Pain in the Butt

By Rose Po

Paramedic Craig Brice examined Nurse Beth Shaw from head to toe, pausing for a moment to admire the loose aqua gauze shirt that floated over her hip hugging shorts. His palms began to sweat, making the car door handle slick beneath his hand. Brice's face flushed as she noticed his gaze. "Are you sure you don't want to skip this? We could go to the mountains -- some nice Danish brie, fresh fruit, baguettes, a good zinfandel...." And no firefighter colleagues with their firefighter humor, he added silently, imagining Bellingham guffawing and spilling mustard on Beth, while Gage and Kelly drooled all over her. Brice studied the backs of his knuckles for a moment. "We could..." His voice trailed off as he glanced up, meeting her sparkling green eyes. "...have our own picnic," Craig finished, weakly.

"No." Delicately, Shaw slipped into the passenger seat, flicking back her long red hair as she sat. "I've been looking forward to meeting the guys you work with for a very long time."

Craig shrugged. And I've been dreading this for a very long time, he thought, a feeling of impending doom closing in upon him.

"Especially the Animal, he sounds just delightful." Beth pulled the door from Craig's reluctant hands.

"I have never heard that particular phrase used to describe Bob," said Brice, settling behind the wheel. He hesitated before turning the key in the ignition.

"You haven't told them," announced Shaw, quietly.

"Told them what?" he asked, hoping he had misunderstood.

"About me."

Choking back a sigh of frustration, Craig switched off the motor and swiveled toward Beth. "No, it wasn't any of their business."

Beth stared coldly at Craig, the white skin between the freckles covering the bridge of her nose flushed. "You're ashamed of me."

"You're jumping to conclusions," protested Brice.

"What else am I supposed to think?"

Craig shifted nervously. The car was stifling in the bright sunshine and for a second he debated starting the air conditioning, but decided that would be misinterpreted. "No, it's just... Well, sometimes, the men at the station aren't very mature. I didn't want to get teased." He groaned as Beth's eyes flashed with anger.

"I'm not worth a little teasing," she demanded, hotly.

"No! I mean, yes, you are..." Craig thought quickly. "...but I didn't see any reason for them to harass you. I mean, do you want every paramedic in L.A. county making cracks about how you must like the way I organize?" He held his breath.

Shaw quieted. "No," she answered finally. "But sometimes your concern over your 'perfect paramedic' image can be a pain in the butt." She gazed at Brice. "Haven't you ever done anything without weighing the consequences first?"

Craig reached over, took Beth's chin in his hand, and brushed his thumb over her lips. He leaned across the gearshift and kissed her. Her mouth was warm and sweet beneath his and the smell of her perfume was intoxicating. Reluctantly, he drew back. "Yes," replied Brice, staring into her eyes. "I got involved with you." He kissed her again.

"We're going to be late," she whispered. "16's will be very upset if their shortstop doesn't show."

Brice sighed. He straightened and again turned the key. "Mountains?" he asked wistfully, smiling slightly.

"Craig!"

******

"Jennifer Suzanne DeSoto, get down here -- now!" bellowed Joanne DeSoto, momentary sticking her head out the kitchen door.

"Lisa and I were gonna..."

"I don't care what you and Lisa have planned. We're going to watch your father play baseball, and then have a nice picnic dinner."

"Don't you care about my happiness?"

"Yes," replied Joanne, opening the freezer door and pulling out two plastic bags of ice. "You're going to leave that chip on your shoulder in your bedroom, paste a smile on your face, and go to the picnic. That will make your aged mother and father happy. Doesn't that just fill you with joy?"

"Mom!"

Joanna closed the refrigerator. "Don't make me come up there, young lady!"

Wincing slightly over the shouting, Paramedic Roy DeSoto shouldered open the door leading from the carport, dragging a huge metal Coleman ice chest into the kitchen. "Jen, you heard your mother," he warned, setting down the cooler and picking up the ice. "Move." A loud, slow thumping on the stairs rewarded him.

"Half the state heard Mom," muttered Chris DeSoto, following his father inside from the carport.

Roy straightened, firmly poked the teen's shoulder, and glared. "Show some respect."

The youth scurried into the living room. Joanne slipped past Roy, her leg brushing his thigh. DeSoto flushed. He watched his wife bend, fitting a large Tupperware container of three-bean salad into the cooler. The smooth cotton cloth of her shorts pulled over her narrow hips. DeSoto reached down and wrapped his arms around her chest, pulling her tight against him.

"Roy," started Joanne, "your hands are freezing."

"Warm them up," suggested Roy, cupping his hand beneath his wife's breast. The sweet smell of her hair filled his nose. Closing his eyes, he nuzzled the back of her neck. Joanne twisted in his arms.

Jennifer stomped into the kitchen, and exhaled loudly and dramatically at the sight of her parents. "Oh, please."

Opening one eye, Roy glared at his daughter. The girl wore a black REO Speedwagon t-shirt, mismatched earrings that bore a suspicious resemblance to giant safety pins, and a defiant expression. DeSoto remembered the tiny, blond toddler who had wanted to be "Daddy's girl" -- the same child who now was telling her friends she was adopted.

Standing on her toes, Joanne leaned close to Roy's ear. "This is how we got the children," she whispered, releasing him.

******

Firefighter Marco Lopez skirted the noisy crowd ringing the baseball diamond, heading instead toward a much smaller group of firefighters and wives gathered around a pair of large barbeque grills erected at the edge of a grove of eucalyptus trees.

Lopez wore shorts and a bright, stripped t-shirt from a local soccer league. The tight shirt sharply accented the lean lines of his muscles. A pair of college-age Latinas, helping their mothers set up a buffet line, eyed him hungrily as he walked past. One straightened and flicked back her thick brown hair, her gaze lingering appreciatively on his bare legs. She leaned toward the ear of her moon-faced companion and whispered something that made the other young woman clutch her arm, while laughing and fanning her blazing face. Lopez smiled and bent over an ice-chest, selecting a bottle of beer.

"Hi, Bob," Marco called to a colleague, his words breaking off as he took a sip.

Paramedic Bob, "The Animal", Bellingham glanced up from the grill he was filling with charcoal. Smears of black crisscrossed the paramedic's face. Bob's eyes flicked toward the giggling girls. Solemnly, he shook his head. "Cradle robbing, Lopez."

Marco perched on the edge of a picnic table. "Are you calling me old?"

"Compared to them, you're an antique," grinned Bellingham, crumbling the empty sack from the charcoal and pitching it at Lopez.

Abruptly, Marco stood and stared past the paramedic. "Pinch me," instructed he, offering his arm to Bellingham.

"Huh?" muttered Bellingham.

"I must be dreaming, that can't be Craig Brice - the walking rule book -- coming this way with a beautiful woman on his arm."

Bellingham looked -- in the wrong direction. "How many beers have you had?" asked Bob, returning to squirting kerosene on the briquettes.

"One...."

Bellingham struck a match.

Marco jumped back as the flames shot several feet in the air, momentarily distracted. "Use enough lighter fluid on that, Bob?" remarked Lopez, shaking his head. "If you don't believe me, look for yourself." Marco pointed.

Bellingham followed Lopez's pointing finger. Brice and Shaw walked past a clump of manzanita bordering a dry wash cutting through the picnic grounds. "Oh my."

"She must be a relative."

"Brice doesn't have relatives that look that good." Bellingham rubbed his chin, with the back of his soiled hand, smearing more still soot across his sweating face.

"I got to tell Chet," said Marco, setting down his beer bottle. "And Johnny."

******

"You're kidding," exclaimed John Gage, lowering his can of Coke and scanning the crowd. "Which one?"

"Over there," said Marco, pointing with his chin.

"I don’t see her. You're pullin' my leg." John finally located Brice. "She's got to be a dog."

"There," directed Lopez, poking Gage in the side and pointing.

"Wow!"

"See what I mean?"

"Yeah," murmured Gage, staring. "She looks familiar."

"She's a nurse..."

John's eyebrows rose as he recognized the woman. "That's Beth Shaw, the babe from orthopedics. How did he get her?" he asked, his voice rising in indignation. "She told me, she didn't date - quote -- little fireboys."

Lopez shrugged. "I guess she found herself a fireman." He chuckled as Gage glared at him. "I'm gonna find Chet," said Marco, leaving the paramedic to gawk at Brice's girlfriend.

"You do that," muttered John, shaking his head. He watched Shaw standing next to Brice, the nurse talking to intently to a charcoal-blackened Bellingham, who was attempting to surreptitiously wipe his face on a rag that was nearly as dirty as his face. Gage took a swig from his soda. Shaw laughed, grasped Brice's arm, and briefly leaned her head against his shoulder. Johnny choked, sputtering as the liquid went down the wrong way.

******

"Gage," greeted Chet Kelly. He glanced up from the grill, not missing a beat in flipping hamburgers. The fireman was wearing a red canvas apron proclaiming 'Kiss the Cook.'

"Chet." John studied the burgers sizzling on the grate. His choice seemed to be steak tartar or a state between well-done and burnt-beyond-recognition. He'd seen less charring while overhauling burned-out buildings.

"Want a burger," offered Kelly, lifting an especially well-cooked specimen.

Johnny stared the blackened object balanced on the spatula. "Why does it smell like beer?"

"I had a little flare up." Chet shuffled his feet nervously. "Had to put it out somehow."

Gage's nose crinkled in disgust. "You don't put out a fire with beer."

"And what would a hot-shot paramedic know about putting out fires?" Chet dropped the patty onto John's plate. "Do I tell you how to start IV's?"

"I'm a firefighter too," asserted John, somewhat heatedly. "Did you ever consider a little water?" He looked at the other grill where Bellingham was turning ranks of browning hot dogs. His stomach growled.

"What and get the meat all wet? Beer is a good tenderizer." Kelly shook his head. "Hey, John," he started, in a conspiratorial whisper. "Did you talk to Brice?"

"No, thank goodness."

"He's got a date."

"Old news, Chet," said Gage, watching Kelly's eager expression evaporate. Grinning, Johnny began to drift toward Bellingham and the hot dogs, pleased to deny Kelly a chance to bait him. "Later."

"Johnny," called Roy, waving from the picnic tables laden with salads, various kinds of beans, chips, and cookies. He lifted a newly-filled plate and cup.

"Hi Roy." John scooped up a generous dollop of refritos.

"You going to eat that?" asked DeSoto, wrinkling his nose and pointing to the burnt hunk of meat on Gage's plate with his elbow.

Gage whistled to a large brown mutt, which had accompanied the children of one of the Chief's drivers to the tables. The dog bounded toward the paramedics. John picked up the burger with two fingers and sent it spinning through the air. The dog leapt, caught the patty between its jaws, and downed it in one chomp. "Not on your life."

Roy chuckled.

"Would you look at that," said John, pointing with his chin toward Craig and Beth. The couple was standing at the edge of the picnic area and the nurse was patting the paramedic's rump, much to Brice's obvious dismay. Craig clutched a plate of food with one hand and pushed away Beth's fingers with the other.

Roy rolled his eyes; Gage had already subjected him to a twenty-minute tirade about the nurse and everyone's "favorite" paramedic. He had never before realized exactly how many names for various types of vermin and disease rhymed with Brice. "Johnny, your fascination with Brice's mating habits is a little weird." Awkwardly shifting the plate from one hand to the other, DeSoto took a sip from his cup of iced-tea. "Jealous?"

Gage snorted. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Come on. Joanne and the kids are waiting."

"Yeah, coming," muttered Johnny distractedly, continuing to watch Craig and his girlfriend.

Potato salad cascaded to the ground as the plate in Brice's hand tilted, then fell. The paramedic tugged at the collar of his shirt and slowly crumbled. Shaw caught him, breaking Brice's fall.

"Roy!" yelled John.

DeSoto spun in time to see Gage drop his food and sprint toward Brice. "Call for help!" Roy yelled, running after his partner.

John dropped to his knees beside Craig. "Are you choking?" he asked.

Brice gestured futilely, trying to show Gage the steel bands he felt tightening around his chest and throat. The inside of his nose and mouth burned and itched. His heart pounded desperately and waves of panic broke over him. He could barely breathe. He threw back his head.

Halfway to Craig's side, DeSoto collided with Chris MacGraith of 110's. A crowd of paramedics and firefighters gathered.

"Let me hear your voice," ordered John, noting the retraction of the neck and chest muscles that accompanied Brice's desperate struggle to breathe. "Craig!" High-pitched wheezing greeted his request. Gage frowned at the sound. Shaw clawed at Gage's belt, grabbing the pocketknife from the leather case at his waist. "Hey!"

Beth snapped open the blade and rapidly sliced through the fabric of Brice's shorts and briefs. Carefully, she pulled a still pulsating stinger and venom sac from the reddened flesh of Brice's bare hip. "Bee sting," she announced. "He must be allergic."

John looked at Brice. Craig's gray eyes bulged in his flushed and swelling face and his pulse fluttered rapidly beneath Gage's fingers. Mucus streamed from the injured paramedic's nose and welled up inside his mouth. "Epi pen?" asked John, rolling Brice onto his side.

Brice shook his head. A hot fullness sealed his throat and thickened his tongue. Gray spots swirled overhead. This is how it's going to end, Craig. Struck down by a stupid insect in front of the woman you love, with DeSoto watching and gloating. He fixed his eyes on Beth as the darkness closed over him.

Bellingham skidded to a stop beside Gage. "What happened?" he demanded.

"Anaphylaxis," replied Shaw, wiping Brice's mouth.

"Vitals," asked Roy, pressing a paper napkin against the leg of his jeans and writing.

"Respirations 38 and labored; pulse..." Johnny grabbed Craig's wrist. For a second he felt, then reached for Brice's throat. A faint pulse rewarded him. "124. His bp must be through the floor, I can't find a radial pulse."

"Respiratory arrest," yelled Beth, pushing back Craig's jaw to open his airway. She clamped his nose shut, sealed her mouth over his, and attempted to blow great gasping breaths into his lungs.

Roy could feel the tension rippling through the assembled firefighters. A small boy wailed in terror; his mother enfolded him in her arms and hustled the child away. Long minutes passed.

"Where the Hell's the squad?" Bellingham demanded. "He's going to..."

John poked Bob and jerked his head toward Beth. "It's on the way." In the distance he could hear the wail of a siren.

Bellingham squatted next Shaw. "I'll spell you," he offered.

Gasping, Beth relinquished her spot, her own heart racing. She refused to think beyond the necessities of the moment.

Behind the crowd, gravel crunched and the squad braked to a stop. Bill Kincaid and Jimmy Martinez of 36's lumbered toward them, heavily laden with the gear. Martinez pushed Bellingham aside, fitting the bag-valve-mask over Brice's pale lips. Kincaid looked at Gage for a split-second and thrust drug box toward the older paramedic. "Your call Johnny."

"Patch him in," instructed John, pulling the blood pressure cuff and stethoscope from the drug box. "Roy, get Rampart. Request epinephrine." He inflated the cuff.

"Rampart this is county 36. How do you read me?" DeSoto fumbled with the napkin, transcribing the data onto the MICU form.

Bill cut away Craig t-shirt. Chet materialized from the crowd with a blanket pack. He and Bellingham covered the now naked paramedic.

John turned to Roy and gestured toward his own chest. "Real congested, he's not ventilating worth a damn."

"Unit calling repeat," crackled Brackett's voice.

"Rampart this is county 36. How do you read me," repeated Roy.

"Loud and clear 36. Go ahead."

"We have a male, approximately 30, who has been stung by a bee. Initially, he was short of breath, wheezing and unable to speak. Patient is now in respiratory arrest. We are ventilating with some resistance. Pulse 124, bp... Hold for bp." DeSoto looked at Gage, who was pulling the stethoscope from his ears.

"78/40."

"78/40," repeated Roy into the biophone. "Rampart we request epinephrine."

"10-4, 36. Half cc epinephrine 1:1,000, sub-Q," replied Brackett.

"10-4 Rampart..."

Johnny squeezed the excess mediation from the prefill, swabbed Brice's arm, pulled the skin taunt and administered the medication. "Epi's in." Gage squatted on his heels, waiting. A minute later, he pressed his stethoscope against Brice's chest, lifted Brice's hand, and looked at his nails. "Pinking up. He's ventilating better. Still not breathing on his own, tho'." He glanced up at the arriving ambulance.

Bellingham sighed in relief. Beth met Johnny's gaze and turned away, tears mingling with sweat on her cheeks. She began to shake. Bob wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

"Rampart, patient is ventilating with less difficulty," reported Roy.

"10-4, 36. Insert an esophageal airway. Start two large bore IV's, Ringers -- full open-- and 50mg diphenhydramine slow IV push," ordered Brackett.

Roy made another quick notation on the MICU form. "10-4 Rampart, esophageal airway, 50 mg diphenhydramine slow IVP, and two IV's Ringers," he echoed, reading back the orders.

Pulling away from Bellingham, Beth passed Johnny an airway and a tube of lubricant from the drug box. "Airway." Her face was white, but her voice and hands were now steady.

Gage nodded to the paramedic squeezing the ambu bag. "Jimmy, let me in there," he instructed. Gage leaned over Brice's head and slowly slid the tube into the unconscious man's throat. After a moment, he stopped and withdrew the tube. "Jimmy," he prompted, rocking back on his heels, out of the way.

The other paramedic replaced the mask and ventilated for a minute.

"Let me try again." Gage futilely attempted to again insert the airway. He frowned and shook his head in disgust. "Keep bagging him."

"Can't get in?" asked Roy.

Johnny discarded the airway and pointed toward his throat. "Too much swelling. Let's get the IV started, the Benadryl should help."

"Rampart," started Roy, "be advised we are unable in insert the airway at this time."

"10-4, 36."

Bellingham knelt next to Gage, tore open the paper covering a bag of Ringer's lactate, and briefly held up the bag, inspecting the solution. Bob inflated the blood pressure cuff and tried to insert the needle. "Shit, I can't get a vein." He repositioned his finger on the blood vessel and tried again. "Damn!"

"Give it here." John reached past Bob and got a fresh needle. He bent over Brice's arm. "I'm in," he announced, pulling the prepared strips of tape from Bellingham's pant leg and securing the line.

"Heart rate's up," commented Beth, looking at the monitor. She bent over measuring Brice's blood pressure. "84/50."

"Diphenhydramine's in." After a minute, Gage bent and listened to Brice's lungs. "Better."

"36, is there ambulance at scene?" asked Kel.

"Affirmative." DeSoto watched the two attendants wrestle the stretcher across the grass.

"Transport immediately."

"10-4, Rampart."

"Malcom," started Kincaid, addressing one of the attendants, "Get his feet. Watch it, we had to take off his clothes."

The attendant stared down at the unconscious paramedic. "Geeze, it's Brice," he whispered to his colleague.

"Jimmy, you ride in with me," directed Johnny, stuffing the tabs of the IV bags between his teeth and helping lift Craig onto the litter.

"I'll bring her," said Bellingham, helping Shaw to her feet. He pointed with his chin at Brice. "Gage be careful. I just got him broken in."

*****

Bellingham reached over and opened the door of his red and Bond-O beige Nova. "Hop in."

Beth gaped at the automobile's interior. A circle of welded chain replaced the steering wheel and a strip of purple ball fringe dangled dispiritedly from the top of the windshield. A small drift of styrofoam fast food containers covered the footwell of the passenger side. The entire space behind the front seat was filled with empty soda, oil and brake fluid cans, rising to a level just below the window. An open can of baked beans, with a fork fossilized in a gravity defying position, topped the mound. A veritable forest pine tree shaped air fresheners dangled from the review mirror and a 'Keep America Clean' bumper sticker patched a hole in the seat. Shaw gasped.

Bob cleared his throat nervously. From somewhere deep beneath the debris, he produced a soiled t-shirt and chivalrously wiped off the vinyl seat.

Beth eased into the car, thankful that in a last minute wardrobe change she had opted for sturdy hiking boots and not fashionable sandals. She snatched an empty bottle of power steering fluid from the dash and tossed it over her shoulder into the back seat. She imagined a low growl greeting its impact. "Floor it," she ordered, eyeing the screwdriver inserted in the empty ignition switch hole in the steer column.

"Yes, ma'am." replied Bellingham.

******

Brice tried to breathe, but nothing entered his struggling chest. Just as the need for oxygen became unbearable, a hissing gust of blessed air forced its way down his nose and throat. Gradually feeling returned. Something pushed uncomfortably on his face; a thick rubber mask sealed around his mouth, while another something hissed noisily in his ear. A hard plastic curve forced his tongue down and pressed painfully against the back of his throat. An airway? Slowly the realization dawned. I'm being bagged! Gagging, he twisted.

Strong hands flipped him on his side and pried the airway from his mouth. Brice struggled not to vomit. Wracking waves of heaves broke over him. Long brown fingers swam into focus as they slid a non-rebreather over his face. His heart was pounding and he was soaked in icy sweat. The cold metal of a stethoscope touched his back. Brice tried to roll over, but only his head moved. Two bags of IV solution swayed in and out of his field of view, dripping rapidly. Full open, he noted. What the hell happened?

"I've heard better."

Gage! The bell of a stethoscope pulled away from Craig's chest. A blanket settled back over his chest and shoulders. Brice looked up.

"But, it beats me doing all the work." Grinning, Johnny dropped into the bench next to the stretcher. He picked up the MICU form and made a notation.

"What happened?" Brice attempted to ask, but all that emerged was a low, hoarse moan.

"Shh," instructed John. "You got..."

The bee! Weakly, Craig clamped his shaking hand to his sore hip.

"...stung by a bee."

Suddenly Brice realized his fingers were against bare flesh. Frantically, he groped for his shorts. I'm naked!

"Settle down," ordered Gage, gently forcing Brice's arm up and checking the IV line. "Beth cut them off." He started grinning again. "Expose the injury," he quoted solemnly. "Correct protocol."

Craig felt his face flush. He hoped John would think it was hives.

"She had to get the stinger out." Johnny turned to study the cardiac monitor. "You've had epi -- as you can probably tell -- and Benadryl. Your pressure's coming back up." Gage rocked back on the bench. "You gave us a real work out. One thing you can say for Beth, she's got great lungs."

Brice groaned reconstructing the incident. Why me? Why didn't you just let me go? The ambulance lurched over a pothole.

"And, all before you got to taste my potato salad."

Potato salad... Craig's stomach twisted beneath his ribs. The bp cuff tightened around his arm.

"92/56..."

"John," warned a second voice.

Craig glanced toward the far end of the bench, where Jimmy Martinez of 36's sat holding the biophone. The movement nauseated him.

"Brice, are you gonna be sick?" asked Gage, pulling aside the oxygen and reaching for a bag. "You look like Chet after too many corndogs..."

Corndogs.... Brice parted his lips to moan once more, but instead he threw up.

"...Better?" John pulled the suction catheter from Craig's mouth. He wiped Brice's face and replaced the oxygen mask. Gage's hand rested on the sick paramedic's shoulder.

Brice nodded feebly. He shuddered helplessly.

"Hang in there. We'll be at Rampart in a few minutes." John tucked the blanket more tightly around his shivering colleague and patted Craig's arm.

******

Dixie looked up in surprise. Johnny followed behind an arriving stretcher, holding aloft two IV bags. Instead of his familiar working blues, he wore a soft red calico shirt and worn jeans. "I thought the baseball game and picnic was today," she commented.

"It was," Gage answered.

She glanced down at her patient. "Brice!"

Craig forced his leaden eyelids open. He was surprised to find that he could finally inhale almost easily.

"Current vitals: respirations 20 with ronchi, pulse 96, bp 100/60..." recited John, trying to catch the door of the exam room before it slammed against the side of the stretcher.

Brice gritted his teeth and tried to breathe his way through a surge of queasiness as he was jostled. File this under professional improvement -- being banged while on the road cot is miserable.

"...vomited on the way in, about 300cc's."

Craig glared at the attendant as he was heaved onto the exam table. Manhandle me anymore and I'll do it again, he thought viciously. John disconnected the datascope and attached the cable from the monitor on the crash cart to the electrodes. Deftly, Gage switched to the hospital's oxygen supply, removing the heavy bottle from Brice's legs.

Dixie clamped a pulse oximeter over Craig's finger. "92%"

"They'll take good care of you," said Johnny touching Craig's arm.

Brice glanced at the paramedic's hand. It was a textbook gesture, calculated to reassure, but comforting nonetheless.

Instead of leaving, Gage retreated to the corner of the room to complete the run sheet.

Brackett pulled back the blanket. "Breathe," he ordered, listening. "Again. Again." The doctor pulled the stethoscope from his ears and frowned. "Johnny, how long before his pressure came back up?"

Looking up, John replied. "It started up right after the epi." He handed the form to McCall, who signed it. "Maybe eight, ten minutes from the onset."

Jimmy Martinez stuck his head in the door. "Done with that?" he asked, pointing to the scope and O₂.

"Yeah," said Gage, handing the equipment to Martinez. "Thanks."

"Hang in there Brice." The door closed behind Jimmy.

Kel rolled Brice onto his side and examined the sting. "Dix, 125 mg SoluMedrol, slow push. Get an ABG, SMA 7..." began Brackett.

Blushing, Craig grabbed at the sheet as it was pulled below his knees. His stiff, swollen fingers couldn't grasp the covers. Brice closed his eyes and tried to ignore the rest of the examination. His nose was plugged, his throat ached from the airway and the vomiting, and the drugs left him desperately sleepy. Drifting slowly off, he counted the different ways he felt miserable.

"Hey, Dix, I got to go," said Gage. "Give him the same red carpet treatment you gave me."

"Sure thing." Dixie's voice was cheerful.

Panicked, Craig fought the Benadryl induced grogginess, struggling to yell "My spleen is fine!" He managed a muffled inarticulate noise.

"Shh," soothed McCall.

******

"Can't I go home?" asked Brice, while fidgeting with the blanket. He watched Dixie take away another tube of blood. Much to his chagrin, his voice had returned when Brackett had decided he no longer needed a second IV line and had inexpertly removed the catheter. He suspected his inadvertent and colorful exclamation might have permanently damaged his relationship with the physician. Craig studied his bruised arm, the only expanse of his skin that was not red. He felt he was well on his way to becoming a giant two legged, hive.

"Nope." Dixie shook her head firmly. "Twenty-four hours of observation is required for anaphylaxis."

Brice sighed, a task which no longer left him coughing and gasping. He scratched his inflamed nose. "Does it have to be in ICU?" He scowled, realizing Beth would not even

be allowed to visit while he was there. "I'm not going to go sour before dinner."

"Procedure," said Dixie, firmly.

Brice groaned. He was getting heartily sick of everyone throwing the rulebook at him. Ever since that little episode with DeSoto at the paramedic committee meeting, he had begun to feel that his colleagues took great delight in ensnarling him in the minutiae of protocol. He sighed, shaking off his paranoia. "OK, but I'm going under protest."

******

A hand touched him. Brice stifled a groan of frustration. Every time he drifted off to sleep, another round of poking and proding began, rousing him.

"Go away," he mumbled, roughly shoving away the hand. "I need what ever little blood you have left me to convey oxygen to my tissues..."

"...You scared me to death."

Beth's voice slowly filtered through the drug-induced haze enfolding Brice.

"What?" Brice strained to open his eyes. "Beth? What are you doing here?"

"Pardon me?"

No amount of effort would break the sedating grip of the drugs. He gave up. "Beth, this is so.." Numbly, he grappled for an explanation for her presence in the restricted ICU, but none came. "...So against the rules," he muttered, lamely.

"Craig!" Beth's voice tightened and then splintered under the strain of the past couple of hours. "To Hell with the rules, I love you." She took his hand. "I'm not going to sit outside and wait while..."

Brice wrestled with her sentence, unable to sort out more than the first few words. Every emerging thought was ensnared in the cottony gray wool that seemed to fill his head and choke off rationality. "There's no excuse..."

"No excuse!" exclaimed Beth, the hurt evident in her tone. She squeezed his fingers. "Craig."

Craig felt Beth's lips touch his forehead.

"Uh, Mrs. -- uh -- Brice your time is up. You'll have to leave now."

Craig could hear the amusement in the voice of the nurse. Suddenly he understood how Beth had arranged entry. Blushing, he stiffened beneath Beth's embrace. Her lips went taunt and cold against his skin, and she pulled stiffly away.

"Beth..." He struggled futilely to fully awaken and think clearly.

"Get some sleep."

******

"Again." Brackett moved the stethoscope across Brice's back.

Craig exhaled slowly and tried to ignore his itching nose.

Brackett removed the stethoscope from his ears and shoved it into his pocket. "Well, I think we're wasting a perfectly good bed on a malingering fireman." The doctor scribbled a note on Craig's chart. "Take the Benadryl as prescribed, remember that you have a follow up with the allergist on Tuesday, and stay away from bees." Kel emphasized his final instruction with a warning click of his ballpoint pen. "The orderly will be up shortly with your personal belongings," he concluded, opening the hospital room door.

Craig picked up the Yellow Pages and leafed through, trying to select a cab company that wouldn't look askance at a hive-covered passenger, wearing pajama bottoms and a sweaty baseball shirt. Sighing he dropped the book, closed his eyes and slumped against the pillows, recalling groggily babbling at Beth the night before. The snatches he could remember made even less sense by the light of day -- indeed even seemed more than vaguely insulting. Shaw was no doubt thoroughly convinced he was an idiot or worse. Brice felt his cheeks again burn at the memory.

Abruptly the door flew open and something struck his leg. An uncharacteristic anger flared in his chest over the careless treatment of his property. He opened his eyes, intending to forcefully chastise the guilty party. A pair of jeans, underwear and a shirt were strewn across the foot of the bed, and Gage and Bellingham stood in the door.

"How ya doing?" inquired Bellingham, dropping onto the edge of his bed. Before his partner could reply, Bob squinted, studying Brice. "Wow, you look horrible."

Grimacing, John sighed. "Great bedside manner, Animal."

Bellingham winked at Brice.

"Thank you, gentlemen," Craig began, solemnly.

Bellingham waved away his partner's thanks. "Hurry up and get dressed. We've come to take you home."

Brice froze while reaching for his clothing, thinking of Bellingham's car. Inwardly, he cringed, guiltily. "Both of you didn't need come down here."

"For some reason Gage thought you'd be more comfortable in his vehicle." Bellingham shrugged and glanced heavenward. He chuckled and winked again at his partner. "We'll meet you downstairs." He stood.

"Gage -- uh -- John," called Brice, watching the door close behind his partner.

The dark haired paramedic stopped. "Yeah?"

"Thanks," Brice hesitated, "for..."

Gage shook his head. "It was nothing." He stopped and cleared his throat. "Um, I'm gonna catch up with Bob." He jerked his thumb toward the door.

"OK."

******

Brice stood sandwiched between Gage and Bellingham on the narrow landing in front of his apartment, watching his partner fumble with his keys and the lock. He swallowed a sigh. "Despite yesterday's unfortunate events, I'm perfectly capable of turning a key in a lock."

"Just trying to help out the invalid," said Bellingham, trying to insert yet another incorrect key into the lock.

Brice felt his ears burn.

"Damn it!" swore Bob, selecting another key.

Craig winced. "Uh," he began, watching the key slip off the lock face and hit the strike plate.

"That's the wrong one, too," offered Gage helpfully, chuckling at the expression of Brice's face.

"No shit. Just how many keys do you have, Brice?" Finally, he inserted the right key and the door swung open.

"Enough," said Brice tightly, snatching the keys from his colleague's hand before Bellingham could drop them carelessly on coffee table.

Johnny looked curiously around the small living room dining room combination. Neat ranks of books lined blond wood bookshelves, nestled between a pair of beige curtained windows. The room was as orderly and apparently colorless as its occupant. "Nice place."

Bellingham flopped down on the sofa. "Got something against color?" Spying a framed photo of Beth on the end table, he leaned over and picked it up. "When were you planning to tell us about the chick?" He tapped the glass with his fingernail.

Brice grabbed the picture. "She's a woman, not a chick," he corrected, glancing at the photo, again reminded that Beth had not come back to the hospital. He set the picture on top of a shelf, facing away from him.

"The woman then."

"It was none of your business," snapped Brice.

Suddenly uncomfortable, Johnny cleared his throat.

Pushing away the ache provoked by thinking about Beth, Brice changed the subject. "I'd like to thank you again for your help," he began.

Bellingham shrugged. "Brice, what are friends for?"

"Craig."

"What?"

"Call me Craig." Brice paused. "But only when we're off duty," he added gravely. He smiled.

A knock on the door interrupted Bob's reply. "I'll get it," offered Bellingham.

"No, I'll get it," said Brice, hurrying to unlatch the door, before Bellingham could get to his feet.

Beth stood in the doorway, fist raised, clutching a paper grocery sack and swaying slightly from the abrupt opening of the door. Blankly Craig stared at Beth and then at the bag, seeing the ingredients for his favorite dish poking out the top of the sack. All at once he realized she hadn't come to tell him to get lost. The dull pain of the depression that had gripped him since waking in the hospital broke.

Brice seized her chin and started to kiss her. He stopped his lips against hers, suddenly aware of Gage and Bellingham's eyes.

"Go ahead," prompted Bob, leaning forward for a better view. Behind him Gage bobbed slightly on his toes, an odd grin on his face.

For a second attraction of the warm softness of her skin warred with Brice's embarrassment. To his surprise, he finished the kiss.

"Can I come in?" asked Beth, quietly, slightly breathless.

"Sure," called Bellingham cheerily. "Get out of her way, Bri... Craig."

Quickly, Brice stepped out of the way.

Gage cleared his throat again. "Bob, I think we'd better be going."

"Why, it's just getting interesting?"

"That's why." Johnny steered Bob toward the entrance. "Bye Brice."

"Bye," started Craig, not taking his eyes off Beth. "And thanks."

"Bye, Craig," commented Bellingham, stepping onto the landing. He stopped and poked his head back through the door. "Oh, by the way, you have a cute butt."

"Go home, Bob!" roared Brice.

******

Beth stood beside the bed watching Craig sleep. She listened to his even breaths, thinking about how close she had come to losing him. Shivering, she clamped her hands together to stop their shaking. Very slowly and carefully she lifted the covers and eased herself down into the bed. She curled up against his back and drifted off to sleep.

Brice woke up, suddenly aware that he was not alone. Normally he would not have slept through the mildest disturbance. As Bellingham had remarked once, when the station was teasing him about his sleeping habits, that: "he was such a light sleeper, ants marching in the next county could wake him up." But the antihistamines had foiled his normal bodily habits, and now a warm body -- a female, warm body -- was pressed against his back. He stiffened, then slowly rolled over.

Shaw still fully clothed lay asleep beside him, her arms wrapped around his waist. She sighed slightly, eyes opening, and blinked groggily up at him.

"Beth," whispered Brice.

"Ummm," she yawned. "I guess I fell asleep."

Craig studied her smooth milky skin, drinking in the sight. Involuntarily, he traced a finger along the lines of her check bone. He made a decision.

"I'd better go." Shaw sat up.

"Don't."

"What?"

"Stay with me." He pulled her down.

The End

Author's notes: Thanks to Mary, MJ, Aline, and Ria for their help and encouragement.