Broken Glass
Hank woke to the uniquely appealing sound of seagulls calling back and forth and the slight tang of ocean air. He lay on his back and stared up at the open window behind his head, and watched a few of the large white birds dive in and out of view. The sun was already up, and had burned off most of the early morning sea mist. He could lay there for hours, staring out that window - only, he should have been up at least an hour ago by his reckoning. Now he'd have to rush to get to work when he wanted. He sat up and groaned again. There would be no rushing this morning, that was certain. He screwed up his determination, pushed himself to his feet, and stiffly made his way to the shower.
The shower was brief, far briefer than he liked, but there was nothing for it - not if he wanted to get to the station before the beginning of the next shift. In the four shifts he'd completed as captain, he'd made damned sure to make himself available at least half an hour early for a change of shift meeting, whether the previous shift leader was available or not. Neither of them had sought to meet with him for more than five or so minutes before he was scheduled to stand down himself. But that didn't change his attitude, which was they weren't on probation, he was, and they weren't inexperienced, he was. But today, for the first time, Hank was entertaining the notion of moseying on in with just the five minutes to spare.
He groaned and stretched as best he could under the hot spray, willing the heat and steam to open up his tendons and cramped muscles. But the ache stayed with him, and finally he stepped out of the shower in defeat. He was going to need an aspirin - probably a few - to get through the day. He popped a couple of pills and toweled off (with far more effort than he thought should have been necessary), and went into the living room to survey his domain.
Every muscle in his body ached, but the result had been well worth the pain. Though he'd signed the paperwork more than a week ago, he'd had the manager send someone in to take care of a few last minute repairs while the unit was still empty, and so hadn't bothered to move in until he was satisfied with the apartment's integrity. Yesterday he'd fetched all his belongings from storage and hefted them all into his new place by himself. He supposed he could have asked for help, but he was feeling particular, and wanted everything just so. It was easier to do all the moving himself, rather than trying to direct five semi-strangers to put things in vague approximations of places that he'd just have to fix himself anyway.
And so he'd fixed everything himself from start to finish, and now he had his very own sea side villa from which he could rule the world.
Well, not so much villa as upper quadrant of a small fourplex apartment in a long row of fourplex apartments, and not so much sea side as reasonable driving distance from the pier. But it was his, all the same.
Not like the small, single story bungalow where he'd spent a long, hot summer in up in Malibu, twisted around the long lean body of a firefighting beach bum, where the sand would blow in every time they opened the door, and where no one seemed to notice the closeness of two boys rolling in the surf -
Hank physically pulled away from the memories. The last thing he needed to do was get lost in a ridiculous fantasy about a time long past with a colleague who was well past such irresponsibility. And anyway, that shack had been just that, a shack. This apartment was sturdy and permanent, a solid fixture of Hank's life. Assuming, of course, that he didn't lose his job because he was standing around in his living room daydreaming instead of getting his ass to work. He hobbled back to the bedroom as quick as he could, scooped up his bag, and made his way down to the truck, grunting and cussing as he went.
He was late (which actually meant he was ten minutes early to his own shift), but that turned out to be just as well. When he arrived, both the engine and squad were out on a run. Instead, he holed up in the office and studied the log to catch up on any important news, and then he busied himself with basic plans for various drills to run through.
He'd come to realize that he'd been saddled with a bunch of comedians. At roll call, he just let them get their ridiculous bickering out before launching into announcements. They could usually hold onto their retorts long enough to be assigned their chores, before the silliness started up again. By the time the previous shift returned and were showering up, Hank had given up on any attempt to rein in his own crew. They were busy cleaning up the rigs and insulting each other and B shift. Instead, Hank retreated to the office to study and fill out paperwork.
He was supposed to be studying maps and building schematics, but mostly he found himself studying his crew cackling and teasing each other no end. All the good natured ribbing brought to mind the memory of the crew he'd left behind. Nostalgia and regret distracted him from the building layout plans before him, and he watched and listened from his concealed position in the front office.
Only Engineer Stoker was in Hank's line of sight. The feelings of nostalgia and regret grew stronger as Hank watched the reserved man polish up the door of the recently returned engine. Stoker didn't seem particularly interested in what sounded suspiciously like the next round in a prank war. He only spoke when directly addressed, and he kept his laughter almost completely to himself.
Hank wondered how the rest of the men saw Stoker, and how Stoker saw himself amongst the guys. Hank found that he was feeling rather sorry for Stoker, and berated himself for it. Stoker was a big boy and could take care of himself.
But Hank had certainly been a big boy just a couple of weeks ago, and he'd been so sure he was on the wrong end of a great big joke the station was having at his expense. Only in the final hours with his former crew did he understand the depth of their affection for him.
Maybe Stoker was perfectly secure in how well he was liked. After all, Hank could certainly see how well the other men liked Stoker. The men definitely liked to give Stoker every opportunity to razz whoever the collective victim of the shift was, regardless of how hard the poor guy tried to keep his nose clean.
But, on the other hand, maybe Stoker was as blind about his crewmates friendship as Hank had been. Maybe he wasn't interpreting their inclusiveness any better than Hank had done just six shifts ago. After all, it wasn't as if any of the guys had gone out of his way to seek Hank out on his level, in his comfort zone, just like no one was making much of an effort to do the same for Stoker.
And then he had it - Mike Stoker was quiet and self contained, just as Hank had been. Part of Hank's quiet, granted, had been out of fear - fear of ostricization, of physical harm, of failure to perform to his own exacting standards - but part of his quiet was simply his nature. He could speak up when he needed to, but most of the time, Hank was perfectly happy to watch the world go spinning by in fascinated silence. Unfortunately, that willingness to live in silence made communicating friendship and camaraderie especially difficult - particularly in a room full of loudmouth wiseasses who could only hear each other by outshouting everyone. Hank had never been up to that sort of task, and he doubted any quiet man in his right mind would be.
So, Hank gave himself a new special project to tackle during his probation: get close to Michael Stoker. Not so as to make the guy feel weird or anything - he just wanted Stoker to know that he got it, that Stoker wasn't the only quiet guy on the crew anymore. Maybe between the two of them, they could settle that twit Chester in to silence.
Almost as if he could hear Hank thinking about him, Chet's voice rang out loud and clear through the apparatus bay. Everybody (except, of course, Stoker) groaned in dismay, and the verbal dogpiling began.
Hank narrowed his eyes. That one. Chet reminded Hank of dear old McConnike. Good firefighter, horrible prankster who never seemed to know when to knock it off. And he could hear the escalating prank war threatening to reach epic proportions. How long would it be before someone - possibly the ever silent Stoker - lost his shit and retaliated with willful property destruction? And if such a thing did happen, then all eyes would be - naturally - on Hank. It's his command, and his MO (since once you do something a little crazy out of desperation one time it apparently becomes your MO). And that meant he'd be on the receiving end of a serious reprimand at best.
Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Couldn't let that happen. Granted, he couldn't really stomp on the guy for imagined future transgressions. But he could keep him in his place. Let him get a little of his own back, before someone came along and set his hat on fire.
The discussion by the engine was growing heated. Hank got up intending to separate them like naughty schoolboys on the playground, but before he made it to the door, he could hear Lopez being the voice of reason. His argument was simple but sound: "Shut up and cool it before the Cap has to come in here and lay down the law. He's new, the more trouble we give him, the harder he'll be on us, and the last thing we need is another Captain Hook, right?"
Lopez wasn't nasty, and he didn't whine. He just told them the plain unvarnished truth, and they heard it. The arguing died down, and the men went back to polishing and folding and hefting. Hank leaned in the doorway and watched. He found himself drawn to Lopez. He'd make a fine leader one day, if he wanted to be. In just three shifts, he'd shown himself to be fair and intelligent, with enough humor to get through the job, and enough seriousness to get the job done right. He wondered how close Lopez was to VanOrden, if at all, and found himself imagining the pair getting along just fine on the Venice boardwalk, beers in hand, and mirrored shades on their eyes while Marco checked out the girls, and Bobby checked out the boys.
The tones dropped, and any complaints to be had were cast aside for the moment as the station jumped to readiness. But it was only for the squad, and so Stoker, Kelly and Lopez stood back out of the way, as Hank signed off on the run.
He caught Daniels making a rude gesture at Kelly before hopping into the squad. He also caught Gage scowling silently at the inappropriate behavior. Hank passed the address to Gage, and watched as he pulled off before Daniels had his mind fully on the road ahead. Not good.
Hank was glad Daniels had reached his OT limit for the quarter and would no longer would be subbing at their station. He reminded Hank too much of Whitmore without the benefit of at least knowing the men well enough to form a friendly bond. He was just the wrong side of indifferent to people's hotspots - and from the dirty look Kelly was giving the now empty driveway, Daniels had gotten to Chet's hotspot but good.
"So," Hank said. "We about done here, fellas?"
The three remaining firemen jumped, apparently unaware their Captain was still standing there watching them watch the air where the squad used to be. "No sir," Kelly said, clearing his throat.
Hank smiled at them. "Well, I tell ya what, the sooner you finish, the sooner you all can sneak a break while we wait for the squad to return. I want to talk about the new development on 190th. Preferably before lunch, okay?"
The men looked surprised, like they'd expected to be dressed down for slacking off or being rowdy or any number of thing he supposed a stuffy man like Hookraider would take them to task on. He swallowed a laugh. "And try not to blow up the station with the prank war, guys. The last thing you want is for me to get involved." He caught the looks of abject terror on Kelly and Lopez's faces, and the confusion on Stoker's, before returning to the office in near glee.
After the squad's third run, Hank gave up on the idea of discussing the new condos before lunch, and went to the kitchen to put lunch together. The chicken wasn't quite done baking before his engine crew sniffed their way into the kitchen, one by one, and began setting the table. The squad returned as soon as the food came out of the oven, and Gage came running into the room, eyes bright, teeth flashing. "Did I make it for lunch?"
Hank just held up the pot of chicken and rice, and set it in the middle of the table. "Eat fast. I have something I want to go over before you get toned out again."
They did eat fast, and they ate ravenously. He'd noticed that they were often a talkative bunch at meal time, but there was no talking for several minutes - just the slurp and smack of six large men scarfing down a hot meal.
Finally, Gage sat back in his seat and sighed contentedly. "I wish I was a cow."
Everybody stopped eating and stared at him. "A cow?" Chet asked.
"Uh huh. Or a horse."
They all looked at each other. "A horse," Chet said.
"Yeah. It is horses, right? Who have multiple stomachs?"
The crew groaned, but Hank laughed. "Um, I appreciate the compliment," he said. "That was a compliment, right?"
"Damn right, Cap! You've got the second best chicken in the county!"
"Second best?"
John shrugged. "Well, okay, maybe tied. I kinda got a thing about fried chicken, though." He rubbed his chin. "Actually, maybe it is a tie, because I love Stoker's fried chicken, it's unbeatable, but fried chicken doesn't come with chicken flavored rice, and chicken flavored rice is like bonus rice or something, you know what I mean?"
"Does anybody ever know what you mean," Chet asked.
"Why don't you just stop while you're ahead," Hank said. "I'm glad you enjoyed the lunch."
"Enjoyed it? I wanna eat more of it, but I almost can't move as it is!" He reached out and snatched a bit of chicken from Marco's plate, and waved off Marco's indignant protest. "Speaking of moving," Gage said, "Does anybody know if theres anything around for rent?"
"Why," Kelly asked. "We finally gettin rid of you?"
"Ha ha, Chet, no, you're not getting rid of me. See, Dr. Brackett is looking for a new place, closer to the hospital." He frowned, and leaned into the table. "Don't make a big deal out of it or anything - I'm not really sure if this is supposed to be public knowledge."
"Then why are you telling us," asked Chet.
"Because... he needs a little help, and I just... thought I would help!"
"I don't get it," Marco said. "What's so secretive about moving?"
"Can we hold that thought," Hank asked, "and maybe turn our attention to the 190th Street condos-"
The klaxon blared to life, and Hank couldn't help his frustrated growl.
In the end, his planned lecture became a series of five minute chalk scrawls between what amounted to bullshit runs until well after the dinner hour. Dinner was scraped together on the way back to quarters after a bogus alarm activation, and everyone settled into the dayroom to catch the last few minutes of All In The Family. Hank couldn't concentrate, though, and decided that what he really needed was a few minutes alone with the sky.
He went to the parking lot, intending to crash in the pickup bed for a few minutes, and was surprised to see Gage sitting on the hood of his own vehicle, staring over the wall at the cars zipping along the 405. Hank really wanted a minute to himself, but something about the set of John's shoulders seemed tense, unhappy, and he couldn't just ignore the man. The well being of his crew was his responsibility - he had to address it, even if he couldn't do anything to help. "Gage? You okay there, pal?"
"Hm? Oh, yeah, Cap." He was distant, and had already returned his focus to whatever was eating him.
Hank gave it another shot. "Wanna talk about it?" He wouldn't press if the answers weren't forthcoming. Not yet, anyway.
"I'm not sure if I can. Or should. Maybe though."
Hank sighed. He wasn't in the mood for puzzles. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, but I can treat this with the utmost confidence if you need it."
John turned to him with a slight frown. "It's not really about me, though, Cap. It's this thing with Brackett - you remember, the loud, pissed off doctor who thought everybody was clowning around when you came to meet Roy?"
Hank felt his face grow warm. "I remember."
John smiled sheepishly. "He's not usually that bad. Not usually." He looked at the freeway again. "But I dunno, Cap. Lately he's been... strange. Really mad. I mean, really mad. And there's been rumors... like, he's not taking care of himself or something. He looks bad, Cap, real bad. He's usually real... prissy, I guess."
Hank snorted and choked.
"I mean, not in a bad way," John rushed to correct. "He's so put together, so perfect all the time. But he's all scruffy and his clothes are wrinkled, and I swear he's lost like ten, fifteen pounds in the last couple weeks. And..."
"And?"
John sighed. "And some people say he's come to work smelling a little like booze. I've never smelled it, but I've seen him guzzle coffee and water down a couple times like he's been stuck in the desert for a week. And I just didn't really pay attention to how bad he's looked until today, really, you know? I guess I've been so wrapped up in how Roy is doing, and worrying about Roy getting off the sick list and all that, that I never even saw another friend of mine is apparently going downhill right before my eyes - and I don't really know what to do or say, because he's not really my friend, he's my boss and we talk a little, but he's not-"
"Okay, stop," Hank said, and held up his hand. "Either he's your friend or he isn't. Pick one."
John looked nervous. "I can't. I mean, are you and me friends yet?"
Hank blinked for a second, and sighed. "But you've known him for awhile, right?"
"Sure, but that's how distant he and I are. He's my medical supervisor, and I think he's a good guy, and I think he probably thinks I'm a good guy - I know he thinks I'm a good paramedic - but we've never talked anything other than business and the weather." His shoulders sagged. "I don't wanna overstep my bounds here."
"John, you're a firefighter - if you have a personality clash with him, it won't affect your job status unless you actively choose to make a change."
But Gage shook his head. "No, you don't understand, he's a real touchy guy, real touchy. He's a nice guy, and a good guy, but you gotta understand, he wears his heart on his sleeve, and he's real vocal. Like, the worst of me and Chet all rolled into one guy - a guy smart enough to get a doctorate in medicine for crying out loud. He's like a Molotov cocktail."
Hank looked away. He didn't need to be told any of that; he'd seen first hand how touchy Doctor Foxy could be - and how quick he could change from friend to foe.
"Sorry, Cap. I know this is kinda heavy and ridiculous at the same time."
Hank shrugged. "Let me ask you this: what is it you think you want to do to help?"
"I have no idea. I just... I don't like the idea of him having to... go away or something."
Hank nodded. "And you don't want to talk to him directly."
"No way. Besides, it won't do any good. He'll either give me a line about he's fine and he's just overworked, or he'll yell at me and be mad for like a month and a half."
"So... how were you gonna let him know you'd found him some vacancies near the hospital?"
John laughed hollowly. "I dunno. I guess I was gonna tell Dixie. Doesn't matter, though. It's not like anyone was gonna do any apartment hunting for him, especially after I took it back today at lunch."
They were quiet for a minute, and listened to the swish of traffic roll by on the freeway. "Maybe you should just sleep on it," Hank finally said. "Sometimes, things seem clearer in the morning."
Gage looked skeptical. "Sure, Cap. Maybe."
"Lights out soon," Hank said, and looked wistfully at his truck. He'd come out for some air, and he'd gotten it. He forced himself to turn away from the cars, and went back into the station, smiling as he heard John's footsteps echoing behind him.
The night was blissfully quiet, and when the morning test sounded, Hank was feeling surprisingly chipper and refreshed. The rest of the men dragged on like children being dragged off for another torturous day at school, but he snapped them into shape with threats of calisthenics first thing in the morning. They shook of the haze of sleep and moved into the day room to hope for a quiet morning. It was not to be for the squad, who were called out before the shift change, but the B shift arrived just in time to deal with some fool who went and got himself caught halfway down the seaside cliffs in Palos Verdes Estates. Hank swallowed down his laughter - the victim was in serious danger, after all - and got in his truck.
He tossed his dufflebag on the seat across from him, and sighed when it slid right off the bench onto the floor, and took a ton of old papers with it. He really needed to clear out the old paperwork piled up on the seat (half of which now lay crumpled under his his bag on the floor). He'd finished moving, there was no reason to hang on to all that-
He paused, and reached out for some of the papers. They were the vacancy listings Chief Connor had given him a week ago. The lists were laughably outdated now - having been a couple days old when he'd first gotten them himself, but they were probably a decent place to start. He picked out the list that he'd chosen his own apartment building from, and looked it over with a smile. Yes, there was bound to be something that the doctor would probably find suitable from this list - plus this would give Hank a chance to clear the air between them, to acknowledge that there'd be no trouble, no reference to their tryst from his end. He ignored the little thrill (both of joy and aprehension) that went through him at the thought of seeing Dr. Brackett once more, and prepared to take a little detour to Rampart.