messing around
May. 2nd, 2006 10:54 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rabidsamfanA little while ago ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ozarque was talking quite a bit about people who aren't sight dominant and how that changes the language they like to use. And since one of the problems I have in fic writing is an overabundance of "seeing" and "looking", I thought I'd try to write something from the p.o.v. of a character who trusted his sense of touch and smell more than his eyes. So, bit by bit I've put together some paragraphs for what might someday be an Emergency! fic if it ever finds a plot. But as I'm starting to feel the tug of LotR again (very softly) I thought I'd go ahead and put what I had up here to get it out of my hair and then see if I can actually write something I'm supposed to in the next week or so...
No title yet…
“Cap?” The soft word tugged at Hank Stanley more than the gentle touch on his shoulder, and he dragged himself away from the dream he’d been having. It was never good when he was called “Cap” in the middle of the night. He opened his eyes and fumbled for the “light” button on his new digital watch, missing anew the soft green glow of the watch his father had bequeathed him. Sure it had been radioactive, but it hadn’t taken two hands to read it in the middle of the night.
4:42 a.m. He blinked and transferred his attention to the presence beside him. He didn’t need light to know it was Stoker. Kelly or Gage would still be rattling his shoulder, spilling out the problem whether he was awake to hear it or not, and Lopez or DeSoto would have started talking the moment he moved his hand. Stoker, on the other hand, seldom used more words than he needed to – especially in the middle of the night. Besides, it smelled like Mike. None of the others used that brand of shampoo.
Hank pushed himself up onto his elbows, trying to collect his thoughts. It was raining again – the burnt-dust scent of the seldom needed heating system and the fug of damp socks left to dry along the walls the separated the sleeping bays could no more hide the smell of water than Kelly’s snoring could drown out the steady patter against the roof and the gurgling of the drainpipes. In fact, it smelled, and sounded, like someone had left the bay doors open. Hank took a deeper breath, and caught the acrid taint of gasoline exhaust mixed in with the rest. “Is the squad back?” he asked, keeping his voice low to avoid waking the others.
“Yeah,” Stoker said, offering him a hand up. Hank took it, saving his questions for DeSoto and Gage, who might actually provide answers. He’d lost track of the number of runs the dispatcher had called the paramedic team for while the engine crew had been up in the canyons dealing with mudslides, and they hadn’t been back to the station all night. Boots. Turnout pants. After many years of riding an engine he didn’t even get up to take a leak in his own home without getting half dressed. He thought about the twill jacket hanging by the corner of the bed and decided that the thermal underwear he was wearing was warm enough without it. Stoker hadn’t bothered with a jacket, anyway, so they weren’t likely to be headed outdoors.
Or not. The bay doors were open after all, and the cold, damp wind in his face woke him up a little more. He shivered a little, thinking about going back for the jacket, but Stoker turned left instead of towards the door. Their boots grated against the grit on the floor. Between the open bay and the mud that had been tracked in after their last call Hank felt a momentary sympathy for B shift, who would have the joy of cleaning up. If they have time to clean, he amended the thought. A Shift hadn’t even made it through roll call before the tones had sounded. He yawned, wishing he’d had more than four hours of sleep, as he followed his engineer around the back end of the engine. Then he stopped in his tracks.
The squad was back all right, but it was parked at a crazy angle, and backwards, and the driver’s side mirror was bent, the frame of it twisted inwards like they’d sideswiped something. Something had hit the windshield – several small somethings that had left divots and growing cracks. There were dents in the hood, too, that hadn’t been there yesterday morning. And to top it all off, Roy DeSoto was slumped over the steering wheel, his head resting on his crossed arms like a child sleeping at a schooldesk.
Two steps closer and Hank realized Johnny Gage was in the cab of the squad too, curled up against the passenger door with his seatbelt still on and just as unconscious as his partner.
“I can probably get ‘em to bed,” Stoker said, “but I can’t call Dispatch.”
Dispatch? For a moment Hank resented playing catch-up to Stoker. There were times when he was sure that his engineer was more intelligent than his captain – or at least thought he was – but after a moment he realized that Stoker had just been awake longer, and had had more time to think about the situation.
And he was right. Judging by what they could see, neither of the sleeping men was in any condition to try to drive, and it was sure as hell that the vehicle needed some repairs. But Hank had never been the kind of person who judged a situation by looks alone. “I’d better make sure I don’t have to call for replacements while I’m at it,” he said, reaching for the doorhandle. A flood of hot air washed over him as he opened the door, redolent with sweat and wet cloth, tainted with antiseptics, blood, vomit, and worse.
Both paramedics startled briefly, identifying him with bloodshot eyes before relaxing into sleep again. Gage settled back into his corner silently, but DeSoto waved one hand and muttered a little as he leaned back away from the steering wheel. The older paramedic had a bandage on the right side of his chin, and neither it nor the growth of stubble were enough to conceal the dark edges of a deep bruise running back toward his ear. Hank reached around the steering column and collected the ignition key, then reached up to tap the signal button to close the bay door before he rested a hand on DeSoto’s shoulder. He could feel the man beginning to shiver as the night air penetrated into the cocoon of warmth that told him how high the heater had been blasting before they’d parked. He wasn’t really surprised. From the way that Roy’s turnout felt, by the stringy clumps of Johnny’s hair, they’d both been soaked to the skin sometime during the past few hours. And by the smell he guessed that at least one of them had had to go into a storm drain -- after the sewers had backed into it.
“What the hell have you two been up to?” he wondered softly. “Roy, Johnny. Come on, you’ll sleep better in your beds.”
“’S’no point, Cap,” Gage mumbled, audibly enough considering that his eyes never opened. “We’ll just get called out again anyway.” DeSoto nodded agreement and then began to cough, as if the motion had irritated his throat.
“Not if I can help it,” Hank said firmly. He’d heard men cough with that small wheeze each time before, and it never boded well. And under all of the other smells in the squad, he detected the miasma of illness, too strong to be a mere residue from their last rescue. He laid his hand on DeSoto’s forehead. Too hot, and too dry, considering the weather they’d been out in. Roy’s eyes flickered open again, waiting for a verdict without surprise or expectation. The coughs kept coming, three or four at a time, deepening their note.
“If you were one of my kids, I’d keep you home from school,” Hank said with a wry smile. He turned his attention to the other one. “Johnny, how are you feeling?”
“Just tired.” But the younger man’s voice had some strength in it. He’d roused himself, and was frowning as he watched Hank take hold of DeSoto’s wrist for a pulse.
“90,” Hank reported. “Johnny, get me a temperature and the other vitals. Mike, you get the drug box. I’m going to go call dispatch.”
“Right, Cap,” Gage didn’t spring into action, but he sat up straight and started scooting over to get a better look at his partner. “I heard you tell the doc that you were okay,” he chided DeSoto gently as he began to fumble at the fastenings of the heavy turnout coat.
Hank hesitated for a moment after he’d backed out of the cab to make room for Stoker, waiting to hear how DeSoto would respond to the fussing.
“You’re the one who got dunked,” Roy offered hoarsely, before he was interrupted by another cough. “I’m just cold.” He didn’t sound very convincing – or even very convinced himself – but Hank couldn’t tell whether it was exhaustion or illness draining the life out of the words. It didn’t matter. Either way, it would be foolishness to send the man out into the rain and cold again any time soon.
He headed for the phone to stave off Dispatch.
*****
Dispatch was already short three squads, and very cranky about the possibility of losing another, but he managed to get them to say they’d hold off until he’d talked to Chief McConnike by the time that Gage turned up in Hank’s office door and propped himself against the jamb like he needed the extra support.
Hank signed off with Dispatch and held his thumb down on the phoneswitch as he nodded to Gage. “Well?”
“His temp’s 101 but I’m not hearing rales in his lungs. Rampart says no point in bringing him right now, they’re swamped and he’d just be sitting and waiting for a turn, better to get him to bed with some codeine for the cough and fever and keep an eye on him till things calm down or we can get him to his regular doctor in the morning.” Gage scrubbed at his face with the heels of his hands. “I’m sorry, Cap. I shoulda noticed he wasn’t doing so good.”
Gage’s hands had taken a beating, Hank noticed now in the better light. The two smallest fingers on his left hand had been bandaged, and the other fingers curled protectively around his palms, the knuckles raw and swollen. Some kind of slime had dried on his clothes, leaving patches here and there where the rain hadn’t had a chance to wash it away, and he smelled foul, but not sick the way that DeSoto did. “What about you?” Hank asked.
Gage shrugged. “I’m tired and I’d really like a hot shower, and a nap, but I’ve got an armful of penicillin, ‘cause O’Malley didn’t want to take any chances.” O’Malley was one of the new interns at Rampart, Hank remembered, and fresh to the rotation in the Emergency Room. Too green to override experienced paramedics in the middle of the night, so Johnny must have not wanted to take chances either.
“What did you get into?”
“Drainage ditch. Some kids were messing around by one of the storm drain outlets and two of ‘em fell in and we covered for Brice and Bellingham with 48s because they were busy covering for 110s and 110s was halfway across the county covering for… I don’t remember…” Gage rubbed at his face again, smearing a tear of tiredness across a dusty temple. “’Course all the sewers are backed up with all this rain, so it was messy.”
“Smells like it,” Hank agreed. “You get the kids out?”
“One of ‘em.” Gage shook his head. “Couldn’t even find the other one. Too dark.” He sighed. “Hookrader finally gave up about two in the morning, and while we were on our way back we got sidetracked to an MVA, and then there was that heart attack down on Fifth street… I rode in with him and that’s when O’Malley got his hands on me. But Roy said he was okay, and I was so tired… I just didn’t notice…” He closed his eyes again and swallowed hard, leaning his head back against the wall.
There were a dozen questions Hank still wanted to ask, about the mirror, and the dented hood, and the bandage on DeSoto’s face, but now wasn’t the time. He had to call McConnike, for one thing, and Gage plainly wasn’t in any shape for an inquisition. One more question and he’d probably find himself crying, and that wouldn’t help anything.
“Go clean up, get Roy cleaned up, and the pair of you head for bed. Even if I thought you were in any shape to go out, he isn’t, and I’m going to have to try to get someone in to cover. Besides you’ll inspire more confidence in the public if you don’t smell quite so ripe.”
ozarque was talking quite a bit about people who aren't sight dominant and how that changes the language they like to use. And since one of the problems I have in fic writing is an overabundance of "seeing" and "looking", I thought I'd try to write something from the p.o.v. of a character who trusted his sense of touch and smell more than his eyes. So, bit by bit I've put together some paragraphs for what might someday be an Emergency! fic if it ever finds a plot. But as I'm starting to feel the tug of LotR again (very softly) I thought I'd go ahead and put what I had up here to get it out of my hair and then see if I can actually write something I'm supposed to in the next week or so...No title yet…
“Cap?” The soft word tugged at Hank Stanley more than the gentle touch on his shoulder, and he dragged himself away from the dream he’d been having. It was never good when he was called “Cap” in the middle of the night. He opened his eyes and fumbled for the “light” button on his new digital watch, missing anew the soft green glow of the watch his father had bequeathed him. Sure it had been radioactive, but it hadn’t taken two hands to read it in the middle of the night.
4:42 a.m. He blinked and transferred his attention to the presence beside him. He didn’t need light to know it was Stoker. Kelly or Gage would still be rattling his shoulder, spilling out the problem whether he was awake to hear it or not, and Lopez or DeSoto would have started talking the moment he moved his hand. Stoker, on the other hand, seldom used more words than he needed to – especially in the middle of the night. Besides, it smelled like Mike. None of the others used that brand of shampoo.
Hank pushed himself up onto his elbows, trying to collect his thoughts. It was raining again – the burnt-dust scent of the seldom needed heating system and the fug of damp socks left to dry along the walls the separated the sleeping bays could no more hide the smell of water than Kelly’s snoring could drown out the steady patter against the roof and the gurgling of the drainpipes. In fact, it smelled, and sounded, like someone had left the bay doors open. Hank took a deeper breath, and caught the acrid taint of gasoline exhaust mixed in with the rest. “Is the squad back?” he asked, keeping his voice low to avoid waking the others.
“Yeah,” Stoker said, offering him a hand up. Hank took it, saving his questions for DeSoto and Gage, who might actually provide answers. He’d lost track of the number of runs the dispatcher had called the paramedic team for while the engine crew had been up in the canyons dealing with mudslides, and they hadn’t been back to the station all night. Boots. Turnout pants. After many years of riding an engine he didn’t even get up to take a leak in his own home without getting half dressed. He thought about the twill jacket hanging by the corner of the bed and decided that the thermal underwear he was wearing was warm enough without it. Stoker hadn’t bothered with a jacket, anyway, so they weren’t likely to be headed outdoors.
Or not. The bay doors were open after all, and the cold, damp wind in his face woke him up a little more. He shivered a little, thinking about going back for the jacket, but Stoker turned left instead of towards the door. Their boots grated against the grit on the floor. Between the open bay and the mud that had been tracked in after their last call Hank felt a momentary sympathy for B shift, who would have the joy of cleaning up. If they have time to clean, he amended the thought. A Shift hadn’t even made it through roll call before the tones had sounded. He yawned, wishing he’d had more than four hours of sleep, as he followed his engineer around the back end of the engine. Then he stopped in his tracks.
The squad was back all right, but it was parked at a crazy angle, and backwards, and the driver’s side mirror was bent, the frame of it twisted inwards like they’d sideswiped something. Something had hit the windshield – several small somethings that had left divots and growing cracks. There were dents in the hood, too, that hadn’t been there yesterday morning. And to top it all off, Roy DeSoto was slumped over the steering wheel, his head resting on his crossed arms like a child sleeping at a schooldesk.
Two steps closer and Hank realized Johnny Gage was in the cab of the squad too, curled up against the passenger door with his seatbelt still on and just as unconscious as his partner.
“I can probably get ‘em to bed,” Stoker said, “but I can’t call Dispatch.”
Dispatch? For a moment Hank resented playing catch-up to Stoker. There were times when he was sure that his engineer was more intelligent than his captain – or at least thought he was – but after a moment he realized that Stoker had just been awake longer, and had had more time to think about the situation.
And he was right. Judging by what they could see, neither of the sleeping men was in any condition to try to drive, and it was sure as hell that the vehicle needed some repairs. But Hank had never been the kind of person who judged a situation by looks alone. “I’d better make sure I don’t have to call for replacements while I’m at it,” he said, reaching for the doorhandle. A flood of hot air washed over him as he opened the door, redolent with sweat and wet cloth, tainted with antiseptics, blood, vomit, and worse.
Both paramedics startled briefly, identifying him with bloodshot eyes before relaxing into sleep again. Gage settled back into his corner silently, but DeSoto waved one hand and muttered a little as he leaned back away from the steering wheel. The older paramedic had a bandage on the right side of his chin, and neither it nor the growth of stubble were enough to conceal the dark edges of a deep bruise running back toward his ear. Hank reached around the steering column and collected the ignition key, then reached up to tap the signal button to close the bay door before he rested a hand on DeSoto’s shoulder. He could feel the man beginning to shiver as the night air penetrated into the cocoon of warmth that told him how high the heater had been blasting before they’d parked. He wasn’t really surprised. From the way that Roy’s turnout felt, by the stringy clumps of Johnny’s hair, they’d both been soaked to the skin sometime during the past few hours. And by the smell he guessed that at least one of them had had to go into a storm drain -- after the sewers had backed into it.
“What the hell have you two been up to?” he wondered softly. “Roy, Johnny. Come on, you’ll sleep better in your beds.”
“’S’no point, Cap,” Gage mumbled, audibly enough considering that his eyes never opened. “We’ll just get called out again anyway.” DeSoto nodded agreement and then began to cough, as if the motion had irritated his throat.
“Not if I can help it,” Hank said firmly. He’d heard men cough with that small wheeze each time before, and it never boded well. And under all of the other smells in the squad, he detected the miasma of illness, too strong to be a mere residue from their last rescue. He laid his hand on DeSoto’s forehead. Too hot, and too dry, considering the weather they’d been out in. Roy’s eyes flickered open again, waiting for a verdict without surprise or expectation. The coughs kept coming, three or four at a time, deepening their note.
“If you were one of my kids, I’d keep you home from school,” Hank said with a wry smile. He turned his attention to the other one. “Johnny, how are you feeling?”
“Just tired.” But the younger man’s voice had some strength in it. He’d roused himself, and was frowning as he watched Hank take hold of DeSoto’s wrist for a pulse.
“90,” Hank reported. “Johnny, get me a temperature and the other vitals. Mike, you get the drug box. I’m going to go call dispatch.”
“Right, Cap,” Gage didn’t spring into action, but he sat up straight and started scooting over to get a better look at his partner. “I heard you tell the doc that you were okay,” he chided DeSoto gently as he began to fumble at the fastenings of the heavy turnout coat.
Hank hesitated for a moment after he’d backed out of the cab to make room for Stoker, waiting to hear how DeSoto would respond to the fussing.
“You’re the one who got dunked,” Roy offered hoarsely, before he was interrupted by another cough. “I’m just cold.” He didn’t sound very convincing – or even very convinced himself – but Hank couldn’t tell whether it was exhaustion or illness draining the life out of the words. It didn’t matter. Either way, it would be foolishness to send the man out into the rain and cold again any time soon.
He headed for the phone to stave off Dispatch.
*****
Dispatch was already short three squads, and very cranky about the possibility of losing another, but he managed to get them to say they’d hold off until he’d talked to Chief McConnike by the time that Gage turned up in Hank’s office door and propped himself against the jamb like he needed the extra support.
Hank signed off with Dispatch and held his thumb down on the phoneswitch as he nodded to Gage. “Well?”
“His temp’s 101 but I’m not hearing rales in his lungs. Rampart says no point in bringing him right now, they’re swamped and he’d just be sitting and waiting for a turn, better to get him to bed with some codeine for the cough and fever and keep an eye on him till things calm down or we can get him to his regular doctor in the morning.” Gage scrubbed at his face with the heels of his hands. “I’m sorry, Cap. I shoulda noticed he wasn’t doing so good.”
Gage’s hands had taken a beating, Hank noticed now in the better light. The two smallest fingers on his left hand had been bandaged, and the other fingers curled protectively around his palms, the knuckles raw and swollen. Some kind of slime had dried on his clothes, leaving patches here and there where the rain hadn’t had a chance to wash it away, and he smelled foul, but not sick the way that DeSoto did. “What about you?” Hank asked.
Gage shrugged. “I’m tired and I’d really like a hot shower, and a nap, but I’ve got an armful of penicillin, ‘cause O’Malley didn’t want to take any chances.” O’Malley was one of the new interns at Rampart, Hank remembered, and fresh to the rotation in the Emergency Room. Too green to override experienced paramedics in the middle of the night, so Johnny must have not wanted to take chances either.
“What did you get into?”
“Drainage ditch. Some kids were messing around by one of the storm drain outlets and two of ‘em fell in and we covered for Brice and Bellingham with 48s because they were busy covering for 110s and 110s was halfway across the county covering for… I don’t remember…” Gage rubbed at his face again, smearing a tear of tiredness across a dusty temple. “’Course all the sewers are backed up with all this rain, so it was messy.”
“Smells like it,” Hank agreed. “You get the kids out?”
“One of ‘em.” Gage shook his head. “Couldn’t even find the other one. Too dark.” He sighed. “Hookrader finally gave up about two in the morning, and while we were on our way back we got sidetracked to an MVA, and then there was that heart attack down on Fifth street… I rode in with him and that’s when O’Malley got his hands on me. But Roy said he was okay, and I was so tired… I just didn’t notice…” He closed his eyes again and swallowed hard, leaning his head back against the wall.
There were a dozen questions Hank still wanted to ask, about the mirror, and the dented hood, and the bandage on DeSoto’s face, but now wasn’t the time. He had to call McConnike, for one thing, and Gage plainly wasn’t in any shape for an inquisition. One more question and he’d probably find himself crying, and that wouldn’t help anything.
“Go clean up, get Roy cleaned up, and the pair of you head for bed. Even if I thought you were in any shape to go out, he isn’t, and I’m going to have to try to get someone in to cover. Besides you’ll inspire more confidence in the public if you don’t smell quite so ripe.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-02 03:12 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-02 06:37 pm (UTC)www.kmg365.com
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-02 06:44 pm (UTC):D
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-02 08:02 pm (UTC):D
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-02 03:26 pm (UTC)Hee. I do remember being a green intern and not willing to override experienced nurses and medics.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-02 06:40 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-02 07:06 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-02 07:58 pm (UTC)Of course, logic and continuity weren't a very big consideration. If they couldn't get the same actor for some part that repeated the next season they just hired someone else. One minor character actually changed races from one season to the next!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-02 04:06 pm (UTC)I just cruised by on impulse because it's been several weeks since I last checked for "Errand Lad" updates. Don't really have time for LJ until the spring rush is over and the relative quieted-down weeks of summer start. Though even then I'll probably be outside more than I am online. Still, I have a growing list of stories printed out to read by the side of the pool, when I'm not actually *in* the pool, that is. (Good ol' low-impact aerobics...)
p.x.
Date: 2006-05-02 04:07 pm (UTC)Just got season 1 DVDs from the library. What fun!
Re: p.x.
Date: 2006-05-02 06:42 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-02 06:41 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-02 07:23 pm (UTC)[insert paragraph of praise and curiosity and wonder and "doesn't that man ever take care of himself" here]
*big hug*
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-02 11:24 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-03 01:11 pm (UTC)what I wantquite well for being sight disabled with the sight I have, I have to rely on my other senses, especially hearing and feeling more than others. It's sometimes an advantage of course, but other times not. As an example: When looking for clothes, I have to touch them to get the right understanding of what kind of item it is as I can't by just looking always determine the fabric.It sounds like an interesting project, thid!
((((hugs you))))
(no subject)
Date: 2006-05-03 03:18 pm (UTC)It's actually really hard for me to write a scene without describing things visually. Fortunately, I can use descriptions of how a person has positioned their body or interacted with something and still not be cheating but oh, boy, this took a lot of going through and revising...