I’d like to see pregnant Penny.

rent-day-blues:

rent-day-blues:

rent-day-blues:

rent-day-blues:

rent-day-blues:

(here is prelude again, and I’m gonna go ahead and slap a big ol trigger warning on this one: tw: miscarriage. sorry folks, this is the soap opera AU.)

It’s generally considered that the nightmare scenario for a dispatcher is to take a call in which a friend or family member is involved, but John’s got three brothers in three separate lines of emergency service, and it’s not that big a city. He’s pretty sure if he worked it out, he’d find he routes a call to one or the other of them at least once a week, and this is compounded by the fact that he hears about it, any time one of his colleagues dispatches one of the Tracy brood for whatever reason. John and his brothers are halfway to being city mascots, by this point.

Keep reading

It’s probably because he and his brothers are almost city mascots, and that John’s already a senior dispatcher despite being in the younger half of the crew, and because John hasn’t frozen on a call in years that his supervisor stands him down immediately.

It’s probably mostly the latter.

Keep reading

It’s a minor miracle that John’s here. She so easily could’ve been alone.

Keep reading

Gordon’s feeling good as he saunters the half-block down to Penny’s cafe.

Keep reading

In the end, he’d had to admit that they’re not really family.

Keep reading

yJohn watches the scene unfold like it’s happening to someone else.

He’s aware he’s slipping into the slightly disassociated, divorced mindset of an operator, not a brother, but he suspects if he’s the brother right now, he’d break right beside Gordon.

As it is, Gordon is shattering right before his eyes, crumpling down into his right there on the uncomfortable plastic chair, trying to grapple with the enormity of the future that is now no longer theirs.

A part of John, a cruel horrible part he tries to keep as far away from his family as possible, wonders how Gordon and Penny could be so stupid, but John ruthlessly suppresses that thought too. Accidents happen, no birth control was perfect. Moot point now.

John shifts to cover his own discomfort. “Gordon? Speak to me, you okay?”

Gordon’s eyes flash daggers. “Do I look okay,” he snarls, and there’s anger. Gordon not only wears his emotions on his sleeve, he also moves through them sometimes too fast for John to keep up. “Sorry, not mad at you,” Gordon adds before John can reply, and there’s another shift.

Gordon’s shoulders are already pulling back, his head up to look around, spot a likely candidate. It’s the shift John has been looking for, and that it’s come so quickly is an oddly positive sign. “She’s down there, second last bed on the ward.” Gordon’s a heat-seeking missile as he pushes through the end-of-visiting-hours crowd.

John’s kind of forgotten about Penny’s colleague until she drops down in the seat so recently vacated. “You’re Penny’s friend, right? Uh, James?”

“John.” He looks at her badge again. “Moffie, I assume?” He manages a smile at her sharp little nod. “Sorry we’re not meeting under better circumstances.” He settles back, preparing to wait. “Um, I can tell Penny you stopped by,” he adds as Moffie tucks her own bags under her seat and tries to get comfortable.

“No offense, John,” she replies, sharp as a rabbit. “But I think right now you, all of you, could use a friend.” Her smile is oddly sweet for this place. “Besides, I’ve got nowhere to be.”

John nods slowly, managing an elegant enough gesture for her to take the seat she’s already claimed. Moffie response with a regal tilt of her head as she pulled a paper takeout bag onto her lap. “Here, Miss E gave us some muffins, and you look like a man a long time between meals.”

John’s stomach growls, making a liar out of him before he can even speak. Moffie pushes it and a paper napkin onto his lap, where he has to take it or let it drop. But she doesn’t comment at the way he picks at it, crumbling it down between his fingers as the minutes tick by and the crowds thin and still Gordon doesn’t reappear with news.

John’s back is aching, and its a relief to get up, stretch his legs on the short walk to dump the disassembled muffin in the trash. The movement brings his closer to the nurses’ station for the floor, and its only because he’s there does he hear the polished, almost exaggerated English accent ask for Penny by her full name.

He has no right to, but he strides over anyway as the nurse asks for his relationship. “As good as family, ma’am.”

Somehow, John doubts that.

I’d like to see pregnant Penny.

rent-day-blues:

rent-day-blues:

rent-day-blues:

(here is prelude again, and I’m gonna go ahead and slap a big ol trigger warning on this one: tw: miscarriage. sorry folks, this is the soap opera AU.)

It’s generally considered that the nightmare scenario for a dispatcher is to take a call in which a friend or family member is involved, but John’s got three brothers in three separate lines of emergency service, and it’s not that big a city. He’s pretty sure if he worked it out, he’d find he routes a call to one or the other of them at least once a week, and this is compounded by the fact that he hears about it, any time one of his colleagues dispatches one of the Tracy brood for whatever reason. John and his brothers are halfway to being city mascots, by this point.

Keep reading

It’s probably because he and his brothers are almost city mascots, and that John’s already a senior dispatcher despite being in the younger half of the crew, and because John hasn’t frozen on a call in years that his supervisor stands him down immediately.

It’s probably mostly the latter.

Keep reading

It’s a minor miracle that John’s here. She so easily could’ve been alone.

Keep reading

Gordon’s feeling good as he saunters the half-block down to Penny’s cafe.

His shift had ended on time, and for once Gordon finished it in the same uniform he started with. The worst thing on the call sheet today had been a badly broken arm, another eight year old learning the hard way that he couldn’t fly. But he’d been so hopped up on excitement and the attention that he’d laughed at Gordon’s weak jokes as he gently probed the break and set the temporary inflatable cast onto his arm to prepare him for transport.

No gruesome car wrecks, no suicides, nothing that made Gordon grieve for humanity. He’d even gotten to pat a puppy waiting at the bus stop.

He couldn’t wait to tell Penny about the puppy. It had been so tiny.

He’s grinning as the bell above the door chimed, the place mostly empty in the lull between the lunchtime rush and post-school surge. Gordon waves at Moffie where she’s clearing a table. He frowns and rushes forward as she fumbles the greasy plates and almost drops them. “Gordon,” she breathes, eyes wide, cheeks pale. “What are you doing here?”

Gordon placed the mug he’d caught back on the table. “Meeting Penny,” he said. True, it had been a while, but that’s why he was looking forward to this afternoon’s date before he had to head back and take a spell sitting with Grandma. He glances back at the kitchen door. “Where’s Penny?”

Gordon knew he shouldn’t, he might get Penny in trouble, but some instinct had him striding for the swinging doors that separated cafe from kitchen. The transition from warm and homey cafe to industrial kitchen was immediate, the lights in here a blue-white, flickering fluorescence that flattened shadows and turned the giant bloodstain Miss Edmunds was scrubbing off the tiles an earthy, dirty brown.

Gordon was too familiar with blood in all its stages, wet or dry or curdled, to allow himself the illusion that this was just a dropped pot of gravy. “Miss E?” he asks, his hand gripping the cool metal edge of the prep bench hard enough to dig in against his knuckles.

He hadn’t heard the door swing again, but Moffie’s there, smelling of stale coffee and the faintest edge of blood as she hugs him. “Gordon,” Miss Edmunds says, taking his hand. She’s stripped her rubber gloves, but her fingers are still blood-warm from the bucket of hot, soapy water by her feet. “I’m sorry, we didn’t have your number. It’s Penny.”

He doesn’t remember sitting down, but between one blink and the next he’s been slotted in the back booth, a large mug of sweet tea in front of him. Behind the counter, Moffie is finalizing her register, already in her coat, as next to her Miss E. is packing up some leftovers into a takeaway box.

Gordon still feels a bit woozy as he levers himself off the worn upholstery. “I really need….which hospital did they say?”

Moffie takes the bag from Miss Edmunds and starts shooing Gordon towards the door. Gordon only starts moving when she says the magic word. “I have a car.” Her tone indicates she already has a plan. “You can navigate.”

His fingers twitch to flick a non-existent switch for lights and sirens he’d left behind with his other ride. Moffie drove like a paramedic anyway, fast and smooth, weaving in and out of traffic like it was her birthright. She didn’t try to talk, and for that Gordon was grateful.

The lot by the hospital was packed, visiting hours in full swing, but Moffie snaked a spot from a waiting driver without a backwards glance. Ignoring the glares, they strode together through the entrance and into reception. Gordon’s still in his uniform, his ID clipped onto his pocket. “I need to find a recent admission, Creighton-Ward?” he asks the charge nurse. He knows all the staff by the emergency entrance, but he manages to smile like they know each other too anyway. “Brought in this afternoon by some of my colleagues?”

The combination of uniform and smile get a room number out of her regardless of family visitation protocols.

Moffie shifts her bags to her other hand to twine her fingers with Gordon’s as they are crushed together in the packed elevator.

Gordon takes a deep breath as the bell dings and the doors slide open.

I’d like to see pregnant Penny.

rent-day-blues:

(here is prelude again, and I’m gonna go ahead and slap a big ol trigger warning on this one: tw: miscarriage. sorry folks, this is the soap opera AU.)

It’s generally considered that the nightmare scenario for a dispatcher is to take a call in which a friend or family member is involved, but John’s got three brothers in three separate lines of emergency service, and it’s not that big a city. He’s pretty sure if he worked it out, he’d find he routes a call to one or the other of them at least once a week, and this is compounded by the fact that he hears about it, any time one of his colleagues dispatches one of the Tracy brood for whatever reason. John and his brothers are halfway to being city mascots, by this point.

Keep reading

It’s probably because he and his brothers are almost city mascots, and that John’s already a senior dispatcher despite being in the younger half of the crew, and because John hasn’t frozen on a call in years that his supervisor stands him down immediately.

It’s probably mostly the latter.

Marion at the station behind him had come around, pulled the headset from his skull, had finished the call with one hand on his shoulder, warm and motherly and all the things John had convinced himself he didn’t need.

He preferred Marion when she was pissed off and brisk, to be honest. But now he can hear her whispering to his supervisor as he jams his stuff into his worn out backpack. “Yeah, sounded like she lost it…I had no idea he had a young lady…I know, so sad, after, well, everything….”

John’s in no mood to correct their assumptions. Penny’s not his ‘young lady.’ But she is his friend, and she’s alone and hurting, and if John’s been stood down off his shift forty-five minutes early, then he’s going to go help her.

The only question is whether he should call Gordon. John’s got a spreadsheet of all their shifts, a set of notes on his phone to ensure Grandma always has someone with her, and in the bright late afternoon sunshine John has to peer through the crack in the screen to see that Gordon’s on shift for another four hours at least, his phone probably still tucked away in his locker. Paramedics aren’t allowed to take personal calls on the job.

John tucks his own phone away, squares his shoulders, and sprints to make the cross-town bus. Scott’s got the car today, and John knows he could call him, but somehow it doesn’t feel right to tell Scott before Gordon. So John keeps his hands buried in his pockets in the crush of the packed bus, running the pad of his finger over the crack in lieu of having anyone to call.

His uniform gets a second look from the admissions nurse, and the sound of his voice turns more than one head. But all that means is that John is hurried through back hallways without having to prove that he’s immediate family.

He’s a redhead, she’s a redhead, they both love Gordon despite themselves, and Penny took him for three separate chore tokens in Saturday night poker with Grandma. She’s family.

As John is led down an open ward to a partially drawn curtain, John gets a glimpse of Penny gently pushing away a fussing charge nurse. She’s pale, red-eyed and hair in un-Penny-like disarray. But she’s sitting up, reclining against a stack of pillows, and she’s awake. “Let them take care of you, Pen,” he says in lieu of a greeting, stepping around the curtain.

“John!” Penny reaches for him, freezing as she winces and goes ghostly white, one hand flying to press against her abdomen.

John can feel her shaking as he helps her lie back. He doesn’t let go of her hand. “How…?”

“I caught the call.” John’s embarrassed, feels like he’s been caught snooping. But he leans in to brush her hair off her face anyway, hating the brave face he can see her struggling to maintain. “Gordon’s still on shift, but I could call dispatch…?”

She grabs his hand with an unexpected ferocity, and he’s not sure if that’s a yes or a no.

Can I offer a prompt please – handmade gifts

rent-day-blues:

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(prelude here, I’ma start this one off with…)

Gordon’s last gift to his older brother was a pamphlet listing a variety of hand and wrist exercises, in an effort to help stave off the carpal tunnel syndrome that’s probably just about inevitable, considering all the typing his brother does. Of the five of them, John and Alan are the only ones who spend any time at desks any longer, and though it doesn’t happen often, occasionally John ends up with idle time on his hands, nothing to do while he sits at his desk. Come Christmastime, it becomes apparent that he’s been putting this time to productive use. It’s not clear if he’s used any of this idle time for the provided wrist exercises.

Apparently one of the other dispatchers had taught him the basics over the course of a couple lunch breaks. Apparently she’d gotten him started with a spare pair of needles, and an old skein of yarn that she’d meant for him just to practice with—by her standards, the colour of it was too bright and gaudy for anyone to reasonably want to wear, bright, chunky, golden rod yellow—but John’s a fast learner and a perfectionist, and by the end of a few particularly slow weeks, he’d had a respectable four feet worth of scarf, garter stitched the whole way through.

John says it’s nothing much, and that he won’t mind in the least if Gordon doesn’t wear it. He doesn’t even know if it’ll be particularly warm, being made of cheap acrylic yarn, nothing like high quality wool. He’d made it just to make it, after all, it was only supposed to be for practice. And anyway it’s out of regs, as far as the uniform goes.

Gordon doesn’t care. Gordon loves it. And he wears it from the depths of December, right up until the city starts to thaw out again.

Grandma used to do this when she was a girl, and the Depression made everything scare and then scarcer still.

Keep reading

Alan’s not sure what Scott was trying to prove, giving him something of Mom’s. Especially her wedding ring.

Keep reading

Penny wasn’t brought up to be the kind of girl to do her own baking.

She was brought up to be genteel and ornamental and functionally useless. She was brought up to be pretty and charming and obedient, to go where she was told and to do as she was bid.

The diner doesn’t care about pretty, or charming, or even obedient as long as the eggs made it to the table still hot from the kitchen. The diner cares about girls that can carry eight plates at once and keep the coffee topped up.

It’s exhausting and leaves her coated in grease, and it doesn’t pay enough, even with tips that are delivered as often as not with a slap on her ass, but a part of her is so, so proud of herself for making it this far.

The library cookbook has a thumbprint marked in grease on the corner of the page. Penny’s got her tongue permanently parked in the corner of her mouth as she studies the instructions and guesses weights and measures with a chipped coffee mug and a bowl that she’d been using to hold her fruit.

The result is lopsided, the icing slowly oozing downhill to spill over one side. But the candles encountered nothing but fluffy sweetness as she jammed them in, setting them aflame with Virgil’s borrowed lighter.

Gordon’s eyes are golden in the firelight as he leans in to blow out the candles. “Happy birthday, darling,” Penny said as she kissed his cheek, mindful of his brothers and Grandmother ringed around the table. “What did you wish for?”

Gordon wasn’t brought up to be genteel or charming. He catches her jaw in a gentle hand, pulls her in for a kiss that still makes her toes curl. “Nothing. I’ve already got everything I could want.”

Can I offer a prompt please – handmade gifts

rent-day-blues:

(prelude here, I’ma start this one off with…)

Gordon’s last gift to his older brother was a pamphlet listing a variety of hand and wrist exercises, in an effort to help stave off the carpal tunnel syndrome that’s probably just about inevitable, considering all the typing his brother does. Of the five of them, John and Alan are the only ones who spend any time at desks any longer, and though it doesn’t happen often, occasionally John ends up with idle time on his hands, nothing to do while he sits at his desk. Come Christmastime, it becomes apparent that he’s been putting this time to productive use. It’s not clear if he’s used any of this idle time for the provided wrist exercises.

Apparently one of the other dispatchers had taught him the basics over the course of a couple lunch breaks. Apparently she’d gotten him started with a spare pair of needles, and an old skein of yarn that she’d meant for him just to practice with—by her standards, the colour of it was too bright and gaudy for anyone to reasonably want to wear, bright, chunky, golden rod yellow—but John’s a fast learner and a perfectionist, and by the end of a few particularly slow weeks, he’d had a respectable four feet worth of scarf, garter stitched the whole way through.

John says it’s nothing much, and that he won’t mind in the least if Gordon doesn’t wear it. He doesn’t even know if it’ll be particularly warm, being made of cheap acrylic yarn, nothing like high quality wool. He’d made it just to make it, after all, it was only supposed to be for practice. And anyway it’s out of regs, as far as the uniform goes.

Gordon doesn’t care. Gordon loves it. And he wears it from the depths of December, right up until the city starts to thaw out again.

Grandma used to do this when she was a girl, and the Depression made everything scare and then scarcer still.

Her hands are gnarled now, and ache regardless of the weather, but even if her joints fight her the movements come back quick enough. It’s not exactly dexterous work, but moving the bundles in and out of steaming pans even coaxes some warmth into always-frozen fingertips, fills the kitchen with clean, bright scents.

Virgil’s always been a kind boy, and even though he frowns when she presents him with the box full of waxy balls, each a cacophony of original colours, he still says ‘thank you’ and means it. “But, uh, what are they? Do you eat them?”

Grandma had to laugh at that. “Only if you’ve been swearing again,” she teases, plucking one out slowly and carefully. “I used to make these for your great-grandpa. Soap balls, full of oils and glycerin and all sorts of good stuff. If it got the grease off his skin, it can get the smoke outta yours.”

Virgil flushes; Grandma knew he hadn’t told a soul how much the lingering scent of fire was bugging him, even months after he’d become a full-timer. But she had nothing much left to do now but watch her boys, had seen him sniff and frown too many times. He leans forward and she holds out the ball in her hand for him to sniff. It’s only because she’s watching now does she see his nose wrinkle. “Uh, thanks Grandma.”

She gave the ball another sniff herself. “Hmm, maybe I did put too much patchouli oil in there?” She shrugged and dropped it back in the box. “Well, they’re made from ends I found in the sink, so throw them out if you don’t like them.”

Virgil’s gentle, almost reverent, as he takes the box from her and presses a dry kiss to her temples.

picking up from @preludeinz through me to @drdone

Brain’s is glad that Kayo’s the one spinning lies. Somehow, the mirrored lenses always seemed to reflect back a truer version of yourself than you wanted the Mechanic to see.

It’s how Brains had found himself in this mess in the first place.

He’s still not sure that the Mechanic is buying Kayo’s story, but at least he’s not outright angry. Brains is so nervous waiting for the explosion he almost misses his cue to nod furiously when the Mechanic glances over to check Kayo’s point about taking Brains on a joyride.

Kayo looks relaxed in his presence, the slight arrogance Brains had come to identify with the real street rats, the ones who’d pick his pockets if it wasn’t for his ties to the big boss. Brains himself can barely breathe as the Mechanic stares at her, impassive and unmoving.

“Bring me a car,” he growls finally, dismissing them with a flick of his hand. “Then we’ll talk.”

Brains almost yanks Kayo away, desperate to get deeper into the maze of makeshift workshops that had already sprung up in the new shop. He needed to talk to her without eavesdroppers. “We’ve got a problem,” he manages to hiss with only one false start; Brains could see at a glance these weren’t racing pits.

“Chopshops,” Kayo murmurs, running a knowing look over the VIN cloning setup, the industrial grinders, all the accoutrements of slicing cars up in all the ways that couldn’t be traced.

Brains nods tightly. He’d seen this twice before. “He’s cleaning house.”

Kayo’s slight inhale told him she knew exactly what that meant.

* * *

“I’m giving her another ten minutes and then I’m calling it.”

Next to him, John sniggers softly, little more than an exhalation in the dim quiet. “You said that ten minutes ago. You’re not calling this in.”

Scott drags his gaze away from the door he’s been staring at for a good twenty minutes now to stare at his brother instead. “You sound pretty sure of yourself there.”

John’s messing with his phone, texting or Tindr or Candy Crush, Scott can’t tell. He’s set the screen down as dark as it will go, but it’s still bright in the darkness, casting his brother’s cheekbone’s into even starker relief. “You won’t call it in because right now you trust her a lot more than you trust the rest of your entire department not to screw this up.” John looks up at that, a humourless smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. “And you really don’t want to screw this up.”

The words it’s what dad would have done are like acid on his tongue, and even a year ago Scott would have spat them at John. But he’s gotten good at keeping that anger deep down where it won’t show. “What are you doing, anyway?” he asks instead, jerking his chin at John’s phone.

John’s thumbs are already flying again. “Something this big, moving late model cars? I’ve heard enough dispatch calls to know they use hackers to clear the plates. And hackers,” he adds, pausing long enough to point at a discreet black box sitting on top of a fuse box near the door Kayo had vanished through twenty-two minutes ago now. “Need wifi. I’m just trying a few passwords….”

Scott scoffs despite himself. “Somehow I don’t think anything the Hood’s involved in will use ‘password’ as a password.” In cup holder by the handbrake, Scott’s own phone rattles, the screen flashing too bright. Kayo’s message was terse, more code than words. “Round back.”

John’s craning his neck to read upside down. “Can’t get any plainer than that.”

Scott’s scowling as he turns the motor and eases them around the lot.

worst phone call john ever got vs. the best one (I imagine 911 call since he’s dispatch but take it how you like)

rent-day-blues:

The new kid’s been in the break room for an hour now, but after a call like that, it’s not like anyone can blame him. Fires are always bad, but this fire had trapped and killed two children, and the new kid had been on the line with their mother the whole time. It’s an hour since the end of the call, and he hasn’t said a word since.

The captain’s pulled him off his console, stuck him somewhere quiet to calm down. But it’s been an hour, and it’s time to send in the cavalry. The cavalry, in this case, has just clocked on for his first shift of the evening.

There’s a coffee machine and a beat up old kettle in the break room, but Ned doesn’t trust either of those things. He makes his tea at home and brings it to work in a two litre thermos, hot and strong and sweet, and sacrosanct. The new kid is still too new to recognize the magnitude of the gesture being made, when Ned ambles into the break room, pulls up a chair beside him, and pours out a generous cup of tea from his very own thermos. He pushes the mug over, clears his throat, and says, magnanimous, “There now, lad, a cup of tea will help.”

Even this doesn’t get an answer, and now that he’s sitting down, Ned can see that there’s a procedural manual open in the young man’s lap. There are a couple spots of damp on the open page, and Ned pretends not to notice these as he reaches over to close the book. He picks it up and sets it aside. “Now, don’t you go beating yourself ‘bout the head with the manual,” he chides gently. “Procedure sounds grand on paper, but it’s the only place this job is actually that black and white.”

“But I did everything right.” The protest is hollow, and the first thing Ned’s heard the boy say, since the call that’s left him in this state, shaken and numb. With the crisp professionalism—the rigour of training—stripped out of his voice, he sounds alarmingly young. Ned can’t help but wonder at his age, even as he shakes his head, confused as much as he’s hurt. “I—I know I did. If they’d gotten there just a minute sooner…”

“No doubt you did everything right, but sometimes it all goes awry even so. Can’t recall if it says so in the book, but it ought to. Sometimes even everything isn’t enough.” Ned heaves a sigh. “It’s a funny old world.”

“This isn’t funny.”

“I didn’t mean the sort of funny what gets a laugh. Meant the sort of funny that makes you feel sick inside.”

“Yeah, it’s definitely that.” There’s a shuddering sigh and the shake of a bowed ginger head. “I don’t think I can do this. I thought—I thought it wouldn’t get to me. But it’s so much worse than I imagined.”

Ned nudges the cup of tea closer again. “How old are you?” he asks, tries to make it sound like idle curiosity, rather than a question he means to use to make a point.

“Twenty-two,” is the answer, and Ned manages not to wince, though it’s about what he’d expected. Barely old enough to drink, or at least to drink in this country. Hopefully too young to be inclined to really start, because Ned’s seen far too many people in this line of work turn to stiffer drinks than tea.

But as sad as the fact is, it still helps him make his point. “I’ve been doing this job longer than you’ve been alive, lad. And I won’t lie to you—there’ll be worse days than this. But you’ll help so many people, and I hope you can believe me when I tell you, that’ll help get you through.”

“Really?”

“Really. You’ll be the best part of the worst day of people’s lives, and there’s worth in that. I know it won’t seem like it, but it’s true. Now, drink your tea, and let’s get you back out on the floor. Back in the saddle, son.”

Eventually, finally, the young man reaches out and wraps his hands around the warmth of the ceramic. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll try.”

(am i gonna pick this up? I’m gonna pick this up)

John’s trying not to lurk, but Gordon’s been at his first day of work for a whole three hours now, and John’s dying to know how it’s going.

Gordon’s still a probie, riding along with a senior team, and John knows he has nothing to worry about. This isn’t like Virgil’s first day, where John had sat listening for fire dispatches until his head was ringing like a bell. Gordon’s job only starts once the danger has passed, strictly enforced by regulations and rules they all know off by heart. Gordon’s safe.

Even so, John’s worrying for Gordon. He knows, they all know, how the first day in job knocks all the shine off, the carefully imagined perfect ideal of thrilling heroics and dramatic rescues. Gordon should know better, with three older brothers in the trade, but John recognized the shine in Gordon’s eyes as he’d tugged on his pristine and crisp uniform this morning.

John reached for the battered thermos tucked safely away under his station. The steam helps clear his head, soothe his sore throat, in the little lull that John knows better than to expect would last.

He’s three sips in when boards across the room light up like it’s disaster Christmas. The little cap-shaped mug by his side grows cold as John catches and throws messages, his eyes constantly glancing up at the situation monitor along the wall of the room.

Take old gas mains in the part of the city no-one’s patched up in decades. Add sparks. Mix with over-crowded tenements and watch every service flirt with descending into chaos.

John’s supervisor is liaising with the fire chief, throws John the paramedic dispatch with gestures more than words.

Words are reserved for saving people.

There’s burns and broken bones, more glass than most people realize. A gas main in a residential building was like a shrapnel bomb going off under the kitchen table. John’s got half a dozen wagons in motion, a ballet of bodies and bandages negotiating their way around tankers and fire trucks and more squad cars than are useful at this point in the process.

“Hey,” Liesel got his attention over the low partition with a click of her fingers. “Got someone here asking for you direct.”

“Throw it over,” John said, glancing up at the status of the fire units. Virgil really needed to be broken of his annoying habit of calling to John directly. “Virg, I….”

“John?” Gordon sounds tiny and young, and John immediately tracks to unit 24, Gordon’s ride-along for tonight, safely tucked away on the southern perimeter ready to roll into the building’s lot as soon as fire and rescue gave the all clear. Gordon should be idling, gloves on and ready to follow his elders around like an obedient and safe little puppy.

“Gordon? What the….” in the background of the call came a scream of pain. John’s identities stuttered, brother and dispatch crashing into each other. “Report.”

“So Jack and Noorah went to go a sitrep and then this kid came and banged on my door and his mother, I think the blast set her off, and John, I think this baby isn’t going to wait for me to go fetch the wagon.”

John breathed out. “You’ve been trained on maternal first aid, right?”

Gordon’s voice was thin, just this side of a reedy wail. “Only in my textbook. There weren’t even any pictures.”

John flicked three incoming calls to junior operators and settled back in his chair. “Okay, Gordon, first thing you need to do…”

In his earpiece, Gordon’s breathing steadied as he obeyed John’s instructions, his training slowly locking into place with the messy, screaming, panicking human being in front of him.

“John, I think this kid is coming right now.”

John bit his lip to stifle his laugh. “Then catch it,” he said as patiently as he could.

One of the best tricks John ever learned as a trainee was to listen to the background, not just the voice on the line. There was something unmistakable about the scream of a woman giving birth. “Holy shit,” Gordon panted.

“Language,” John scolded mildly as he caught Liesel’s eye and gestured for her to put another tick on the new baby tally. “Give it to her, keep them warm.” His fingers were already tapping, rerouting one of the smaller units away from the disaster towards where Gordon’s GPS was throbbing like a heartbeat on his map. “I’m sending two-two to collect them, they’re only a block away.”

“Got it,” Gordon managed to be professional for five seconds. “Hey,” he cooed a second later, and John knew it wasn’t him Gordon was talking to. “Welcome to the world, little lady.”

John knew he should end the call, log the incident, get back to helping his team coordinate paramedics around the crater. But something made him linger. “Gordon?”

“Two-two have got them. Mission accomplished,” Gordon quipped weakly.

“You okay?”

There was a long pause. “Wow, that was…Johnny, that was really something else.”

John could see the service messages on his screen start to back up. He took a deep breath. “It really is. But now other people need you.”

“Yeah. Blast. Shit, sorry…but wow is it weird I completely forgot about that?”

John leaned in, his hand hovering over his keys once more. “Hey, think of it this way. Your first baby.” He waited for Gordon’s happy little noise. “I think there’s gonna be a lot more firsts for you today, probie, so time to gear up and get back in the saddle. Can you do that for me?”

A weak chuckle echoed in his ear. “I’ll try.”

John ended the call and gave himself a moment to exhale, to feel the warm soft glow of pride. Then he tapped a key and picked up the next call.

gets the pass from @preludeinz and handballs it to @drdone

One of the hardest things Gordon had to learn when he started working shifts was how to sleep whenever and wherever. He’s mostly got it down, but there’s always going to be that groggy moment when he first wakes up, that brief moment of ‘what century is this?’

He’s no princess in a sleeping castle, for all that he can hear snores from across the hallway. But as he sits up in bed, knuckling sleep out of his eyes, the door opens with a slow creak and Penny comes in, a chipped mug in one hand. “You really do have an internal alarm clock,” she teases, barely whispering in deference to the woman still asleep across the hall. She passes him the mug and settles on the edge of his sagging mattress as he inhales deeply of the slightly lemony steam. “I was just coming to wake you up so you can make your bus.”

Gordon knows he should be getting up, getting dressed, getting on the road to walk the four blocks to the right stop. But he sits instead, takes a tiny sip from the tea from Penny’s secret stash, feels the warmth of Penny’s hand seep through the thin covers from where she’s rested it on her leg. “How you holding up?” she asks, rubbing his knee gently.

“I feel like I should be asking you that.” Gordon will never tell Penny, but he loves the smell of her tea much more than the taste. He takes one more tiny sip, more for the warmth than the taste before passing the mug back to her. “Thank you so much for sitting with Grandma all night, I know you worked a double yesterday too.”

She wraps her fingers around the mug, seeking out warmth as Gordon grits his teeth and swings his feet onto the floor. “You’re more than welcome, darling.” She smiles into her tea as Gordon whips off yesterday’s shirt and shorts, stands naked to paw through their shared dresser for anything that might fit. “No word from your brothers?”

Gordon glances at the screen charging on top of the dresser, but there’s only one message, from his boss confirming his leave – it had been scuttlebutt at the depot for hours that Gordon had found a brother at the crash site, he hadn’t even had to ask for the time. “Nothing,” he told Penny, his voice muffled by the shirt he was struggling into. “Besides, my brothers being open and honest and good at communicating what’s going on? That’s crazy talk woman.”

That gets a little laugh out of her, a flash of brightness in the dull gloom of the room. “Silly me,” she murmurs, taking another sip. “Are you going to be all right?”

Gordon pauses from his search for his other shoe to lean over the bed, his knee exaggerating the sag, to press a delicate kiss to her forehead. “We’ve been through worse,” he tells her, and it mostly isn’t a lie. “We’ll be fine.”

She catches his head as he went to lean back, pulling him in for a proper kiss that made his toes curl, made him want to lose the clothes and close the door. Across the hall, Grandma starts coughing, a phlegmy, throaty sound that makes Gordon sigh into Penny’s lips as she pulls back.

Penny pats his cheek, her fingers warm from the tea. “I’ve got her. You’ve got a bus to catch.” She rises elegantly, pauses in the doorframe. “Don’t forget Virgil’s charger. And I’ve made you some sandwiches to take with you.”

Gordon laughs as he finds his other shoe. “Sending me off with a kiss and a packed lunch? I could get used to this!” Her light and delighted laugh echoes across the otherwise empty apartment.

It was cold outside, and Gordon curses the lack of coffee in his system as he pulls his coat tight and crosses the nearly empty street. Dawn is just a glimmer on the horizon as he pays the fare and finds a seat, but Gordon’s looking forward to it after what feels like one of the longest nights of his life.

Several people get off at the hospital stop, but Gordon pays them no mind as he trots up to the public entrance. His work ID is in his pocket, he could take the side door, but that would mean walking halfway around the building, and the few hours of snatched sleep are already not enough.

It’s automatic to flirt with the admission clerk, winking as he strolls towards the elevator blanks. There’s a small knot of people waiting, but elevator etiquette means they all pretend the others don’t exist. Gordon thinks nothing of the footsteps that get off on Alan’s floor right behind him. They only register, a sour note in his subconsciousness, as he pauses to check the name on the chart in the slot by the door.

But by the time he turns to look, whoever was there is gone.

Shrugging, Gordon pushes open the door to take over the watch from Virgil.

@preludeinz tagged in me who will pass to @drdone

last time, in Rent Day Blues…

For all his life, John’s had a bad habit of gnawing at his nails.

It used to drive their father to distraction, the way John would lose himself in thought and, slowly, his thumb would drift up towards his mouth, his teeth scraping over the nail until their father growled and leaned over to bat John’s hand back down.

Virgil’s been thinking of those moments more and more lately, in the waiting lulls between blazes or when he’s tucked up in bed too tired to sleep. The exasperated, annoyed noise their father would make whenever one of them did something he didn’t like.

Virgil can’t even imagine the sound Jeff would make, watching John watch Alan sleep, too small in a too big bed.

John starts when Virgil closes the door as loudly as he dares. John’s hand almost bounces off the armrest as he guiltily yanks it down. “Oh, man,” he sighs as he relaxes slightly, half rising as Virgil takes the two small steps to Alan’s bedside. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”

Virgil steadies John, helps him back down. “How’s he doing?”

John’s already turned back to Alan like he might disappear again if they turn their backs. “Resting. First twenty-four hours. You know the drill.”

They all do. That’s kind of the problem. Virgil’s not sure how long Scott’s going to need, and a glance tells him that John’s not going to be levered out of that chair for anything as mundane as food or sleep.

There was a vending machine in the hall; not great, but better than nothing. He’s not entirely sure John hears him, but Virgil steps back out into the hall without repeating himself anyway.

He just needs a moment to breathe; too much has happened since he last slept. Alan, and the accident. Brains, and the Mechanic. The Mechanic and Alan. It was all pivoting on Alan, and he was in no state to answer questions.

There were edges Virgil knew he wasn’t seeing yet, but he’d learned long ago to trust his instincts, the one that told him to hit the deck just as the fire seemed under control. All Virgil’s instincts now were screaming that despite the lull, a blow-up was just about to hit with a ferocity to burn skin from bones.

He’s only got a few coins in the pocket of his jacket, but it’s second nature now to flip the gate, fool the machine to send him both snacks and his change back for another selection. He catches his reflection in the machine glass, pale and wide-eyed, hair a mess. The glass is cool as he rests his head against it for a moment, the triple thunk of gate and snacks and coins all dropping felt more than heard.

His brother nearly died tonight, street racing for a shadowy underworld figure, and he’s here getting Cheetos.

“Virgil?”

Virgil rubs his face as he exhales hard and straightens up. John’s stood in Alan’s doorway, unwilling to have their youngest out of his sight. But he’s got his phone to his ear. “Yeah? That Scott?”

John nods. “No,” he says to the voice on the other end of the line. “I can stay…Virgil is in no state…”

Virgil plucks the phone out of John’s hand. “Sending him out now. Tell Gordon to grab my charger when he comes back, would you?” John’s scowling as he ends the call. “Here,” he says, shoving the little crinkly packets into John’s hands. “Go. I’ve got him.”

John tries, but Virgil holds his ground against fire. John’s close, but he’s not yet quite a force of nature. Only when Virgil hears the automatic doors at the end of the hall wheeze out and in does Virgil sink into John’s chair and bury his face in his hands.

It’s so ingrained in him not to waste food that John clutches the packets in his fist as he wanders, almost in a daze, down and out of the hospital. Only when the cruiser’s lights flash does John see Scott, leaning tiredly against the driver’s side door.

“I’m not that tired, I can..” John begins, slowing as he takes in Scott’s slouch, the way his elbow is braced against the arm held across his belly. John’s the one who gets migraines, but the way Scott’s pinching the bridge of his nose speaks to a wicked tension headache. “Scott, what is it?”

Scott’s exhale is loud in the cool air. It’s so late it’s almost early, the air cold enough that John can see the plume of Scott’s breath. “We’ve got a lead. But it’s about to evaporate, and I know Captain Casey, she’d want to do this by the book, full inter-agency cooperation. There’s protocol and everything.”

Even drowning in exhaustion and emotion, John’s good at joining dots. “Too slow?”

Scott nods, his shoulders rolling back and straightening up. “Our source says he’s about to vanish. We’ve got one shot at getting the guy who did this to Alan….John?”

The engine is still warm under the fingers John trails over the hood as he walks around to the passenger side. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go.”

continuing from here

@preludeinz tagged @akireyta who is tagging in @drdone

Virgil hung back, became part of the furniture as Kayo became the totality of Brain’s world.

Scott rarely spoke of his new partner, but when he did, it was with the kind of quiet pride he used to use for Alan. When Alan had started disappearing, apparently to places like this, that tone had vanished until Officer Kyrano had tumbled out of the training academy and into Scott’s cruiser.

This is the first time he’s seen her work; he gets Scott’s pride now. Her interrogation implies hot lamps and pressure, for all that she’s perched herself on the desk next to where Brains is sat, her body language open and friendly and interested in anything he might have to say.

Brains is street-wise enough to know he’s being questioned. He fidgets in his seat, so clearly torn between keeping the code of silence and telling them everything that even Virgil can see it.

Virgil stays out of Brains line of sight, lets her work as he drifts around the warehouse, looking for clues with an amateur eye. In his head, that dark voice dispassionately saying the words
“Tracy probably got picked up, if he’s even in one piece” kept rattling around his brain.

Virgil’s been to enough wrecks to know how easily a ton of steel moving at speed can tie itself into a knot around a lamp post. But the voice hadn’t sounded too worried, except for the possibility that Alan was now in police custody.

This was an illegal chop shop; no doubt Scott was right now breaking out the actual hot lamps to find out what the hell Alan was doing down here. In his pocket, his dead cellphone was an accusatory dead weight.

Alan had to be all right. Brains said he put in every safety feature, and there was a rack of helmets over by the far wall.

Alan had to be all right.

“Wait, The Mechanic?” Kayo’s surprise is loud in the quiet, yanking Virgil’s attention back into the moment. He drifts closer, slowing at Kayo’s almost imperceptible head shake. “You work for the Mechanic?”

Brains is hunching down in his coveralls like a grease-marked turtle. “I h-h-have to,” he mutters as he shoves his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

Kayo’s voice is leonine purr. “Brains, I can only help you if you help me?” She smiles, letting the hook catch and settle before she applies the stick. “Or I can slap on the hand cuffs and have the entire forensic unit down here sweeping for whatever they can find.”

Brains sucks in a noisy breath through his nose, straightening his spine. “I c-can’t!” he almost spits at her. “I h-h-have a debt to pay. Everyone here does. Me.” He glances over his shoulder at Virgil. “His brother. Everyone.”

“What do you mean? Alan?” Virgil can’t stop himself. He knows he’s a big guy, tries always not to loom, but Brains has the answers that he needs. Brains flinches back, the desk chair squeaking as it rocks with his weight as Virgil plants his fists heavily on the scarred wooden desktop. “What debt? Who is the Mechanic? What the hell is going on?”

In the pregnant silence that follows, the buzz of Kayo’s cellphone is loud. She sighs, sounding frustrated as she slips off the desk, thumbing the call connection as she stalks across the workshop floor. “Yeah. Hey, yeah. Found your other brothers…uh huh. That’s great news. Scott, I’ve found something. Yeah. It’s the Mechanic.” Kayo turns, listening intently as she stares at Brains. “I have a witness. Potentially cooperative, if he knows what’s good for him. Uh huh. Yeah, I’ll be there in twenty.” She drops her phone into her pocket, her boots like gunshots as she strides across the floor.

Virgil fumbles the car keys she tosses at his chest. “You’re driving. Me and my new friend here,” she continues, grabbing Brains by the collar. “Are going to be having a little chat on the drive over.”

Brains seems resigned to his fate as Kayo shoves him behind the metal grating of the unmarked precinct car. “Station?” Virgil asks, adjusting the mirrors.

The look Kayo gives him goes on for far too long. “Scott’s meeting us at the hospital.” Her hand is warm where she wraps it over his wrist. “Alan’s going to be fine,” she begins gently. “But it was close. Real close.”

Virgil’s knuckles go white over the steering wheel.

“Virgil? I’m sorry, I thought you knew. Are you okay? Maybe I should drive…”

“No.” He snaps the word with more force than she deserves. He glances up, catches Brains’ eye in the mirror. “You have until we get there to tell her everything. Or I’ll do the asking, and I’ve not sworn any oath to protect and serve.” He waits until Brains, swallowing hard, bobs his head up and down. “Good.”

The tires squeal as Virgil peels out of the gravel lot and tears off down the empty streets.