Archive of Our Own ^beta

Johnny didn't know what the Universe's deal was with giving them the hardest cases during the hottest part of the day—especially in the summer. Sweat dripped down his brow as the damp, sticky air in the air-conditionless house melted around and clung to him like a second skin. He felt like he was wading through honey, hot honey. The whir of the small fan in the far corner of the room did little to offer any relief from it.

"Please, you have to help him. He—he's been complaining about a few headaches here and there over the past few days, but they cleared up, and he was fine! Then—"

Johnny dared a glance up from his pocketbook at the woman who answered the door upon their arrival. She stood over them, one arm wrapped around her body, and the other pressed tight against her lips. Her cheeks were splotched red from the heat and stress, and her large blue eyes sparkled with tears.

"Is he—"

Johnny slipped the ends of the stethoscope out from his ears and grabbed his penlight from his shirt pocket. To her, he said, "We're going to do everything we can for him."

 To Roy, he lowly said: "Vitals are all over the place. Respiration is 25. Pulse 135 and BP is 150 over 60."

Roy swore under his breath and picked up the biophone to relay the information to Rampart. His bangs stuck to his forehead, the heat and the increasing urgency of their "routine" call for a fall, tying them both a little worse for wear. 

"Rampart, this is Squad 51. Vitals are as follows…"

Roy's voice droned in the background while Johnny flashed the penlight in the gentleman's eyes. The man flinched, his skin pale, and tried poorly to push his hand away. Johnny took it upon himself to erase the worry off his face as he smiled down at the man. "I know, I'm sorry. Not exactly relaxing, is it?"

"Roy," he said over his shoulder. "Pupils are equal and reactive, but the left is slightly more sluggish than the right."

Turning his attention back to the woman, he squinted up at her. "How long did you say he's been like this?"

She wrung her hands frantically, eyes darting everywhere but his face. "I—I don't know. I was at my garden club most of the day. We had a charity event, you see."

Johnny did, but he also wanted her to focus on the important details he needed now. 

He must have let his internal thoughts cross his face, because she swallowed hard and held his attention, her hands falling limp to her sides with a smack as her palms hit her exposed upper thigh courtesy of her tennis shorts. "He wasn't feeling well when I left, but we thought it was the flu. When I got home an hour ago, he seemed slightly worse, but you know, the flu. Then all of a sudden, he just… fell while trying to get up and—"

"Does he have a history of stroke or heart disease?" 

Johnny took the man's wrist and bit his lip at the bounding pulse attacking his fingers. "Roy, his pulse is bounding."

The woman shook her strawberry-blond head, her shiny curls bouncing. "Stroke? No. None. His family doesn't have heart issues either. He's—the weakness and slurring started out of nowhere… isn't he too young for that?"

"Leonard?" Johnny gently tapped the man's cheek with his finger. "Open your eyes for me, yeah… good man. Does anything hurt?"

Leonard's eyes were half-mast now, and Johnny noted the lack of drooping on either side of his face, but the slurred confirmation that his head hurt, along with the congested cough that escaped his dry lips, worried him. 

"Patient is reporting a severe headache, and his speech is more slurred than it was when we arrived. Crackling in the lungs as well.

Roy repeated the symptoms into their hospital relay, and Johnny and Leonard's wife watched him with guarded curiosity.

"Brackett suspects a stroke,"—the wife let out a strangled moan—Roy shoved the phone back into its holder with a clatter. His hands scrambled for their drug box. "IV TKO and transport immediately."

"Has the ambulance—"

The sound of wailing sirens pierced the air, answering Johnny's question. Bingo. The woman dropped to her knees beside her husband as Johnny shuffled back to help Roy establish the requested IV.

"Leonard? Baby, it's going to be okay. These men, they're… they're helping you, okay? Just hang tight."

A tear dripped down her cheek, and Leonard tried to brush it away for her, but his hands wouldn't cooperate.

 Johnny turned to give them a moment, standing on cramped legs to direct the ambulance crew while Roy finished establishing the IV, the heat-sealed end clamped between his teeth. As they started wheeling the stretcher out to the ambulance, the woman grabbed Johnny's sleeve. He paused, hands full with their drug box and biophone.

"What hospital are you taking him to?" she asked, her eyes bloodshot and puffy. "If it's possible, I'd feel more—"

"He'll be going to Rampart General," Johnny said firmly, placing his hand on the small of her back to encourage her to keep walking with him. "I know you probably have one you'd prefer, but Rampart is one of the best, and they're closer. They'll take very good care of your husband.

Quite frankly, he can't afford the delay of a detour. He needs medical care immediately."

He stopped with her on the edge of the sidewalk, watching as Leonard was loaded into the waiting ambulance, and Roy got him situated before they swapped for the ride to the hospital. Leonard's wife made a sound low in her throat, and Johnny whipped his head to her instantly. 

She looked pale, but the tears that'd streaked down her cheeks moments ago were gone, replaced with a steady fire in her eye Johnny had seen in Joanne's whenever Roy had been laid up or injured on the job.

Strength. 

"Of course," she whispered. "Yes. Please, do what's best for him. Can I ride with you?"

Johnny nodded. "You can get in the passenger seat. Just tell Toby I cleared it."

Smiling gratefully, she ran towards the ambulance, and he followed behind her, switching places with Roy efficiently and without much talk. It was scary how they could hold an entire conversation with just a look. 

Old married couple shit. 

That's what Chet would say, but Johnny had another word he liked better: trust.

With the customary two slaps to the ass of the ambulance, Johnny braced himself as the vehicle jolted forward, lights and sirens flaring. Pushing his hair away from his forehead, he watched through the small window in the back of the vehicle as Roy ran back to the squad, the sunlight glaring off the bright red hood of the squad. 

Leonard made a sound, and Johnny slipped back into paramedic mode, adjusting the oxygen flow on the mask. The driver took a particularly hard corner, and Johnny's body slipped on the bench, and he dug his boots into the floor, abs braced, and tried to keep his face light. All too conscious of the way Leonard is looking at him, eyebrows wrinkled in worry, and fear clearly reflected in the surface of his dark green eyes. 

Johnny squeezed his arm when he finished getting another round of vitals, noting the unusual warmth of his skin. Then again, it was pushing 100 degrees, so maybe normal for the climate.

"Dr. Brackett is going to take good care of you," he said, raising his voice to be heard over the siren's scream outside. "And get you back on your feet soon, m'kay? Trust me, I've been under his care more times than I'd like."

He offered a wry grin. "I'm sorry we had to meet like this."

Leonard might have smiled at that, but it looked more like a grimace to Johnny. 

Satisfied he was stable for the time being, Johnny pressed the back of his head to the ambulance wall behind them. His head ached, and he hadn't drunk nearly enough water today, not to mention having to skip lunch because of a call that came in. 

All things he'd remedy at the hospital before they were toned out again. Sweat beaded down his back, his uniform sticking to him. 

Damn heat.

#

When Johnny clocked back into their next shift, a duffle bag swung over his shoulder, and exhausted from what was supposed to be a relaxing few days off. He'd been roped into doing a somewhat large repair job for his neighbor, an older widow who supplied him with home-cooked meals from her surplus, and as much as he wanted to, he didn't have the heart to say no.

He was momentarily surprised to see Roy in the locker room changing into civilian clothes. Weren't they supposed to be on shift together? Then it hit him, a wave of memory his exhausted body conveniently decided not to hold onto to conserve energy. Roy was heading up to the paramedic teaching conference in Bakersfield and had taken an extra shift to make it without taking personal days. As the senior medic, Dr. Brackett had requested that he present and do a week-long clinic with the paramedic group they were putting together there.

Normally, it would be Johnny and Roy, but Johnny hadn't wanted to take the time off, seeing as he was saving up to hopefully buy a ranch in the next few years. While the speaking engagement itself would be paid, it wouldn't be what they usually made, and Johnny didn't want to take the chance. 

Seeing the pinched look on his partner's face, Johnny shook off his own exhaustion and slapped Roy's shoulder as he sidled up next to him. "You're going to do great tomorrow, Pally. Between us, you're the better speaker, and if you managed to convince me with your impromptu speech that day at the hospital, imagine how much better you are now with time to prepare."

Roy's shoulders slumped forward, and he rested his head against the cool metal of the locker in front of him. "How'd you know I was worrying about that?"

Johnny snorted, shoving the duffel with all the things he would need for the next 48 hours shift into his locker. "Are you kidding? I could practically smell your worry from the parking lot."

He paused, the nervous energy from the caffeine tablets he'd picked up at the gas station on his way ricocheted through his system, and he could have sworn Roy's eyes were bluer than he remembered. His friend looked terrified. 

"What if," Roy's tongue brushed absently along the bottom of his lip. "What if I mess up? What if they find out I'm a—"

Frowning, Johnny slammed his locker shut and sat on the bench to polish his shoes before Cap could tell him to at roll call. "What? A fraud? Not a chance, Roy. Not a chance. You're the right guy for the job, and they're lucky to have you. You're practically the birth father of paramedicine."

Rolling his eyes, Roy shook his head. "Yeah, right." His fingers slipped on the button of his shirt. "I just hope they won't be too disappointed when they realize that I'm truly just a guy who likes to 

help people. Not some… superhero or crap like that."

Johnny smirked, resting his chin on his knee. The smell of the lacquer polish he'd spread over the smooth surface of his work boots fumigating around them in a toxic cloud that Johnny was more than used to by now. "Maybe if you had the looks to go—"

He laughed and ducked as Roy chucked a dirty uniform at his head. When he righted himself, he was surprised to see Roy standing in front of him, brow furrowed with a depth that told Johnny he'd done something or looked some type of way to pull out the "Dad worry" in his friend. 

"Hey, are you feeling okay? You look a little pale…"

Johnny reacted on instinct and, unfortunately, too much practice. Wrapping his fingers around Roy's wrist, he finagled his probing hand away from his forehead. "I'm fine. Just tired. Last shift really wiped me out."

Roy's blue eyes remained hazed in concern, but Johnny was spared having to argue with him about it when Captain Stanely breezed into the locker room.  

"There are the two men I was hoping to find. Glad I caught you before you left, Roy."

Johnny sat up straighter. The edge to Cap's words made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. The dull headache he's had off and on for the past few days flares with the rush of adrenaline. 

"What's up, Cap?" Roy asked, popping his hip against his locker. "I have to leave soon for Bakersfield."

Hank nodded briskly. "Yes, I'm aware, but this won't take too long. Dr. Brackett just called."

Johnny's stomach sank. Great, what didn't he like this time? His relationship with the taciturn and morose doctor had gotten off to a rocky start, but they'd come to an understanding with each other. Or maybe more of an understanding of each other. They cared about the same things: saving and helping people through the worst days of their lives. They were on the same team, even if they came to different conclusions or ideas on how best to reach that goal at the end of the day.

While they were friends now, and could laugh about their earliest encounters, Johnny never could seem to shake the curtain of unease that fell over his body whenever the good doctor called up the station. 

It was never a good sign.

"What'd he want?" Johnny threw the used rag into his locker and crossed his arms over his chest, an unconscious position of protection from whatever it was his boss was going to say. 

"Do you remember the suspected stroke victim you took in toward the end of your last shift?"

Roy met Johnny's eye immediately, each of them cycling through their calls, although, at this point, they'd all blurred together in a cacophony of chaos and adrenaline. 

"Wait," Johnny pressed his fingers into the corners of his eyes, the fleeting image of a memory just out of his grasp. "Was it… That… the guy in that rich neighborhood. The one with the Rotary club wife or something?"

"Oh," Roy's eyes widened. "The one with stroke symptoms?"

Hank's lips twitched in amusement. "That's the one. Leonard Caprini. Brackett wanted me to let you know that the stroke wasn't actually a stroke. Turns out, he has bacterial meningitis."

Johnny gritted his teeth.

"No kidding," Roy breathed, shaking his head. "That's too bad. Is he going to be all right?"

Hank nodded resolutely. "It seems he was in serious danger for a while, but he's on the road to recovery. Dr. Brackett wants you both to monitor for symptoms as you had close contact with the patient, and to let him know as soon as possible if you do—even if you think it's nothing."

He stared at Johnny. "Especially you, John. He mentioned your lack of spleen as a cause for concern."

Johnny sighed. "When is it not?"

"Should I still go to the conference?" Roy tapped his watch. "Because I need to leave if I'm going to make it in time."

Hank shrugged. "I don't see why not. Just try to rest as much as you can when you can, and let us know if anything changes."

Smiling, Roy nodded. "Great, well, I'd better go. Hey, Johnny?"

Johnny glanced up from picking at a loose hangnail. "Hmm?"

"Stay safe."

Roy's eyes were empathetic, and Johnny could read the unsaid in them: Don't die or get sick 

until I get back. 

"I will," he assured him. "You too."

With one last lingering glance and a comedic slap to Hank's shoulder as he passed, Roy left in a flurry of greetings and goodbyes as the other men shuffled in to start the morning. 

"Roll call in 3, John." Hank clapped, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing around the locker. "Look alive, and if you feel the slightest bit off, I'm commanding you to let me know immediately."

The headache behind Johnny's eyes intensified for a moment and then ebbed away as he cracked his neck and smiled. "Yessir!"

Hank narrowed his eyes and pointed a steady finger at him. "I mean it, John. That's an order."

#

The next shift without Roy was uneventful, and his replacement, thankfully, was easy to get along with. Johnny always enjoyed working with Bellingham. He was funny and, unlike Brice or some of the other guys, indulged Johnny's odd questions or rants without much fanfare and a steady dose of good humor. 

Two days without the awkward hell that would have been a shift with Brice was much appreciated, and as he slowly gathered up his gear to take home with him, he felt someone watching him.

Hank stood in the door of the dorm, watching as he grabbed the last few items he'd left on the nightstand to shove in his duffel. 

The older man looked tired, with dark circles under his eyes. Johnny felt for him. The engine had gotten more calls than the squad, and while they'd gone with them on a few of them, they'd unarguably gotten the rougher side of the stick. Most of them had already left, Chet practically racing out of the parking lot to shower and sleep before his 'hot date' at the new Italian restaurant downtown. 

He'd ribbed Johnny about it, but he'd been too tired to care. The exhaustion that'd plagued him over the shift made it hard to want anything else than to crash for the next forty-eight hours and do nothing but sleep and maybe find the will to scrounge up food.

"You okay, Cap?" 

Hank smiled. "Nothing's wrong, I actually had a proposition for you."

Johnny grimaced. "If it's about a kids' tour of the station, can't Roy do that? He has kids, he's great with them, and—"

"It has nothing to do with that, actually. Emily took the girls up to see her mom over the weekend, and I have a mile-long to-do list from her. I could use some help with it."

Stomach sinking at the idea of more work, Johnny started to shake his head, but Hank beat him to it. "Hear me out, if you help, I'll take care of all the cooking, and you can stay in the guest room. I'm beat, too, and you can count on getting good rest around the to-dos."

The idea of not having to cook for himself piqued Johnny's interest. 

Slinging the duffle off the bed and onto his shoulder, he stretched his neck, cursing the way it'd cramped on him mid-process. It had been doing that more and more lately, a malady he blamed on when he had to twist suddenly when the drunk driver they were extricating last shift took a swing at his head. "Well, I would be a fool to turn down your cooking…"

At first glance, Hank Stanely didn't look like a man who would be handy in the kitchen. A tall, lanky body not unlike Johnny's own, he had the shoulder width and handspan he didn't. He gave off the demeanor of someone who either couldn't be bothered by it or would fail terribly at trying.

Johnny had been on the receiving end of many meals under his care and never left the table dissatisfied. Out of all of them on A shift, he was one of the best. 

"Does that mean you'll do it? You can say no, we're off the clock now, and we're friends here."

The wide smile across his superior's tanned face was infectious, the ends of Johnny's mouth twitching up. 

"I know, I know, and yeah, I'll be happy to help. Just keep your end of the bargain, yeah? I want to rot in bed for at least 24 hours before I touch a hammer."

Hank laughed outright and slapped the doorframe. "You always have had a way with words, haven't you? It's a deal. Feel free to drop by any time. I assume you need to get a few things before you come over."

With a plan for Johnny to swing by that afternoon, Hank left in a flurry of whistle notes and echoing goodbyes and greetings as B shift filtered in. Johnny stared at the white wall on the other side of the room, a warmth burrowing into his chest. 

He didn't have any family in LA, and had been on his own for so long until he'd met the Station 5 men. His time at 10s had been fulfilling, and he had friends, but mostly surface-level. He was lucky that a married and successful man in all the materialistic terms of the world, like Roy, had befriended him, even if he tried to say he was the lucky one. 

Coming from nothing to having something, people to call his own, and being invited into homes where love and care overflowed, it was so different from the cold stoicism he grew up with. He understood why, though. Life was hard, and he knew his parents—his father, specifically—didn't want him to be soft. To be soft was to die, and in a world that still struggled to see the human beneath the color of one's skin or where they grew up, Johnny wouldn't have made it. 

It was his mother who gave him his soft side, despite his father's warnings that it would get him killed one day. She was the reason he loved to take care of others and found a purpose in it, memories of when he was no bigger than seven, trailing along behind her in the clinic while she helped the state-assigned doctor care for her people. 

A wave of longing for his family crashed over him, and he reached beneath the edge of his T-shirt and rubbed his fingers along the necklace with a small pouch tied to it. He never wore it where it could be seen, and often tucked it into the pocket of his jeans. 

In a worn, soft leather pouch were a myriad of dried herbs, a few animal bones, and a turquoise stone. 

"One day, I won't be there to protect you, John." Her voice whispered over the shell of his ear, the syllables not as clear in memory as they'd been when he was younger, but still her. Still familiar. "So, when I can't be there, these will guide you. Never forget where you come from, son. No matter where you go, the earth is your family. The wind is your sister, and the water is your brother. As long as you remember that, no matter where I am, you'll never be alone."

"Hey, Johnny! Heading out or pulling overtime?"

Jerking back to himself, Johnny winced as a throb of pain radiated from the base of his neck to his skull, wrapping around his occiput. Damn injury.

Bellingham's friendly face swam into focus as he trailed into the room and to the bed opposite him, also finishing grabbing his stuff. Johnny wrinkled his nose. "Not if I can help it.  Just… distracted."

With a few more pleasantries, Johnny was soon sailing through traffic toward his apartment; exhaustion and melancholy from the trip down memory lane trailed him, a shadow he couldn't shake. 

# 

Hank Stanley lived in a modest home on the other side of the neighborhood from Roy's. The craftsman-style build, while beautiful, turned out to be somewhat of a lemon. Johnny didn't recall any time in recent memory when Hank wasn't fixing… something.

"You made it!" his boss smiled when he pulled open the door to see Johnny standing on the stoop, overnight bag in hand, and smelling less like smoke and sweat. He'd taken a shower after the last fire run, but there was just something different about taking a shower in your own place that felt better.

"Well, now," Johnny smirked. "I'm not exactly one to actively break a promise if I can help it."

He sniffed the air, his stomach growling audibly. "Is that—"

"My famous stuffed potatoes?" Hank winked. "You bet."

"All right!"

After getting settled in the guest room and having a hearty brunch, Hank told Johnny he was more than welcome to sleep as long as he wanted and that they could get started on repairing the shed Emily had requested, along with a few weak spots in the deck.

Johnny studied the back of the man standing in front of him, the clatter of their dishes, and the splash of water as he worked filled the room. He'd tried to do them, but Hank hadn't let him lift a finger.

"You just got off shift, and you're my guest. You aren't doing the dishes. Plus, remember what happened—"

"That was an unfortunate accident, and I'm very careful now!"

"Twit."

For the briefest of seconds, Johnny allowed himself to linger in the fantasy that instead of his "boss", his father stood there. It was going to hurt later, but he didn't care. The red circle on the calendar at his apartment mocked him, even from here. 

Head aching, Johnny closed his eyes and imagined the low whistle was his dad's. That the swish of the water was his mother's strong, sun-tanned hands cutting through the liquid with swift efficiency. That the kitchen he was in was one from an alternate childhood, his family gathered behind the gleam of a picket white fence, with enough food on the table for all of them to eat without someone having to leave hungry, usually his mom. 

"Don't worry about me, sweetheart. Eat up. You and Dad need your strength. I'll have whatever is left."

Johnny always tried to leave a few bites for her on those days, but he never could seem to stop once he had a taste. His stomach pinched to the point of pain from hunger. 

I miss them so much. 

"Johnny? You okay?"

Eyes slipping open, burning with emotion, Johnny met Hank's curious stare and smiled weakly. "Yeah, I'm fine… just tired. We didn't go on nearly as many runs, but I'm beat."

He hoped he wouldn't notice the red of his eyes, which he knew must be there, the bite of tears behind his eyeballs, hot and prickling.

"You've been pretty tired lately," Hank noted, leaning against the counter while he dried the dishes. "I'm saying this as a friend, is a visit to the Rampart for a check-up in order?"

Johnny groaned and rubbed his neck, nimble fingers kneading the tight tissue. "Nah, I've just been working a lot, and it's normal. Everyone gets tired."

Hank's eyebrows rose. "Everyone gets tired, but you're not everyone."

"Gee, thanks."

"Promise you'll see a doctor soon if it doesn't clear up, yeah?"

Johnny was tempted to roll his eyes at the excess worry—couldn't a guy just be tired?—and he probably would have if it had been Roy, but habits die hard, and he still had to go into work in a few days. Nodding tiredly, he opted for the safe answer.

"Sure thing, Cap."

He was only glad that Hank turned back to the sink before he could catch a glimpse of Johnny's index and middle fingers crossed over each other. 

# 

Hank Stanley woke with a gasp, lungs heaving, and a cold sweat dampening his hairline. Heart beating almost painfully against his chest, he twisted toward Emily's side of the bed, his hand already reaching out for the warmth of her body, to see that she was real because if she was real, it meant he was too, and it had all just been a dream. A terrible, very bad dream—

His hand gasped cold sheets, and in a rush, the fight left his body. 

Emily. The girls. Her mother's. Right. 

He wasn't stuck in that terrible fire, watching helplessly as his men succumbed to the hunger of the flames, unable to help, as he'd been pinned under a falling board himself. 

Just a bad dream.

Scrubbing a hand over his eyes, he shook his head. Pull it together, Stanley. 

The curtains he had forgotten to close over the window before he slept bled in moonlight, bathing the hardwood floor with the milky silver light. How late is it?

He hated the hangover that came with getting off shift. When Emily was there, she kept him on schedule and helped him feel less incoherent, but without her, he hadn't bothered to set alarms to stay on track, and he was paying for it now. 

Glancing at the alarm clock on the nightstand, he squinted to make out the hands on it. 10 O'Clock. 

It had just been after noon by the time he and Johnny tumbled into their respective bedrooms, each barely able to say much past the weight of exhaustion pressing into every porous bone, and leeching through their muscles.

I can't remember the last time I slept this long. 

Deciding sleep wasn't going to be gracing him with her presence again any time soon, and still wired from the remnants of the dream, Hank decided a glass of milk and a piece of bread sounded more than delicious right now. He had skipped dinner after all.

A noise through the closed door to the hallway caught his attention, and he froze; his ears strained to catch it again. Nothing. There! A floorboard creaked with a familiar groan as he realized what he had heard. Footsteps. Johnny must be up, too.

Throwing on a pair of loose-fitting joggers, Hank stepped out into the hallway, the darkness echoing back at him. The Twit could have at least turned on a light. 

"Johnny?" Hank called into the dark as he walked, knowing he had just a few more steps before the wall came to an end, and on the other side of it was the light switch for the living room. "You up?"

Silence answered him, although he could make out the sound of heavy breathing in the dark. Odd. For a second, Hank wondered if it was Johnny after all, but shook it off. Of course, it was Johnny; break-ins didn't happen in this neighborhood. At least, that's what the realtor had told them when they'd bought the house ten years ago.

Ten years of memories, tears, and laughter stained into the walls.

"Johnny?" Hank squinted at the golden rush of light that burst on overhead once his hand found the damn switch.

Johnny stood in the middle of the living room, in front of the coffee table perched low in front of the couch. He wasn't moving; he wasn't doing anything really. Just standing there, hands still at his sides, and… that was it.

A stone statue. 

Hank rubbed his neck and moved to join the young man, concern piqued at the lack of response. "What are you doing out here, pal? That job does that. I'm not surprised after the last call you guys had. It was rough—Johnny?"

Slowly, unsteady on his feet and akin to a newborn foal of which Hank had seen a surprising amount, Johnny turned towards him, and any residual sleepiness in him disappeared as he took in his young friend's appearance. 

Johnny's normally tan skin was pale, and his eyes were wide and confused. "Cap?"

"Yes, John?" Hank was careful to keep his voice light so as not stress him further. "What's going 

on?"

Johnny's mouth opened once and then slipped shut, his eyes squinted against the light overhead. He tried again a second later and said something Hank couldn't catch.

"What was that, John?"

Johnny groaned and rubbed his forehead. "Hot. It's too hot."

Hank was actually cold, the temperature having dropped since earlier as a cool front moving off the ocean offered a blissful respite from the hell-on-wheels express Los Angeles had been experiencing for the past week. The fact that Johnny was hot sparked in him the understanding that whatever bug the paramedic's body had been valiantly trying to subdue had taken root. 

I was wondering when you were going to crash, Pal. He was just glad he wasn't stuck alone in his apartment for it.

"It's actually not hot, John." Hank patted his shoulder reassuringly. "Why don't you sit on the couch, and I'll go get a thermometer?"

Johnny shook his head, but allowed Hank to settle him on the edge of the couch. His long legs folded as he sank into the soft cushions. "M'not sick."

The petulant whine in the words made Hank smile despite his worry, the knowledge that Johnny's lack of spleen liked to make things worse than they needed to be. "Right. Of course not, this is just your body having a temper tantrum."

Johnny stared mutely at him, eyes glazed with fever, and Hank squeezed his knee. "You don't feel good, do you, bud?"

To his abject horror, Johnny shook his head and curled up on the couch, falling almost sideways, and sank into the pillows. "Cold."

Thermometer, right.

A fighting-to-deny-despite-all-evidence-of-the-inevitable-that-he-was-sick Johnny was better than a complacent, almost limp noodle Johnny.

Five minutes later, Hank worked to keep his face expressionless as he shook the thermometer out and held it up to the light. Well, now that can't be right. 

104.5. 

The reading gave him deja vu of when Johnny had been the newest on his team; his boyish features and shy personality around him made him seem younger than he was. And that day on the high rise, fever-plastered hair to his face, and barely there cognizance, Hank had felt the first pangs of fear that maybe there would be no coming back from this. 

He felt that familiar pang now and wondered if somehow Johnny's immune system was going through a pseudo-Koki virus episode. It had happened before. But this felt different, and Hank didn't know how to describe it, but it did. 

Johnny groaned, head shifting on the throw pillow Hank had carefully arranged under his head while they'd waited for the thermometer. He made note of the sore neck he kept mumbling about around the glass tube. 

"Looks like more than a cold, huh, pal?"

John just stared at him dolefully, his cheeks flushed high with fever. He licked his lips repeatedly, skin damper than moments ago, and Hank grabbed the waste basket Emily kept by the couch and held it up to John's chin just as his body rebelled violently. 

Rolling his head to the side, Johnny's muscles contracted again and again, tears of embarrassment or pain, Hank didn't know which, streaking down his face. 

When it was finally over, Hank tactfully put the bin out of sight to keep from triggering another episode. Frowning deeply, Hank was ready to ask Johnny if he was strong enough to be helped out to his car, but stopped when he noticed Johnny's face pale, and then his body started shaking.

Pure instinct took over as Hank immediately moved the coffee table so Johnny wouldn't hit it, and grabbed to hold his head to keep him from thrashing it too much, searching for every ounce of training he'd seen the paramedics complete in the field. 

Johnny made a sound in his throat, garbled and pained. Almost the keening of a dog, and Hank swallowed hard. He needed to get help, and Johnny needed it yesterday. But the phone was on the other side of the room, and he didn't dare move to get it until the seizure ran its course. 

He kept time by counting Mississippi's, and when he was getting to the 2-minute mark, the jerking of John's body started to die out, and the young man was a limp tangle of limbs, his chest rising and falling rapidly. 

"I'll be right back, Johnny." Hank smoothed the hair stuck to his young friend's forehead away, unsure what Johnny actually understood in his half-aware state; eyelids half-mast and scarily still. 

What have you gotten yourself into this time, ya Twit? Hank rubbed his eyebrows, the phone tucked to his ear as the line rang and rang and rang. 

He only prayed it was something benign. A flu out of control, a few days of bed rest, fever monitoring, and he'd be back on his feet in no time. But Hank knew Johnny better than that. He never did anything in halves, and he dreaded knowing what waited for them at Rampart. The unknown and all her shadows gaping in front of him, the belly of a beast he wasn't mentally ready for. 

But he had to be, because this was Johnny and he didn't have… anyone. He needed his friend to be strong, and Hank vowed he'd be with him every step of the way. 

#

"The lumbar puncture came back positive for meningitis." Dr. Brackett's eyebrows furrowed deeply; the clipboard he'd walked into the relative's room with was tucked under his arm. "I had 

Joe double-check my findings, but it was basically cemented with that fever."

Hank felt sick; the weekend image he had of rest and work crumbled before him, as fragile as a sandcastle knocked asunder by the rising tide. The packed grains of sand melt into the water's embrace. 

"Doc, that second seizure…" He said slowly. "It was longer than 5 minutes. Do you think—"

Brackett held up a hand. "We won't know much until this bacteria has run its course with the antibiotics. I can't promise anything, but I will say I've had patients who have seized for over 20 minutes, and they were fine. Everyone is different, but knowing Johnny, he'll be giving us a run for our money."

Hank sighed and rubbed his temples. "When the hell does he not?"

Brackett's tensed lips twitched up in the ghost of a smile. "Dixie is helping get him settled in the isolation bay. We'll be keeping him under close observation. Basically, ICU, but not on that ward. Have you called Roy? He's listed as Johnny's next of kin, and we'll need his verbal permission on a few things."

The doctor's voice was too fast for Hank to follow without stalling a second or two behind them, the words creating a salad in his head, and the exhaustion of being up in the middle of the night made it hard to understand. 

Roy? Oh, right. Roy.

"He's out of town doing a clinic with the new paramedic class up in Bakersfield. I'll call him right now."

Overwhelm washed over him in various intensities. The familiar antiseptic tang of the hospital and the hum of electricity pulsing through the walls wrapped him in an intimate blanket of the knowledge and memories of having been here more times than he'd like to count. Dr. Brackett seemed to sense his distress and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "He's in the right place, Hank. It was serendipitous that you were with him tonight. I'd hate to think what we would be looking at if he hadn't."

The idea was a knife to the side; the sharp visuals were too much for Hank to even entertain. If I hadn't asked him over…

"How long will this thing take for him to kick?" Hank crossed his arms tightly over his chest, the cold gusts of air from the air conditioning vents leaving a path of gooseflesh in its wake. "Barring no complications?"

Dr. Brackett cocked his head, jaw feathered. "Well, Hank, that depends on your guy. It'll be at least a few weeks before he's out of here, and if there are no complications. We're going to take it one day at a time."

Isn't that what he always told his men when faced with a hungry fire or a situation that felt impossible for human hands to heal? Focus on one thing at a time and do it well. Then we'll move on.

"When can I see him?" he wanted so badly to replace the image of Johnny, limp on the stretcher as the paramedics from 8's loaded him onto the ambulance, only for his limbs to seize again. His body thrown into a macabre sort of dance against his will. Then the ambulance doors closed. 

"Actually, that's what I wanted to talk with you about." Dr. Brackett glanced at his watch. "Since you were in close proximity to Johnny while in this state, we want to keep you for observation for a few days. If it hit Johnny this hard, I don't want to take any chances."

Exhaustion, heavy and leaden, bled through Hank, and he took a step back until his legs hit the seat of the chair he'd been slumped in before the doctor came to see him. Sinking down into the seat, Hank stared numbly at the ground. "I—I'll have to tell Emily. She's out of town with the girls. She'll be worried if—"

"I'll have Dixie call her for you," Dr. Brackett said, kneeling by the chair so they were eye to eye, and Hank noticed the dark bags beneath them. Classic night shift signs he was all too well-acquainted with, and he wondered how many families he'd knelt by tonight and told them catastrophic news. "You're exhausted, and it's been a long night. We'll get a bed set up for you, and then maybe you can see your boy before I enforce a strict 8 hours of rest before you start to figure all the other stuff out."

"Thanks, Doc." Hank summoned a smile he didn't feel. Your boy. "Is it that obvious?"

Dr. Brackett rolled his eyes. "That Johnny has everyone wrapped around his finger, even his boss?" He smirked. "Yeah."

"He's just so…"

"Young? Cocky? Kind? He's hard not to like."

"It's more than that," Hank sighed. "He's… alone."

Dr. Brackett's face softened. "He's got a lot of people who love him, Hank. He's not entirely alone. Roy wouldn't let him even if he wanted to be."

He knew Brackett was right, but it still felt deeper to him. Like he owed Johnny this much and more. He wanted to be there for Johnny like a father would, a father he knew would drop everything to be with his son if he had to, based on the few stories Johnny told over the years. 

When Hank didn't say anything else, Brackett squeezed his knee and stood up. "Come on. One room in Hotel Rampart coming right up."

#

"Roy, he's—no, he had a few seizures before getting to—Dr. Brackett is optimistic."

Hank listened as Roy threw every question and the kitchen sink at him, the anxiety he tried to hide through bleeding through in the frantic edge of his words. 

"How's he doing now?"

Hank stared across the room at Johnny's feverish body, the gleam of sweat-soaked, fevered skin, and the way Johnny couldn't stop shifting on the bed. His head pressed into the pillow, and fighting the throes of pain he'd said felt as if it were exploding his head. 

"Please make it stop," he whispered to Hank earlier, eyes glazed with fever and almost vacant. 

The flicker of recognition was the only thing keeping Hank's sanity in check. This felt all too familiar to when he'd gotten the Koki Virus, the booties, mask, and robes in place so Hank could visit Johnny with a lowered risk of exposure. Even though he was technically a ticking time bomb himself. 

The phone attached to the wall was cool against his skin, and his breath heated it, making it hard to breathe through the mask covering his face. "We finally got him some pain relief combo that is keeping his heart rate stable. At least, that's what Brackett said."

"Good," Roy said, distractedly, and in his mind's eye, Hank could see his worried hands running through his hair. "That's good. Has his fever come down at all?" 

Hank squinted. "Does it count if it's hovering at 104.5? That's down from 105."

Roy swore.

"He's fighting hard, Roy."

"I just wish I were there, ya know? I feel helpless up here."'

Hank leaned his head against the tile of the wall, his eyes never leaving Johnny's now still body. 

"It's not like you'd be able to do much for him, Roy," he said gently. "Besides, I'm here with him. He's not alone. Dixie is in and out constantly."

Roy sighed, a frustrated exhalation Hank understood better than words could. "I know, I just—

"I know," Hank interrupted him. "But you have a job, and I know you're going to do it well. I'll call 

you the second anything changes."

"Yeah, okay, but Cap?"

Hank twisted the plastic phone cord around his finger, fighting back a yawn.

"Stay healthy, okay?"

"I will, Roy. It takes a lot to get me down."

Emily had begged the same of him earlier, upset that he wouldn't let her come back immediately. 

"And let you cut short the trip you've been so excited about for the past month? No, Em. You stay up there with the girls. I'd feel better if you would. You shouldn't be around me anyway."'

"But I want to," she stressed, and he wished he could kiss away the stress held in the crook of her brow and smooth the tension from around her mouth with his thumb. "I—I don't want to—"

"Shh," he'd soothed, knowing her mind was going back to Tim Duntley. He was, too, but he refused to dwell there, not when John needed all the good energy he could get right now. "We'll cross that bridge if it comes to it, but I'm fine. They're doing tests every day, and I'm already on a preventive dose of antibiotics. I'm fine."

He reiterated that bit to Roy. 

"I'm fine, Roy, and Johnny will be, too. He's in the right place, and Dr. Early and Brackett are doing everything they can." 

Roy made a sound between a laugh and a sigh. "I know that, I do. It's just hard that I'm stuck here, and can't be there when you both could use me."

Hank smiled. Roy worried too much for his own good. They would be fine. They had to be. 

"I appreciate that," he said thoughtfully, "But as your captain, I want to be sure that you're going to do your best and focus on your work and training. That class is counting on you."

He hated to pull rank, but part of being a good leader was knowing when to pull it, and he had a feeling that time was now. 

"Right, Cap," Roy muttered. "I will, I promise."

Hank smiled only for it to drop a few seconds later when Johnny made a sound in his throat, and his head started to thrash again. "I'll call you when I know something, Roy. Be safe."

He hung up before Roy could get another word in, crossed the room in several strides, and pushed back Johnny's sweat-soaked hair with his gloved hand. "What's wrong, John? The pain picking up?"

He didn't answer, just continued to thrash his head back and forth, his lips dry and mouthing something Hank couldn't make out. 

"I'll get the nurse, and we'll get you fixed right up, pal. Just hang on."

Just hang on.

#

Water dripped down his wrist, soaking into the puffy sleeves of the sanitary gear. 

The low moan of Johnny's voice when Hank pressed the washcloth to his forehead, applying firm pressure because Johnny said in a moment of lucidity that the pressure made it slightly more bearable. 

The hiss of the oxygen mask as it filtered pure, cool oxygen to Johnny. 

"His o2 stats are a bit low," Dr. Early explained earlier as they watched Carol set him up on it. "This is just to make sure his brain is getting enough oxygen to fight this bacteria, and keep his vitals stable. He's doing all right, Hank. Not good, but not bad."

It was supposed to be a comforting assurance, but it rang with an air of doom through Hank's body. 

Three days had passed, and so far, he hadn't gotten sick, a blessing Emily was in near tears about when he'd called to check in with her. "How many more days left?"

"Four, but Brackett still wants me here for the full week. He's being overly cautious, but I appreciate it. It also gives me an excuse to be with Johnny."

Emily's voice turned soft, fond. "How is he?"

Hank hadn't known how to answer her, just like he didn't know how to answer Roy when he called twice a day in between classes. He was alive, but he was a very sick man. His fever had been uncontrollable for the last two days, forcing Brackett to resort to emergency cooling measures, such as an ice bath. 

It felt cruel to watch as they brought a tub into the room, and placed him in it, and then poured ice a little at a time into the water. Johnny was fighting it as much as he could, which wasn't much, his eyes open, but Hank didn't know what he comprehended, pupils blown wide with fever and bacteria. 

"Help me," he mouthed, the words breathy and laced with panic. "Please, I'll be good. Just…. Stop… didn’t… I'm…. too cold."

Hank swallowed back the tears that rose afresh at the memory, the guilt of not being able to help and being the one to help them keep him as calm as possible while they tortured him, ached through him with the sharpness of a knife lodged between his shoulders. 

Today was better. 

Johnny's fever hovered around the 103 mark and was stable, but Hank dreaded the afternoon when it would inadvertently spike. It was just a thing bodies did. Something to do with the hypothalamus, whatever that was, according to Dr. Early.

The door swished open, and Hank paused, water dripping on the floor from the rag in his hand, and smiled at the nurse armed with a syringe. "Pain meds?"

Her eyes sparkled above her mask, the telltale skin at their corners pulling up, revealing the smile hidden behind the fabric. "Yes, sir. And another dose of antibiotics. How's he doing?"

Hank sat back in the chair a night shift nurse had pulled in for him last night, watching as she efficiently cleaned Johnny's IV with a swab of alcohol before plunging the syringe into the cannula and pushing the drugs. "I'm told he's doing well."

She lifted a shoulder sympathetically. "I know when they're this sick, it's hard to see it, but he really is holding his own. Especially given that his immune system will have a harder time regardless due to the lack of a spleen. Give him time."

"Yeah," Hank agreed hollowly, watching the shallow rise and fall of Johnny's chest anxiously. 

"You're right."

Chet, Marco, and Mike had stopped by earlier to visit with Hank from a distance, bringing him a bag of much-needed necessities from home, and an update on how they'd been faring without half their crew. 

It had been nice to catch up with them, laugh a little, drink coffee, and eat a donut. In those twenty minutes, Hank almost convinced himself that the world wasn't stuck on its axis and that 

Johnny wasn't in a limbo between life and death. 

Almost. 

"Let me know if you two need anything," the nurse said, pulling him from the sullen silence he'd fallen into. "Are you still feeling good?"

Hank shook his head. "I'm fine. Just tired."

She capped the needles and placed them in her tray. "Just make sure you get plenty of rest. Half of not getting this is treating your body well."

The cloud of cherry-scented perfume she left in her wake was a nice change of pace from the antiseptic, and beneath it, something distinctly bleachy. 

Hank closed his eyes and let the silence press into him, focusing on Johnny's harsh breathing. 

"Dad?"

Hank's eyes flew open, and he jolted upright at the weak rumble of Johnny's voice, his hand struggling to lift off the bed in his direction. 

The single syllable word made Hank's chest burn, a crushing sense of grief crashing into him with the strength of a boulder. Not his grief, but Johnny's. Somewhere in Johnny's fever-confused brain, he was searching for comfort in a figure he didn't have anymore. 

He dreaded what he had to say next and what Johnny's reaction would be. It had happened the other night when he asked for his mom, and the aftermath had been emotionally painful. The tears that rolled down his face and into the sable of his hair burned into Hank's memory.

"No, son. It's Cap."

Johnny didn't say anything for a minute, his head twisting on the pillow, trying to escape the pain 

caused by the bacteria inflaming his nerves and spinal cord. 

"Oh," he said finally. Quietly. Sadly. 

Hank rested his hand on top of Johnny's forehead, heart flipping when Johnny pressed into it, finally stilling. 

"I'm sorry," Hank whispered. 

He didn't know exactly what he was apologizing for—maybe all of it, for not being the person Johnny needed right now, for not protecting him earlier, so many things—but it felt good to say regardless. 

Johnny rolled his head toward him, eyes closed, brow furrowed in pain. "I–don't… sorry, don't."

A curious damp appeared at the corner of his eyes, and Hank considered himself very lucky to be John's captain. He felt that way with all the men he was lucky enough to lead, especially now. Even fighting hell and high water, Johnny was thinking of him. Didn't want him to beat himself up or apologize for things Hank knew logically were out of his control. 

Johnny said something Hank couldn't make out, so he leaned closer. "What was that, John?"'

"Wanna—home—go."

Hank snorted. "You and me both, kid, but I fear we're stuck here for a while longer."

Johnny's face screwed up in discomfort or annoyance, maybe both. "It'll be okay," Hank assured. It feels like all he's done lately. Make promises he wasn't sure would be true. "We'll get through this."

#

If this was hell, Johnny was in it. 

Fire licked at his body, waves of intense burning heat incinerating his limbs, and jolting up through his spine and straight into his brain. Dumping bubbling, toxic waste through his blood-brain barrier and setting off oscillating discomfort that burrowed in the point between his eyes, pressure building to the point he swore his eyes were going to dislocate out of their socket, and roll across the floor. 

He wished he could die. 

Anything would be better than this, right?

His head simply resting on the pillow was agony. 

He could hear someone talking to him as the fire built, raging around him into an uncontrollable inferno.

Relax. Breathe. I'm right here. I think the pain meds are wearing off… spiked again… 105…. Cooling measures. 

He knew he knew that voice deep down beneath the haze of fever, but whenever he tried to place them, the memory slipped through his fingers like grains of sand as he was sucked into the vortex of a pain so intense his stomach rebelled. 

Over and over. It wouldn't stop. His stomach cramped. His throat raw, acid burning him from the inside out. 

We need an antiemetic on board. A light shone in his eyes. A scream filled the room, poured like water into the crevices of his brain, leaving no room for anything other than pain. Heart rate spiking 162, doctor. Johnny couldn't breathe; every ounce of blood seemed to be making its way to his head, threatening to decimate him. Johnny? I'm here. A warmth seeped through the plastic cradling the skin of his hand. 

Save me, he whispered to no one. The darkness behind his eyes pulsed, and his heart vibrated in his ears. Please make it stop. Please.

If someone told him the only way to end his pain was to jump off a building, he'd do it. He'd really, truly, and honestly do it. 

Johnny? JOHNNY! 

Stats are dropping.

I want Dr. Early here NOW. 

Johnny? Can you hear me?Slipping. He was slipping, reality bleeding through his fingers. The voices around him, the clatter of activity, and the burst of coolness across his forehead before it melted into the lava of his skin were all fading behind him as he ran through the dark. He needed to get away. He couldn't… the fire was too much. He needed to leave, and leave he would. 

The black walls around him closed in, the suffocating pressure of a thick, viscous syrup occluding his windpipe and obstructing his breath. 

"M' so tired. I just want to sleep. 

A loud screeching noise filtered down to him from far away, but Johnny couldn't even react 

anymore as his eyes fell closed and he stumbled off the edge of a very large drop-off point, and fell… 

And fell…

And fell… 

And fell… 

And fell.

#

Hank stopped in the doorway of Johnny's hospital room, a normal and less intimidating one than the neuro-ICU he'd been in for all of last week, and studied the man in the bed across the room. Perched on his face was a black pair of sunglasses; any light, no matter how dim, was still extremely painful for him. He looked thinner, which Hank didn't know was possible, and dreaded 

having to tell him he would need to get some muscle and weight on him before coming back to work. He was barely above department regulations as it was. 

But he could say he would get to come back to work, something he'd been too scared for a week to even dream or say. The life in Johnny's body seemed to be slipping through their fingers, no matter how hard Dr. Brackett and Early tried to hold him earthside. 

Roy had been by, he could tell by the stuffed animal sitting on the nightstand and a card that read "Get Well Soon, Uncle Johnny!" in bright red and blue crayon. The workmanship of innocent children. 

He must have just missed him. 

Johnny didn't stir at his presence, and Hank reasoned he must not have heard him. Another side effect of the meningitis was temporary hearing loss on one side. When they'd discovered it on Monday, Johnny had been extremely agitated, wondering, even as he was barely cleared from the neurology step-down unit, if that meant he wasn't going to be able to get back to work. 

"A temporary side effect," Dr. Early had promised him. "As the swelling in your spinal cord continues to go down as the infection abates, your hearing should return."

Knocking on the door, Hank smiled when Johnny stiffened and then turned his head slowly, a dimmed grin meeting Hank's own. "Hey, Cap!"

"Good to see you up, how are you feeling?" 

Hank moved across the floor, an all too familiar dance now, and settled into the chair beside the bed, stretching out his long legs in front of him. The thermos of creamed potato soup Emily sent along sat warm in his lap. Johnny had been having a hard time getting enough food, complaining that the hospital food tasted like glue and was bland, so she and Joanne had taken to rotating soup for him so he could at least be getting something. 

"Okay," Johnny said resolutely, jaw feathered.

Hank narrowed his eyes. "Headache?"

"Still there," Johnny sighed, and Hank wished he could see his eyes. They were the most expressive part of Johnny and made reading his emotions as easy as checking the weather. 

"Although it's way more manageable. I just want to go home and sleep in my own bed."

His nose scrunched. "I'm not being ungrateful, but it's hard to sleep when you have people running in to check on you every few hours."

Hank grimaced, his own memory of the nightly interruptions unpleasant. "A few more days, and then bed rest at Roy's is all yours. At least, that's what Dr. Brackett said when I was on my way up."

Johnny visibly perked up, his shoulders pulling back. "Really?"

"Barring no further complications," Hank raised an eyebrow, and Johnny sighed.

"Oh, yeah."

Hank blinked rapidly, trying to clear away the images his words conjured up. For three days, Johnny had lingered in the hell between life and death, spiking outrageous fevers, uncontrolled seizures, and breathing difficulties. 

Hank had sat with him through most of it, doing whatever the doctors needed him to do as they tried to help Johnny fight back against the bacteria invading his body. They'd called Roy down from Bakersfield, and he'd left the paramedic training a day earlier than anticipated due to Johnny's quick deterioration and his being his next of kin. 

He and Roy had spent sleepless nights changing out wet cloths, stumbling to the hospital chapel to pray for a miracle in a God Hank hadn't been on speaking terms with for years until now, their bodies sweating beneath the layers of protective gear they were forced to wear.

It had been touch-and-go for so long that when Johnny's fever finally dropped into the 101 range, Hank didn't believe it. Not until it didn't spike higher later that afternoon. And not until Johnny's eyes fluttered open, confused, but cognizant. 

If he were being honest, Hank still didn't believe it. 

He probably wouldn't until Johnny was free of this place. 

"Soon," he assured the young man, and handed him the thermos. "From Emily."

Johnny groaned in appreciation. "What is it this time?"

"Creamed potato cheese."

Johnny's smile was wide. "You married a good woman, Cap."

"The best," Hank agreed wholeheartedly.

He'd managed to escape the throes of meningitis, and when he'd walked through the door to the house they shared, Emily had thrown her arms around his neck and stayed there for the longest time. Her breath tickling his neck, her wet tears dampening his shirt.

"It's silly," she sniffed, her voice muffled in his shoulder. "I've been less worried about the fires you've fought, and the risks you take every day than… a bacterium!" She pulled away, cupping his face in between her palms. Her eyes are wild, red-rimmed, and tear-drenched. Hank could see the flecks of silver and gold sprinkled through their hazel oceans. Age has been kind to her. 

Small, delicate lines run at the corners of her mouth, and a few silver hairs pepper her dark brown hair. 

Time has aged them both, but to him, she's still the bright young woman he married right out of high school with 100 dollars to his name and a prayer they'd make it and be better than his parents.

He likes to think they did. 

"Don't ever scare me like that again, promise me."

Her lips were worry-bitten, swollen at the middle where the worst of the bite marks marred her lower lip. Hank sighed and pressed his forehead to hers, inhaling her perfume and trying to press the memory of her body against his into every pore. "You know I can't—"

"Promise me, Hank!" Her voice was borderline hysterical, and so Hank did the only thing he could do: he did. 

"I promise."

They both knew he would break it; they both knew it was impossible to promise something like that with the job he had, the cases he worked, but he made it anyway, and they would pretend 

that his words actually meant something.

Because sometimes lying wasn't malicious, sometimes you lied to protect the people you loved, and Hank had to believe that if God was made at that, then maybe he wasn't the loving God his parents thought he was after all.

"Um… Cap?"

Hank blinked, thrown back into the hospital room, Johnny perched in the bed, his shoulders slumped as he fiddled with the thermos handle, his gaze fixed on the plastic. 

"Yes, John?"

"What day is it?"

He didn't know what to say to that, concerned that Dr. Early might have missed something. Johnny was told what day it was the day he was awake enough to understand what it meant. 

Why couldn't he remember it now?"

"John—" Hank started, reaching for the call button near the bed. 

"Just tell me, please. I promise I'm fine, I just… need to be sure."

Sure of what?

But Hank didn't say that, and despite his misgivings, humored Johnny. "It's June 29th."

Johnny was very still, his fingers no longer dancing around the cup lid, and his breath shallow. 

Hank frowned. Please take the glasses off, Johnny. It was hard to tell what he was feeling, but based on the energy shift he felt in the room, it wasn't good. 

"Why do you ask?" Hank asked when the heaviness of the silence, punctuated by the sound of shoes squeaking on the floor or a cart rustling down the hall outside the door, became too much to bear. 

Johnny flinched at the sound of his voice, recoiling back into the pillows, his head dropping to his chest. The sunglasses slipped down slightly, but not enough for Hank to get a firmer read on what was happening. "I just—My—" he stopped abruptly, his lips pressing into a thin, firm line. 

"It's okay, John." Hank leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees, his back protesting against the chair he was seated in. "You don't have to tell me, but if you do, I'm here."

John shook his head slightly and hissed. "I keep forgetting I can't do that right now. Hurts like a mother."

Hank didn't want to imagine. 

"I missed my parents' anniversary. Their death anniversary."

Hank suddenly wished he hadn't pressed Johnny about what was bothering him. He didn't do well with emotions, he tried, and he did a good job of it when they lost a victim—especially a child—on a run, but deep down, he just wasn't a feelings man. 

He liked to ignore what he could until it couldn't be ignored anymore, and tears gave him hives—emotional hives. 

Mulling over his words carefully, Hank said what was honest. 

"I'm sorry to hear that, John. What day?"

Johnny inhaled shakily. "June 19th."

Hank did the math. Johnny had been out of it, and in the worst of his stay in the ICU. He couldn't 

have known. "John, you were fighting for your life and—"

"I'm their only son," Johnny said slowly, an angry bite behind the words. "I should have been there."

"But you couldn't," Hank argued. "Johnny, you couldn't, and I think you know why."

"Logically, I know that," Johnny took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. Hank couldn't help but notice how red they were, dark half-moons hanging suspended in puffy pockets in her eye. "But I don't know that here." He jabbed a finger into his chest. "I don't want them to think I forgot them."

"They would never think that," Hank's throat bobbed, jaw tight, absorbing the anguish in Johnny's face. "Trust me, John. I'm a dad, I would know."

Johnny buried his face in his hands, chest rising and falling in unsteady patterns. "But—"

"No," Hank swallowed hard. "No," his voice softer this time. "There's no 'but' in a parent's unconditional love, and I don't know where you're at with all the afterlife stuff, but I believe they know." He stood and moved so that he was standing next to Johnny's bed and gently, slowly lifted his head by putting his right hand beneath his chin and pushing up. "I believe they saw what you were going through and held you through it all. They understand."

Hank was a little embarrassed at the force and passion behind his words when Johnny just stared at him, dark brown eyes wide and searching. It eased when Johnny nodded—or tried to—gingerly. "You think?"

Hank rolled his eyes and squeezed his chin. "I know, John. Trust me."

Johnny didn't seem convinced fully, but Hank was satisfied for the moment that he wasn't going to set back his recovery by getting too worked up. Releasing him, Hank moved to sit again, but paused when Johnny grabbed the edge of his jacket. He'd gotten well acquainted with how cold the hospital could be when you were waiting for long hours, and came more than prepared now. 

"Thanks, Cap. I—" Johnny's throat bobbed. "Did… did I call you 'dad'? When I was," his neck flushed. "Ya know, out of it."

He laughed awkwardly, his hand falling into his lap with a dull 'thud'.

Hank stared at him a moment, wondering if he should live to save him from the embarrassment or tell the truth. There you go, playing parent again. Parents lied to their children all the time, out of love and necessity. But Johnny wasn't his son. Johnny was a fully fledged adult, even if he didn't look like one or act like one at times. The truth then. 

"You did. I'm surprised you remembered that." He kept his tone neutral, letting Johnny direct where the conversation went. 

"Ah," Johnny winced. "Sorry, Cap. I didn't mean… I'm not… I—"

Hank sighed, already knowing that Johnny was internally off on a tangent, embarrassment choking his ability to form coherent sentences. "It was an honor, actually.

He could feel his own skin heating, emotions, again, not his strong suit. Especially not confessing to any. 

"You needed someone to be there, and I'm glad I could be."

Johnny visibly relaxed under his assurance, melting back into the pillows. His tawny skin was paler than Hank would like to see. "You don't uh—tell Chet?" Johnny rubbed his temples, and Hank discreetly pressed the call button for a nurse when he closed his eyes. 

"The phantom will never hear of it," Hank smiled wryly. "Any conversations we have stay between us unless it's endangering someone."

"Ah."

The door to Johnny's room swung open, and a nurse sailed in, a slight furrow in her brow. "Everything all right here?"

Hank jerked his chin toward Johnny. "I think it's time for his next round of pain meds."

"Cap, I'm fine. Really." Johnny protested, and it would have been convincing if it weren't so strained-sounding.

The nurse—Cherry—glanced at his chart and smiled. "Well, you're on track for another dose, so I'll give you one anyway. You don't want it to get away from you again, hmm?"

Johnny sighed as she left to get the requested meds and stared unimpressed at Hank. "I'm fine."

"Sure you are," he agreed readily, "but everyone needs a little help sometimes."

"Yeah, well." Johnny rolled his eyes. "I seem to need a lot of it."

Hank wished he had a strong cup of black coffee. This wasn't a conversation he wanted to have without caffeine, but alas. "And there's nothing wrong with that, John. It's not like you're rushing into things thinking, 'Hell, I want to break my leg today.'"

The ghost of a smile whispered across Johnny's face. 

"The only reason you got this thing was because of that man you treated. Nothing more. Nothing to be ashamed of, end of discussion."

He pulled out his 'Captain' voice for the final bit, and Johnny pulled his spine a little straighter. "Your parents would be very proud of you."

Johnny twisted the sheet tight into his palm. 

"I only wish they had a chance to see the fine young man you've become."

It was true. When Hank first came to the station, he remembered Johnny catching his attention because he looked like a kid fresh out of high school. No facial hair to speak of, skinnier than a bean pole with doe-like eyes and spooked easily whenever Hank was around. Now, he'd grown more into himself, was more confident, and Hank often watched in awe as he and Roy worked the impossible to save a victim, no matter the cost. 

"I'm proud of you."

Johnny's lower lip trembled, probably to both of their horror, and Hank moved the conversation along to topics revolving around the station and a few whacky calls they'd gotten in the few days he'd been back. He didn't say a word about the tears sparkling in Johnny's eyes, or stop his stories when he passed him the tissue box, letting Johnny collect himself in a pseudo privacy. 

Just before he left, an hour or so later, with a promise to come back tomorrow and bring some magazines and a few books, he was stopped before leaving the room by Johnny's hoarse voice. 

"Cap?"

Hank turned on his heel. "Yeah, John?"

Johnny bit his lip and inhaled shakily, a weak smile lifting the tired hollows of his cheeks. 

"Thanks."

There was so much said in that single word. A weight that hit Hank square between the eyes and burrowed into his skull. Thank you for everything. For being here. For being the dad-figure I didn't have before. Thank you. 

"You're welcome, Pal."