn't have to deal with any of them; if he kept his manner as businesslike as possible, he'd scare them all off before they gathered enough courage to come bother him.

The chain saw was revving inside the house when he returned. Mike helped Johnny get roped up while the saw whined its way through cut after cut. As they worked on his ropes, Johnny nodded his head toward the other rescue.

"How's it going in there?"

"He's stuck about halfway between the floor and the ceiling. A branch shifted and a lot of debris fell on his leg, but we should be able to get him out all right. Roy doesn't think his leg is broken, just bruised." Cap paused, and his eyes flicked back up to the broken window, where dark blue curtains decorated with Tweety Bird now fluttered gently in the breeze. He took a deep breath, then looked back at Johnny and Mike. "I think mostly he's just worried about his kids."

Johnny nodded.

"Well, that's understandable. Ready, Mike?"

Don't you worry about me, Mike. I'll be fine. Just keep that fire going, okay?

"Mike?"

Cap's question overlaid the other, and Mike blinked and tried not to look as embarrassed as he felt.

"Yeah, I'm ready." He avoided the questioning glance Cap gave him, concentrating instead on getting Johnny's rope set, and then playing it out as the paramedic climbed back up to the window. Gage sat on the windowsill and swung one leg, and then the other, into the room.

As he did so, the house creaked and groaned. All three men froze; but where Cap looked up to see what was going to happen, Mike stared down at the ground and tried to forget what that noise meant.

LOOK OUT!

He shuddered, and braced himself for Johnny's weight to hit his rope. But nothing else moved or complained, and then Cap's hand beside his lifted. Mike looked up long enough to catch Johnny's answering wave, before he disappeared into the room. That left him to concentrate on the rope playing through his hands. Mike slowly let it out, ignoring the sounds of Johnny calling the kids, the minute crackle of debris being shifted, wishing instead that Cap would go back inside and leave him alone with his dread. But Cap didn't move, just stared upwards at the window. Inside the house the chain saw sputtered and died, and something else creaked. Roy was ordering Chet and Marco to lift and then Johnny's exultant shout cut across it all.

"Got 'em!"

I'm so sorry, Mike...

~~~~~~~

He took out his dagger of fire and of steel
And struck down the raven through the heart-oh
The bird fluttered long and the sky it did spin
And the cold earth did wonder and start-oh.

Mike took a deep breath and slowly relaxed against the brick wall. Traffic moved smoothly along the boulevard in front of the station, but for now he shared the back lot with only shadows and silence. The night sky above was dark grey with few stars visible beyond the lights of the city. The dank air smelled more of exhaust and oil from the nearby refinery than of trees and earth, and Mike was grateful for that small favor. Arms propped on his knees, hands clenched tightly to stop their almost constant shaking, he closed his eyes, trying to lose himself in something, anything--even the way the cold concrete made his butt ache.

Out on the street a vehicle slowed, then changed gears and moved closer. The front garage door began to open, but Mike ignored it, hoping everyone would be caught up in Roy and Johnny's return and not notice his absence. The squad doors slammed, and snatches of the conversation from the open vehicle bay drifted past him as he shuddered, willing the voices from his past away.

"...kids are gonna be fine. That piece of the ceiling landed *exactly* right--"

You're going to be fine, Mike, just fine.

"That was something else, the way the insulation muffled their voices." Chet's voice interrupted Johnny's report, whether from design or habit after all these years of teasing the dark-haired paramedic, who could tell?

"No, man, what was something was the way that tree..." Marco, he thought, that was Marco. The voices mingled, fading into an unintelligible murmur as the crew moved into the day room. Mike sighed, and unclenched his hands for a minute. Another deep breath, and his hands were fists again. Damn it all, damn everything.

At least tonight's story had a happy ending.

Life doesn't always give us happy endings, Mike. We don't always get what we want.

He shivered and, screwing his eyes more tightly shut, pounded one fist softly on his knee, willing away Uncle Rick's voice and the ache in his throat that came with it. All Mike wanted now was for this to just to be over. He wanted to be at peace with himself the way he hadn't been for the last week, the last month-- shoot, the entire goddamn year had been hell, and it was getting worse and worse. He'd never expected to last this long, never expected to have to deal with these things at this late date. It should have all been over by now. It had been for his dad, and for Rick. Why he was the exception to the rule, he didn't know. Maybe some sort of warped karmic justice was in play here, that much longer for him to be tormented with--

"Mike?"

Mike jumped. He ignored Captain Stanley for the long moment it took to unclench his hands and swallow twice against the lump in his throat. When he finally looked up, the deep crease between Cap's eyebrows spoke volumes. But once again Mike found himself turning away from the concern there. He didn't want it, couldn't deal with it, not now. Not this close to the end.

"Cap?" His voice was husky, half of it left behind the stubborn lump.

Stanley squatted down beside Mike, arms resting on his thighs and hands dangling between his knees. There was silence for a minute. Mike managed to swallow a bit more of the lump, force it down a bit further, but that was it. Enough, though, that he chanced a glance at his Captain. In the near darkness Stanley's face was skeletal, eyes glinting in the dark hollows of his face.

"You okay? You seemed a bit lost there on that last run." Cap's voice was gentle, but Mike shuddered.

Mike? You okay, Buddy? Look, I promise, I won't get lost. I wouldn't do that to my favorite nephew.

His hands clenching into fists again, Mike struggled to make his voice as even as he could.

"I'm fine, Cap. Sorry about that, it...it won't happen again." And it wouldn't, whether Mike had anything to do with it or not.

"I'm not worried about anything, Mike, you've always done your job, and then some. You're one of the most conscientious firefighters in the County."

You did real good, ya know? You kept the fire going like I needed you to. You did *good*, Buddy. You gotta believe me about that, Mike, you have to.

There wasn't anything he could say to either voice, so he simply nodded. He concentrated on staring at the pale stars above them, willing Cap to go back inside and leave him to digest on the knot in his esophagus in peace. The gravel rasped beneath Cap's feet as he shifted his weight a little bit, but he didn't move, didn't get up. Mike waited an interminable moment, and then Cap took a deep breath.

"Mike, you know if there's ever anything you need to talk about, I'm always here."

Mike nodded.

Mike, please, talk to me. You can't do this on your own. I'm here for ya, Buddy. Let me help.

But he hadn't been there. It had only been a couple of years after his dad died and Uncle Rick had been gone as well. All that had been left for Mike was the long season of waiting, now almost at an end. His hands were cramping; he opened and closed them reflexively, searching for something to say to the man next to him in this time and place.

"Yeah, Cap, I know." He hated the raspy sound of his voice, like he'd been eating smoke instead of grief all day. But the grief had settled in just like it had years ago. He'd been fooling himself all the time in between when he thought he'd gotten rid of it. Mike turned and offered an apologetic smile to his Captain. "Thanks."

Cap waited, but Mike let the silence speak for him. After a long moment, Stanley sighed, clapped his hands against his legs, then stood.

"Well, if you need me you know where I am."

Mike simply nodded, then listened to the slow footsteps as Cap headed for the kitchen door. As it clanked shut behind the other man, he drew in a deep breath and blew it out. Once again he had the darkness and the shadows to himself. But that only lasted a minute, before the back door clanked again, with more footsteps heading his way. Shorter stride this time, and more hesitant than Cap had been.

"Mike?"

Roy. Dammit, what was he today, a specialty event for tag-team worrywarts? But he hadn't been raised by wolves and the manners his mother had drilled into him dictated he answer politely, no matter how much he felt like screaming at this further interruption of his solitude.

"Over here." Mike flexed his hands again. Didn't feel like he'd drawn any blood, not yet. But, then, Roy hadn't been here very long either.

Shoulders slumped and hands in his pockets, Roy walked slowly over to lean against the wall near Mike. For several minutes neither man said anything, then Roy volunteered, "Sure is quiet back here."

It had been until Roy opened his mouth.

"Yeah."

There were tiny screeches from the gravel as Roy shifted again. He must have come to some decision, because he took a deep breath, and then squatted down in almost the same exact spot Captain Stanley had been in. Was there a mark there that Mike had missed somehow?

"Mike..."

Mike stared up at the sky for a bit, but when Roy appeared to be willing to wait forever he finally looked over at his friend. Roy hid his concern better than Cap; in the faint light coming from a nearby streetlight and the open vehicle bay door his face was carefully bland.

"Mike...we were talking...Look, we all know your birthday is the day after tomorrow. You've seemed kind of down lately, so we were thinking...we'd like to take you out. Do something to celebrate." Roy shrugged, and then allowed a glimmer of a smile to show. He held his hands out, and then clasped them together. "Your choice. Miniature golf, or bowling, or...well, whatever you think sounds like fun. And since we're on duty on your birthday we kinda hoped tomorrow would work. Would you mind if we made some plans?"

Mike blinked at Roy in astonishment, then looked away as his friend's expression became obviously hopeful. He tilted his head back until it banged slightly on the wall behind him, and stared up at the sky. Make plans? For his birthday? His friends wanted to plan something for his birthday? Mike swallowed desperately as the need to giggle hysterically swarmed over the knot in his stomach. Hey, sure, why not? A funeral. His friends could plan a funeral. A nice big old-fashioned funeral with a real Irish wake. He wasn't Irish, not that he knew of, but Chet Kelly ought to be good for something. They'd be ahead of the game, that way, when--

"A what?"

Mike's contemplation of his own wake shattered in the face of Roy's disbelief, and he quickly stuffed the laughter bubbling in the back of his throat down into the region of his stomach, along with the lump that had never really left. Damn, of all the things to let slip!

He turned his head to look at Roy, and managed a slight smile. By the frown on Roy's face, he wasn't too convincing.

"I..." What could he say? That if they got a call out tonight he fully expected not to come back from it? That finally, after all these years, it was his turn? That Life and Death had come full circle and both of them had one Michael Richard Stoker dead to rights?

Sure. And Roy would go inside and quietly tell Cap to call in a "Code I" and Mike would get a nice white coat for his ride in the ambulance. The hysteria evaporated as quickly as it had come. His friends were only trying to help. They didn't have to know that there wasn't any way Michael could be at their party, much as he might want to be.

It took a minute, but Michael was finally able to say what he knew Roy wanted to hear.

"Sure, Roy. It's fine. Whatever you guys want to do." Mike looked back up at the stars as the lump in his chest resurrected itself. He shifted on the concrete, easing into a nearby shadow, and blinked against the moisture filling his eyes.

Roy waited a moment more, but again, Mike let the silence speak for him. And, just like Cap, Roy finally took the hint.

"Well...okay. That's...that's good, Mike." Mike didn't answer, just nodded briefly. He turned his face away as Roy stood, hoping to hide the tears now streaking down his cheeks. Roy hesitated a bit longer. "Well, I guess I'd better get back in there before Chet and Johnny take over planning things. You, uh, we'd all probably rather be spared that."

Again, Mike nodded. Roy at least had the grace to ignore the flinch he couldn't prevent when the paramedic gave him a paternal pat on one shoulder before walking away. It wasn't until he heard the doorknob rattle under Roy's hand that Mike could bring himself to say the only thing he really had left to say.

"Roy?" He raised his voice slightly as he called, and felt rather than heard Roy turning toward him. Mike swallowed, fighting the huge lump that tightened his entire chest this time. "Roy, will you tell everyone 'thanks' for me?"

~~~~~~~

'Oh, where is the raven that I struck down dead
That here did lie on the ground-oh?'

"LA County Fire Department, Sir. We had a report of a fire in this vicinity."

More than half-asleep when Cap spoke, Mike sprawled gracelessly in the dust. He stared, blinking sweat away as Captain Stanley stepped into the small circle of light, his face once again skeletal, his eyes huge, inky shadows beneath his helmet. Behind him Mike could barely make out the half-lit features of Chet and Marco, the nozzle of the hose they held in their hands glinting in the faint illumination Mike's tiny fire provided. But before he could gather himself enough to speak, before he could pull his long limbs together and sit up to say anything to his Captain and his crewmates, they were getting down to business.

"There it is, guys. Let's get it taken care of. Pal, if you could just step back while we do our jobs..."

Pal? What...? Still struggling against the fog of sleep, Mike was trying to process the fact that his friends didn't recognize him as Cap pointed at the fire. He waved the guys forward, taking charge like he always did. Without looking at Mike, Chet and Marco stepped up, aiming their hose at his faltering fire. Horror brought him all the way awake. Scrambling up on one knee he grabbed at the bottom of Cap's turnout coat with both hands.

"NO!" His objection was lost in a spasm of coughing. Cap turned to him as he coughed on and on, gloved hands coming out to gently help Mike up, then lead him away from where Chet and Marco were manhandling the hose closer to the minute fire he'd nursed for so long. Mike recognized the face Cap wore now, his professional "Get-the-local-yokels-out-of-the-way-so-we-firemen-can-do-our-job" look. It was kind, it was even sympathetic, but it was inexorable.

"Look, pal, I've got a couple of men over here who can take care of you, and we'll have this fire out for you in no time. Don't worry, it's all gonna be okay."

"Cap, it's me! Mike! It's Mike! You can't put this fire out...no! Please, don't--" Mike's plea disappeared into another hacking bout of coughs and Cap put a helpful hand under his arm as he staggered.

"DeSoto, Gage, can you take care of this guy? Looks like he's inhaled some smoke and other junk."

Roy and John materialized out of the darkness, the metal of the Stokes stretcher they dropped to the ground a dull gray stripe against the gloom.

"Got him, Cap."

Still coughing, Mike was unable to verbally protest as he was handed off to Roy, who frustrated his attempt to pull away by tightening his grip on Mike's arm. Johnny was kneeling beside the Stokes and pulling at the blanket covering their equipment. Cap stepped off to the side and pulled his Handy Talky out of his pocket.

"HT51 to Engine 51. Siler, can you get us some pressure on this hose?"

Siler? Who the hell was Siler? Fifty-one was *his* engine! Choking down another cough, Mike struggled to pull out of Roy's grip.

"No, Roy, please..." he wheezed, but Roy, who didn't seem to recognize him either, simply grabbed Mike's other arm as well, and pulled him further away--away from Cap, from the imposter at his engine, away from his Lilliputian fire, dying into embers even as Chet and Marco took careful aim at it. Roy supported him as Mike doubled over with another round of hacking coughs. He didn't want to admit just how hard it was getting to breathe as Roy continued to direct him away from the fire.

"Sir, if you'll just lie down over here? My partner is getting everything ready for you."

Gasping, unable to catch his breath, Mike couldn't protest as Roy obliviously forced him into the shadows, aiming toward the dully-gleaming Stokes. Johnny still knelt beside the stretcher, his hands busy, but the paramedic wasn't opening the biophone or getting oxygen or anything ready for his patient. Roy dragged Mike up to his partner as Johnny pulled at something in the Stokes, yanking the blanket back as he did so. Then Mike got a good look at what his friend was doing, and his stomach clenched in horror. It wasn't a blanket Johnny was working with: he was drawing down the zipper on a black body bag.

"NOOO!"

~~~~~~~

Crazy Man Michael, he wanders and walks
And talks to the night and the day-oh.
But his eyes they are sane and his speech it is clear
And he longs to be far away-oh.

Forty-thousand pounds of lima beans on a roll can do a lot of damage.