IMPORTANT NOTE: To the "student" who ripped this story off word for word and submitted it to a UK essay writing site, be advised that site has been contacted and notified of your theft of my work. As of 1/25/16, the UK Essay site has removed the story from their site, but I'm leaving this note up for now.

DISCLAIMER: Emergency! is the property of MarkVII/Universal and no copyright infringement is intended with the publication of this piece. Lyrics from "Hark the Herald, Angels Sing!" are in the public domain. Cover photo is courtesy of MorgueFile. ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY, INCLUDING MY OWN CREATED FANON, CHARACTERS OR OTHER SPECIFIC DETAILS UNIQUE TO MY WORK IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION.*This story may contain graphic language or depictions of potentially upsetting situations, therefore reader discretion is advised.* For plot purposes, intentional liberties may be taken with the depiction of any real life protocols and creative license taken with the portrayals of canon elements, including characters. Feedback is always welcomed and thank you for reading!

***PLEASE DO NOT BORROW ANY OF THE BRICE FANON I HAVE CREATED FOR BRICE'S CHARACTER. IF THE DETAILS ARE NOT VERIFIED CANON FROM THE SHOW IN REGARDS TO HIS CHARACTER, THEN IT'S NOT YOURS TO USE. PLEASE RESPECT THAT.***

ANGEL'S MIRACLE

Every time a bell rings, an angel gets its wings—"It's A Wonderful Life"

DECEMBER 24, 1976

He stands along the wall in the hallway of Rampart Hospital, turning his fire helmet around in nervous hands, the scent of disinfectant and antiseptic and what smells like burnt peas and scorched gravy from the cafeteria assaulting his nose as he watches the controlled helter skelter chaos that hurries and screams in and out of the treatment rooms of the ER. Having been both a patient and a visitor here numerous times in the past, he is well-versed in the nuances of the ER and knows to stay far out of the way, lest his toes get clipped by an x-ray machine rushing past or get run down by a bevy of twittering student nurses hurrying to do Dr. Brackett's bidding. So he leans unobtrusively against the pale yellow cinderblock wall, completely unnoticed by anyone rushing past, and he thinks to himself that he is like a fly on the wall, watching the activity with passive interest. Then the idea of being a fly on the wall makes him think of his human fly shoes invention (which he still swears would work) and he wishes he'd told little Angel about his fantastically wonderful invention, for he's sure she would have loved it, seeing as she was trying to convince him that her little white cardboard wings would enable her to fly if only she just concentrated hard enough. Sighing with mild impatience, he pulls back the sleeve of his turnout coat to glance at his watch…he's only been standing there for a couple of minutes, but it feels like HOURS to him…and then he sighs again, fidgeting and fiddling with the buckles of his coat, eyes skimming across the various treatment room doors, wishing like hell Craig Brice and Roy would come out of one of them so he could find out if little Angel is going to be okay.

She certainly is a sweetie, he thinks as he briefly considers the scene of just a bit ago where they rescued her, a little five-year-old girl in an angel costume who was one of the many gunshot victims in a robbery attempt gone sour at a local all-night grocery store. It had been complete and utter chaos in Chet's eyes, as people lay bloodied throughout the small bodega; some of them dead and others seriously injured, the sounds of their cries drowning out the cheery Christmas music that was still playing on the Muzak system in the store. Chet had concentrated on helping Brice and Roy with the little girl…ironically named Angel…who'd suffered a gunshot wound to her abdomen. The bullet hadn't exited, it was still rattling somewhere around in her small stomach, and Chet could see the worried concern in the eyes of the two medics as they began treating her. But he managed to distract and calm Angel by telling her that careworn old story about the time he saved another little girl's parakeet from the fire, eliciting a small smile from her that shone through the tears welling up in her dark eyes. She shyly told them that she had begged her mommy to bring her to the store where her daddy was working that night, just so he could see her in her costume and she could tell him that she had managed to get through their church's Christmas pageant without forgetting too many of the lyrics to the carols they sang. She knew her daddy would be so proud of her, if only she could tell him…

But she couldn't, for her father lay among the dead in the store, and her mother lay nearby, seriously injured with a gunshot wound to her shoulder.

And while Chet had seen a lot of awful things in his career as a firefighter, he thinks there is just something so…so…obscenely cruel about a sweet little five-year-old girl getting shot on Christmas Eve, especially a small girl in an angel costume whose only crime is that she wanted her daddy to see her in all her angelic glory.

One of the treatment room doors opens as Dixie McCall steps out, her eyes scanning the hallway, her ash blonde hair floating in crazy strands about her head from beneath her white nurse's cap. Chet straightens up out of the slouch he's settled into as she spots him and approaches him. "Here, Chet," she says gently, something cupped in the hand she holds out to him. "You need to take this back."

He automatically holds his hand out, palm open, and she drops his St. Florian medal into it. The silver chain winks in the overhead lights, the medallion marred by a smear of blood. Puzzled, he looks at her, shaking his head. "I gave it to her for good luck," he says. "She was worried about Craig and Roy cutting off her little halo and wings because she thought they were her good luck charms, so I gave her my good luck charm to hold onto…" His voice trails off as he stares at Dixie, who is shaking her head, her face full of sympathy, which Chet immediately misinterprets. "Oh god no," he says, a sudden hoarseness rasping through his voice, the blood draining from his face as he stares at her in horror. "She's not…" And he finds he cannot even finish the sentence, it seems too difficult to form the word that is flashing and screaming through his mind like a gaudy neon sign.

Dixie lays a soft, gentle hand on his arm, a gesture meant to soothe him. "No, she's still alive, Chet, but just barely. She coded on Brice and Roy in the ambulance as they were bringing her in, and while we got her back here in the ER, she's still hemorrhaging somewhere inside. They're getting ready to take her up to emergency surgery to see if they can stop the bleeding and remove the bullet." She pauses, letting her words sink in on the stocky little firefighter, then she gestures to the St. Florian medal. "That's why I'm giving that back to you, it can't go with her up to the ER."

The door to the treatment room that Dixie came out of swings open again, releasing Brice and Roy, their uniforms stained with blood. The two of them take off in opposite directions from one another, almost as if they cannot stand to be around one another any longer, for Craig flees in the direction of the bathrooms and Roy flees in the direction of the hospital chapel, neither of them looking back at the other. A moment later, the door opens once more, this time emitting a blindingly white gaggle of chattering doctors and nurses that sedately rush a gurney to the waiting elevator, the tiny figure aboard the bloody sheets barely visible. They load the gurney onto the elevator and then with a ding, the doors shut and they are gone from sight.

Chet starts to head down the hall…in what direction, he's not sure, for part of him wants to follow the gurney and part of him wants to follow Roy, but Dixie stays him, her fingers tightening slightly on his forearm. "Chet, no," she says softly, shaking her head, her dark blue eyes full of sorrow.

His eyes fall back to the medallion in his hand, the chain swinging slightly as his hand trembles a bit. "But…little Angel…" he says worriedly. "She's going to need this for luck."

"She's going to need more than luck, Chet," Dixie says quietly. "She's going to need a miracle." Then she gives his forearm a light squeeze and turns away, her shoes squeaking softly on the pale tile as she enters another one of the treatment rooms, leaving him alone in the hallway once more.

He stands there for a moment, breathing in that sickening hospital smell, the dizzying hurly burly noise swirling around him like he's not even there. Then he bolts for the exit, seeking to escape for a few moments because if not, he will go truly and utterly mad if he has to spend one more second in that hallway, smelling antiseptic and burnt peas, and listening to the yammering of people who are supposed to save the innocents…

But sometimes fail.

The rain that had been threatening to fall while Chet was driving the squad into the hospital has finally started coming down, the air chilly and hazy, fogged around the lights on the building and in the parking lot. Putting his helmet on, he takes in a deep breath of cool damp air, his eyes landing on a nearby ambulance that was the one that brought little Angel in. Through the rear windows he can see the blood that is still splashed upon the metal floor, the swaths of bright crimson puddled there a mute testimony to how hard Brice and Roy had to fight to save her life…a life that she may still lose on the operating table. And while Chet is not normally bothered by blood and gore, the sight of her blood…and so much of it…queases his stomach, so he moves away, taking refuge on the other side of Squad 51 so that he won't have to look at the crimson-spattered ambulance. He starts to settle back against the squad but something shiny sticking out of the garbage can catches his eye, so he wanders over to it out of curiosity. He finds that it is little Angel's coat hanger halo, the gold garland that adorned it fluttering forlornly in the wind that whips the rain against Chet's face. Next to the halo lie her little white oaktag wings, and Chet curses under his breath at the callousness of the ambulance attendants for throwing them away, despite the fact that Angel had begged them to bring the wings and halo with her. He reaches in to retrieve them, then he sees how damaged they are, the halo bent and the wings torn and spattered with blood and rain. With his mouth twisting downward in a bitter line, he turns away, leaving them in the trash.

"Goddamnit," he says aloud to the thoughtless rain. "God-fucking-damnit!" His voice rises in inflection as he rolls the words around on his tongue, and he opens his palm and stares at the St. Florian medal that was a gift from an old flame who thought the patron saint of firefighters would keep Chet safe. "A lot of good you did her," he bitches bitterly to the silver medallion, the trinket flashing bright before his eyes, and he draws his hand back to throw it away. But Dixie's words come back to him…She's going to need more than luck, she's going to need a miracle…and he looks at the medal once more, thinking that on the OTHER hand, good ol' St. Florian has done a pretty good job overall of keeping one Chester B. Kelly safe, save for the odd spot here and there when St. Florian was evidently on a coffee break and Chet wound up getting hurt. And hell, even though St. Florian isn't the patron saint of miracles, what can it hurt to give the ol' boy a second chance, right? Chet figures little Angel needs ALL the help she can get right now, so holding the medal out before him on his open palm like an offering, he tilts his head heavenward, the chilly rain running in rivulets off of his helmet and canvas turnout coat And then Chet Kelly…legendary prankster extraordinaire and always the first to crack off-color jokes about religion…begins to pray, throwing out pleas to St. Anthony and to St. Florian; to the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit; to the six of the Twelve Disciples he can remember, and he even throws in prayers to Buddah, Allah, and the Three Stooges, just to cover his bases. The words fall in silent sibilance from his shaking lips as he begs for the miracle that will save the little girl's life, for it just isn't fair, it just isn't right that a child should die on Christmas Eve…

EVER.

And so as he prays, his head still tilted back and his eyes still closed, the words tumbling brokenly from his lips as he holds the St. Florian medal in his outstretched open palm, the rain striking it and gently washing away the smear of her blood that had marred it…

Just as it gently washes away the tears that roll down Chet's face.

The normally cool and collected Craig Brice paces nervously in the bathroom, his uniform darkened with Angel's blood, his body a restless ball of twitching bundled nerve endings that are sparking out of control. All he knows is to keep moving, lest he combust on the spot. Usually when rescues go sour as this one has, Craig methodically and clinically deconstructs the entire scene, bit by bit by bit, mechanically replaying all the angles in his mind with calculated dispassion so as to see where errors might have been made or improvements could be implemented in both his responses and that of his partner, filing away the results in his mind with a computer-like efficiency that rivals anything put out by IBM. But Brice can't do that right now, because the unflappable Walking Rule Book is thoroughly and utterly flapped with this scene, for it's a shrieking jumble of disjointed sounds and images and smells that whirl sickeningly through his mind like an out of control carnival ride. The only image that keeps coming to him with diamond sharp clarity is the image of that little girl dying right in front of his horrified eyes on that cot in the back of the Mayfair rig, sharply reminding him of another child dying on a bedroom floor in front of those same horrified eyes, ten years ago on Christmas Eve.

"Get ahold of yourself, Brice," he brusquely admonishes himself as he continues pacing the pale tile floor, shaking with un-Brice-like fear and helplessness, wrapping his arms around himself to try to still the trembling that runs like an electrical current through his body, making even his teeth clickety-clack in his skull like dice rolling on a table. "This is utterly ridiculous. You've seen cases like this before, it shouldn't bother you…" And his voice trails off as the image of that little girl surfaces before his eyes once more, her white dress rapidly staining bright red, then the image morphs into that of a young boy, his throat gushing blood…blood that puddles and pools on a polished wood floor, seeping and staining in an eternal reminder of death. And oh dear god, Craig is transported back to that Christmas Eve oh so long ago…not so long ago…when left alone in the house as their parents did some last-minute shopping, thirteen-year-old Donnie, fifteen-year-old Craig, and their seventeen-year-old brother Gary were arguing over their father's Army Colt .45 that was supposed to be unloaded AND locked away. All of a sudden BAM!, the gun went off and immediately Donnie clutched at his throat, falling to the floor and dying right there as Craig and Gary screamed in horror, his sightless eyes staring accusingly at them as his lifeblood rapidly fled his body. Their family was brutally ruptured forever after in that five-second span of time that ended their childhoods for good. Donnie's death drove Gary into becoming a junkie, while Craig went the opposite route, becoming a firefighter in a seemingly altruistic motive to help people, but in reality it was just a way to escape into the uncontrolled insanity of other people's lives in order to avoid the carefully controlled craziness of his own.

With a moan, he twitches with the pain of the memory, quickly shoving it from his mind with a harsh shake of his head as he resumes his pacing, his feet circling the floor as the thoughts circle his brain. He suddenly regrets always being the one to work Christmas Eve to avoid his family and their condemning memories, for what has it gotten him? Right back to where he was ten years ago. And as he paces, anger begins to rise within him, gnawing at his gut in sour indignation and making him seethe in self-righteousness. Hatred boils hot in his blood and he lets it come to him like a runaway freight train, allowing himself to hate Johnny Gage for taking vacation at this time and making Brice fill in for him; hate the evil assholes who decided to rob a grocery store and shoot anyone who got in their way, including a five-year-old kid; hate Angel's mother for having such bad timing in bringing her daughter to the store just prior to the robbery; hate Chet Kelly for having a natural affinity for children that Brice doesn't have, winning the little girl over with that silly tale of saving the woman's parakeet in a fire; hate Roy DeSoto for remaining calm and collected over the flatline screaming of the monitor, taking charge of the defibrillator and the CPR and the medication as the little girl crashed on them in the back of the rig, while Brice froze up and couldn't react; hate little Angel for being so goddamned innocent, her stoicism and preciousness winning over even his jaded heart…but most of all, Craig Brice hates himself…

For failing her, blaming himself for her crashing in the back of the rig, even though his logical mind tells him that she began hemorrhaging when the bullet that was still inside of her was jostled when they moved her from the floor to the cot for transport.

For failing his brothers Donnie and Gary, for he knows that none of them should have never been messing around with their father's .45 because if they hadn't, Donnie would still be alive, Gary wouldn't be a junkie, their parents would never have retreated into that icy shell of unforgiveness, and he wouldn't be the sham shadow of a man he is now.

For having a momentary lapse in his legendary self-control and freezing up after being reminded of Donnie, for Craig Brice has prided himself on dispassionately keeping his emotions free from the job, refusing to allow himself to feel anything other than an analytical coldness for the patients he treats because the first rule of the job is to never let yourself get emotionally involved. It is a rule that Craig has never broken, at least not until tonight when that little girl in the angel costume touched his heart..an icy brittle heart that will now be savagely broken if she dies on the operating table.

And all that hatred and anger and helplessness finally reaches a superheated volcanic boiling point in Craig Brice and the Walking Rule Book does something he would never dream of doing otherwise: he explodes in a fury, his face twisting in a rictus of rage, his foot lashing out at the nearby garbage can, kicking it and sending it skidding with a screech of protesting metal across the floor to the far wall where it crashes and topples over, spewing out wads of paper towels. Then Brice whips around and slams a fist into one of the bathroom stall doors, the door bouncing off of the side of the frame and rattling loudly from the force of his blow, a dent appearing in the metal where he struck it. That still doesn't settle his blood lust, so with a primeval howl that calls up Craig Brice's inner caveman, he turns his fury on the cinderblock wall, pounding his fists on it over and over and over, his once-extensively eloquent vocabulary reduced to repetitive guttural grunts of the word "Fuck!" After a few moments of beating on the bricks, he finally wears down, his hands sore and throbbing and scraped bloody raw, his heart pounding hard in his chest and his skull, sweat rolling down his reddened face as his breath rasps harshly in his throat. His blue eyes glare from behind his wire-rimmed glasses as his gaze bounces around the minor destruction in the bathroom that was Hurricane Brice, and all he can think is how goddamned GOOD it felt to just…let it out for once, rather than keeping everything walled up behind that icy exterior of prim precise prissiness.

His anger rapidly receding now that it was fully spent on the wall and the stall door, he raises a shaking palm to swipe at the beads of sweat on his forehead, and as he does, he sees Angel's blood still on his hands. His stomach suddenly contracts violently and he just barely manages to lurch across the floor and dump himself into one of the stalls before he vomits, his guts emptying themselves over and over in a bitter rush that brings tears to his eyes, barely catching his breath before the next wave hits. As he pukes, he hopes like hell that no one walks in, for it would be highly embarrassing for the Walking Rule Book to be found in such a dismal state, all sweating and heaving, with tears squeezing from his eyes. Finally the retching subsides, his stomach retreating back to his midsection. Grabbing a wad of toilet paper from the holder, he swabs at his eyes and face, spitting and spitting and spitting at the acrid taste in his mouth until his mouth runs dry. Feeling weak and drained, he rests back against the metal partition that divides the stalls, his ribcage and stomach muscles hurting like crazy, his gasps for breath echoing sharply off of the tiled walls and bouncing back to him like the desperate sobs they are. Finally getting some semblance of control over himself, he reaches up and flushes the toilet, slowly standing up on wobbly legs that suddenly feel like they're made of Rampart's famous Jello.

He makes his way over to the row of sinks jutting out from the green tiled wall and without looking at himself in the mirror, he flips the sink tap to the hottest temperature he can stand and begins to wash his hands, pumping loads of pink pearly soap from the dispenser into his palm, the suds quickly hiding the blood that stains there. He washes and washes and washes...out, out damned spot!...scrubbing hard at his hands and fingers until they are red and nearly rubbed raw, the traces of water that rinse down the drain getting clearer and clearer with each pass. When he thinks he's gotten all of her blood rinsed off of him, he flips the tap over to the coolest water and catches some in his throbbing palms, raising it to his mouth and greedily sucking it up like a desert refugee, the water cascading coolly over his parched lips and tongue. He rinses his mouth out, trying to scrape the taste of sour vomit from his tongue with his teeth as he spits and rinses a couple of times, then he swallows some of the water, letting it slide down his throat like liquid gold, closing his eyes and hoping like hell it stays down. When it does, he grabs some more in his palms, taking another drink, savoring the chilliness of it. Then he takes off his wire-rimmed glasses and lays them on the shelf below the mirror, dipping his head and splashing at his sweaty face, scouring his palms across his forehead and cheeks and across the back of his neck, getting rid of that unpleasantly sticky feeling. Turning the tap off, he grabs a handful of scratchy brown paper towels and begins drying his face and his hands, his eyes skittering across his gaze in the mirror as he puts his glasses on.

Wadding up the paper towels, he starts to toss them into the nearby trashcan but remembers it was toppled over in his fury. He quickly rights the trashcan and picks up his mess on the floor, preparing to leave the bathroom, but then he hesitates, turning back to the mirror as he forces himself to meet his eyes, his hands white-knuckled as he grips the sink. Staring at himself, he lets that icy shield down that he'd carried for oh so long and finally sees the real Craig Brice, the one who had once laughed and loved and lived, at least until that Christmas Eve ten years ago forced him to trade that life for this one, forced him to hide his pain and his sorrow and his hateful anger behind that shield of cold austerity, just so no one would see how much he hurt, just so no one could see how angry and guilty he felt over Donnie's death, just so he could meet his own gaze in the mirror…and now…

Now the tears fill his eyes and he finally weeps for the first time in all those years…

For his brother Donnie, lost forever to a moment of childish stupidity; for his brother Gary, lost to the drugs he takes to escape his culpability in Donnie's death; for his parents, unable to forgive that split-second of time that shredded their lives for eternity.

For little Angel, her innocence lost in a moment of selfish greediness, her world never the same after this.

But most of all he weeps for himself…

For the scared and helpless fifteen-year-old child he once was, for the scared and helpless twenty-five year old man he is now…

And for once, he doesn't give a damn who sees him.

Roy hesitates in the entrance to Rampart's little chapel, his eyes skimming over the shiny wooden pews, unsure of whether or not to enter, because at this point, he's not really sure he believes in much, let alone something like God. After all, how could God allow something so cruel to happen to a child on Christmas Eve…letting her get shot and nearly die, while her father was killed and her mother was seriously injured in that horrific melee. But the deserted chapel offers some sort of refuge for him to at least decompress a bit, so he steps across the threshold into what seems to be an entirely different world, the hustle and bustle of the hospital being checked at the doorway and traded for hushed, quiet reverence. The chapel's walls are painted a soothing blue and framed pictures of green pastures and purple mountains and clear waterfalls hang from them, for there is no overt religiousness here, the chapel is non-denominational, with all deities available for prayer whenever the thankful, the desolate, and the downright desperate need them. In fact, the chapel could be mistaken for a meeting room, save for the wooden podium with the gold-scrimmed cross painted on it and the gilt-framed portrait of Jesus raising His eyes heavenward that hangs on the wall behind the podium. Off to the side is a wooden stand that holds a few rows of red-glassed penny candles that people can light in honor of a loved one, and Roy notices that a few of the candles are already lit as he wanders up the aisle to stand before the podium.

Even though Roy was raised a Methodist, he's not a particularly religious man by any means, having lapsed into a lackadaisical faith after his experiences in Vietnam and as a paramedic forced him to eschew any kind of set tenets of a belief system. But that does not mean he is without faith entirely, it's just in…in short supply right now. Really short supply. Yet here he is, in Rampart's chapel, seeking…what? Divine intervention? A burning bush? A long-haired hippie-looking dude that can walk on water and heal lepers and turn water into wine? A huge finger coming out of the sky to prove God's existence?

No, what he's seeking is a miracle, and he fears…no, he knows…he won't find it here, so with a frustrated sigh, he starts to turn to leave, but then something…something draws him back. He wanders over to the small wooden candle stand, staring at the dancing flames that flicker before him, thinking of all the times he's seen those same flames devouring, destructing, eating away people's properties and sometimes their lives, but he knows that the flames that burn here are flames of hope…

And that's what he needs right now, hope.

And faith.

Not to mention that goddamned miracle.

And if one candle represents one person's hope, then…he hesitates, quickly counting the unlit candles on the stand…twenty-five should represent twenty-five people hoping, right? Or at least one person hoping twenty-five times, so he fishes in his pocket and pulls out a quarter, dropping it in the little metal coin box with a metallic tink, then he picks up the taper and methodically lights all the unlit candles, the wicks sparking to light until the whole candle stand is ablaze with flickering brightness. Then he realizes what an utterly foolish idiot he is for thinking that twenty-five candles can do a helpless little girl any good, so he puts the taper down, his mouth twisting downward as he picks up one of the small candles and prepares to blow it out, then he hesitates…

Well, it can't hurt to leave it lit, right?

Turning away, he spies the black leather Bible on the podium and goes over to it, his eyes skimming the elegant gold printing embossed on the cover. He remembers that as a kid at Vacation Bible School, they used to play a game where you'd close your eyes and flip open the Bible to a random page, planting your finger on a verse. That verse was supposed to have some sort of personal meaning in your life. His mouth twitching in mild amusement, he glances up to make sure he's still alone, then he closes his eyes, flipping the Bible open, his finger stabbing at a verse. Opening his eyes , he reads the chosen verse softly to himself…"Matthew 19:14, but Jesus said, 'Let the children come to me, and do not hinder them; for to such belongs the kingdom of Heaven.'" His words echo in the small chapel and startled by how eerily odd his voice sounds, he looks up, glancing over to the candle stand to see that all twenty-five of the candles he lit just moments ago have guttered out. Slamming the Bible shut in frustration, he goes over to the stand and holds his hand out to feel for the breeze that blew the flames out, turning his eyes towards the ceiling to look for any kind of air vent, but there is none. Picking up the taper with annoyance, he starts to relight the candles, but then he hesitates, for he doesn't have another quarter to drop in the coin box and he doesn't know if it's taboo to relight the candles unless you pay for them again.

Goddamnit, shortchanged by God again, he smirks bitterly as he goes over to one of the polished wooden pews and sits heavily down, suddenly feeling very tired and old, fatigue seeping hard through his bones. He knows he should go round up Brice and Chet so they can get restocked on their supplies and get back into service, but he finds he cannot move from the pew, the lassitude tethering his ass to that pew like a rope tethering a hot air balloon. Scrubbing weary fingers through his thinning hair, he wonders briefly about Brice, for when they fled the treatment room after Brackett and Early got Angel stabilized enough for surgery, Brice looked like he'd seen a ghost. Hell, he looked like that when she first started crashing on them in the back of the ambulance, even freezing up for a moment, which was so uncharacteristic of the procedural-driven Craig Brice. But Roy knows that Brice keeps his private life locked down tighter than Fort Knox, so whatever caused him to freeze up, Roy will never know.

Roy wishes Johnny were here, for he knows that he could hash this out with his partner, and Johnny in all of his sage—well, Roy wouldn't exactly call it wisdom, but more of a way of discovering an answer or resolution through often hilarious and goofy discourse and discussion that makes sense only in Gageworld at times. But at least maybe if Johnny were here, Roy could kind of pick his brain on the spiritual end of things, for Johnny is a little more in touch with that kind of touchy-feely Mother Earth crap than Roy will ever be. Of course, he could always call Johnny long-distance at his folks' house, but he hates to bother his friend on a night reserved for family times, plus he spent his last quarter on the lousy frickin' candles that blew out.

Sighing heavily, Roy leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, holding his hands out in front of him, the blood of little Angel still embedded in the whorls of his fingertips, even though he's washed his hands as thoroughly as he could. He thinks about her, a dark-haired little cutie that is the same age as Jenny, shyly proud of herself for remembering most of the lyrics to the Christmas carols they sang at the pageant, pleading with Roy and Brice not to take off her halo and her wings because her daddy hadn't seen her in them yet, her brown eyes that were filled with tears and fear, also filled with hope…

And there it is again, that word…hope.

Which is also something he has in short supply right now. He knows that Angel was clinically dead on that cot in the back of the rig, her blood staining his hands and his uniform is a testament to that. And even though they were able to bring her back once they got her into the ER, rushing her up to surgery to stop the bleeding and get the bullet out of her, there's not a single goddamned guarantee that she's going to actually make it, for she could die on the operating table or she could die later on from complications. If she does live, she could suffer irreparable damage to her body as a result of the bullet. All in all it is a grim prognosis and none of them, not even Brackett or Early, really think she's going to make it, for she's lost too much blood and they may find out in surgery that the damage to her internal organs is too great for such a tiny kid to survive.

Roy slaps the back of one hand into the palm of the other, the sound cracking sharp in the hushed silence of the chapel as he glares at the gilt-framed portrait of a penitent Jesus. He tries to drum up some heated self-righteousness but all that comes to him is weary resignation. "A helluva lot of good you did her out there," he tells the portrait, but he realizes that he could be just as well talking about himself as much as he's talking about God or Jesus' lack of assistance, for while he knows that he and Craig did not err in how they handled the little girl's injury, he can't help but feel a little responsible for her bleeding out on the cot—perhaps if they'd moved her in a different way, she might not have started hemorrhaging.

Or maybe not. Maybe the outcome would have been the same no matter how they'd handled moving her. His brain is too tired to weigh the all the different could'ves, would'ves, and should'ves that might have played out in that five-minute trip to Rampart that felt like five fucking hours instead.

He opens his palms and stares at her blood embedded in his fingertips once more, and the thought that he hadn't been wanting to think, had forbidden himself to think, comes into his mind and it is that of his own children, five-year-old Jenny and seven-year-old Christopher. His own blood chilled, he wonders perversely what it would be like if he was in this position where one of them had been critically injured with little hope for survival…how would he react?

And what startles him is the fact that he doesn't really know how he'd react, for faced with such a critical injury with little chance for survival is a helluva lot different than facing chicken pox or a broken arm or a skinned knee…

But he does know he'd be hoping…

And praying…

For a miracle to save them.

Roy stares at the portrait of Jesus, glad that it's not one of those creepy ones where it feels like the eyes follow you no matter where you move, and his logical mind tells him that miracles really don't exist and what is often attributed to God's intervention is really nothing more than the right elements coming together and combining at the perfect moment. His logical mind also doesn't put much faith in the power of prayer, for if praying had any sway over the outcome of life's events, Roy would be married to Raquel Welch and living in a mansion in Bel-Air, plus he'd still have all his hair.

But yet, the illogical part of Roy's mind…the part that still kinda sorta mighta maybe believes in Santa Claus just a teensy bit yet, that believes whatever wish you make when you blow out birthday candles or dandelion fluff might really come true…thinks maybe miracles do exist and prayer really does work…

If only you have faith.

Not to mention hope.

And what can it hurt, really, to offer up a prayer…or twenty-five…to ask that a little girl named Angel be saved on this Christmas Eve, a night when the biggest miracle of all occurred in Bethlehem, all those eternities ago?

So he draws in a deep breath, clasping his hands together and bowing his head, then he feels utterly ridiculous, like a child praying at his bedside or something, so he lets his hands fall to his sides on the pew, the wood cool beneath his palms as he closes his eyes, his faith wavery and his hope rather watery. But still, he begins to pray, just five short words uttered repetitively to a deity that may or may not be listening to the pleas of a desperate paramedic…

Please don't let her die.

Please don't let her die.

Please don't let her die.

And as the words fall from the lips of the faith-shaken man, from behind closed eyes tears slip free and slide down his cheeks and fall onto his uniform, dampening the cloth with their moisture…

As on the candle stand across the way, the candles that had been blown out slowly relight, one by one by one, until all twenty-five are glowing with bright dancing flames that light up the darkness…

And show even the faithless that there is hope in the world…

If only you believe.

The ride back to the station is passed in total silence, all three men deliberately oblivious to the three pairs red-rimmed and bloodshot eyes shared between them. When they arrive back at Station 51, they find that Mike, Marco and Cap have returned from the robbery scene scene as well and are watching the tail end of It's A Wonderful Life on tv, a half-eaten bowl of popcorn resting on a nearby empty chair.

"How's little Angel doing?" Cap asks as Mike and Marco train expectant gazes on their three compatriots.

Chet, Brice and Roy trade uneasy looks before Roy answers. "She's in critical condition, Cap," he says quietly, going over to the refrigerator and opening it, reaching for the carton of milk, wishing like hell it were a bottle of beer instead. "She crashed on us in the rig on the way in. They were able to bring her back in the ER and rushed her up to emergency surgery to try to repair the damage and get the bullet out, but her chances of survival are pretty slim to none."

Cap clucks his tongue, shaking his head in sympathy. "Poor kid, she was such a sweet little thing. We've been praying for her to make it ever since we got back." Then all six men fall silent as they think once more of the wee little girl in the angel costume and what the fates may befall her.

After a moment, Chet gestures to the television set. "Hey, it's comin' up on my favorite part," he says, and they turn to look at the television screen as little ZuZu Bailey utters her classic line when the bell on the Bailey tree begins to ring…"Look, Daddy! Teacher says every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings!"

And as if right on cue, the black telephone on the wall next to Roy begins to ring shrilly and all six men trade wide-eyed looks of breath-sucked startlement…oh God no, is this the sign that Angel got her wings?...then Roy picks up the receiver. "Station 51, Roy DeSoto speaking," he says a bit hesitantly, then listening, he nods, even though the caller on the other end of the line cannot see him. "Yeah, okay, Dix, thanks for letting us know." He hangs the receiver up then, his hand lingering just a moment, his expression unreadable.

"Well?" Cap demands expectantly. "What was that all about?"

Roy fidgets, the forgotten milk carton still in his hand, the others waiting with bated breath for his response…

And then his face breaks into a great big grin. "That was Dix," he says happily. "She was calling to let us know that Angel made it through the surgery okay, they were able to get the bleeding stopped and pull the bullet out. They don't think there's going to be any lasting damage, that she should recover completely."

There are smiles all around at his news, even on Brice's usually stony face. "It's a Christmas Eve miracle!" Chet yelps gleefully, slapping Brice on the back, making him wince a bit, then Chet breaks into song, singing "Hark The Herald, Angels Sing" out of sheer joy, not to mention well out-of-tune…and after a moment, the other five join in, feeling utterly, utterly ridiculous, but incredibly joyful that little Angel is going to make it…

For yes, even for those with jaded hearts and little faith, miracles really do happen…

All you have to do is just BELIEVE.

MERRY CHRISTMAS AND HAPPY NEW YEAR, EVERYONE!