High Heat (Hotshots 2)

“Incomplete doesn’t mean nonexistent.” Stephanie’s eyes were shiny, as if she were working to not cry, and Alec didn’t look a lot better. “And it doesn’t mean you can’t have a full life—”

“I have a full life. One I’m enjoying greatly at present other than the whole not smoke jumping thing. I don’t need a motivational speech here. What you guys are really saying though is that I’m not going back to work. And that’s not simply an insurance decision, but the whole team believing it.”

Both Alec and Stephanie slowly nodded.

“Maybe a second opinion...” Once when he was eight or nine, he’d jumped farther out into the deep end than he’d been planning, and he’d had this terrifying moment when the side of the pool seemed so very far away. He hadn’t been at all sure of his ability to make it to the wall and had started to sink lower in the water. This felt like that sort of moment, everything hanging in the balance, him needing something to cling to, even the idea of more doctors, more tests. Something.

“Yes. You can go back to Portland, to the medical school or even to Seattle or San Francisco. That’s absolutely an option. And you should probably pursue that before committing to paying out of pocket for anything. But I’ve done hours of research on your case, hoping to find something I could point you toward, some device or procedure or therapy that would get you the breakthrough with mobility that you’re wanting.”

“I...” His ears rang, his voice echoing like it was coming from an empty tunnel. He’d done the same research. He’d had doctors in Portland. But damn. He needed that life buoy, could feel his panic rising, throat closing and palms sweating.

“Do you need a minute? Some water?” Stephanie made a shooing motion at Alec, who bolted from the room. Putting her hand on his arm, she leaned forward. “This is a lot. I know. We don’t have to try and do a full session after hitting you with this, but maybe some stretching and some hydrotherapy would help?”

“Maybe.” Swallowing hard, he accepted the water Alec returned with moments later. It wasn’t either of their faults, and Stephanie and him, they went back well over six months now. She might be his healthcare provider, but she was also something of a friend. He didn’t like seeing her so upset on his behalf. And there was absolutely nothing that would be served by storming out or raging.

So, he let her dismiss poor Alec, who looked relieved that Garrick wasn’t making a scene, pale skin blotchy and head bobbling as he made his escape. And then he let her lead him to a quiet corner in the main therapy area, put him through some basic stretches before she took him down to the hydrotherapy area. Usually they’d do more exercises in the warm pool, hard work with the weight belts or range of motion moves, but today Stephanie went easy on him, using the first available excuse to leave him to do his own thing in the empty pool, no other people around.

Nominally, he was supposed to be doing easy laps, but instead he floated aimlessly, staring up at the ceiling lights until his eyes blurred. This was what he’d forgotten that day he’d panicked in the deep end—floating until a solution appeared was always a valid option. Except unlike then when a lifeguard had spotted him and jumped in with assistance to make it to the side, no answer was forthcoming, no rescue from his internal flailing.

What if I never skydive again? He ducked under the water, but the thought followed him down. He’d known for months now that that was what the neurologist believed. No one had lied to him other than himself, his daily mantra that he was going to prove every one of the doubters wrong. Fuck the whole thing about function regained by six months predicting overall prognosis. He’d had the appointments, heard the facts and projections, and chosen to maintain his unshakable belief that he was going to succeed. Sheer determination had carried him thus far. It couldn’t let him down now. He wouldn’t let it.

Except... Doubt, that fucker, had a hold of him, sure as a nasty undertow. Reality—the friction between his optimism and indisputable facts—couldn’t be avoided forever. He stretched out, trying to find that floating numbness again. Hell, trying to find himself, trying to gear up to smash this latest round of doubts. But he kept smacking into reality. Cold and large, increasingly undeniable. And not unfamiliar either. Certain fires he’d fought had required an acceptance of available data and gut instinct, knowing when to pull back, when even all the conviction in the world wasn’t a match for the will of the fire, and reality mandated that he adapt and change course. Fuck, how he hated those moments. And this...this might be one of them, and hell if he knew what to do now.