In Flames // 9-1-1 Fox (seasons 1-4)

forty-three

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

Mariana adjusted just slightly in her chair, clenching and unclenching her jaw as the polyester of her dress uniform brushed against her skin. She sat stoically in the seat, her brown eyes remaining fixated on the smarmy man seated diagonally from her. The person sitting directly across from her kept staring at her but she refused to look at him.

"Miss Ramirez, this is just a reminder that you are not in any trouble. This is simply a discussion and inquiry into Captain Nash's unfair firing of Mr Buckley," Chase Mackey informed her. "We'll just be asking you a few questions."

She simply tilted her head and glared at him, waiting for him to continue. The tight bun she wore at the nape of her neck added to the severity of her features coupled with her "nurse glare" revealed that the infamous "Brass Breaker" wasn't truly gone. The lawyer cleared his throat uncomfortably and began the questioning.

"Can you please state your name and position within the firehouse and your experience?" Mackey asked.

"Mariana Belicia Ramirez. Engineer, paramedic, ER nurse." Clipped and short.

"Miss Ramirez, can you please tell us your medical history since serving with the 118?"

"The full thing? Because I got a papercut yesterday that I think you would love hearing about," she drawled.

"Those that required hospital visits, please."

"A few smoke inhalations here and there. Comes with the job. I was shot two years ago. I was involved in the same truck bombing as Mr. Buckley."

"And when were you able to come back from those last two incidents?"

"Three months after the shooting. Four months after the bombing. I was recently reinstated."

"And you're already working both jobs again, I see. Now, Mariana, how often do you see a therapist?"

"May I ask for relevance here?"

"Well after the death of your parents, years of neglect and abuse at the hands of foster care and your uncle, the death of your brother, and the shooting, you started to see a therapist, right? How often do you see them?"

Her fingers curled around the pen in her hand tightly and Mariana felt her breathing pick up just slightly. Her eyes narrowed and her lips pulled back into a sneer. "I don't see a therapist anymore."

"No? Not even after bombing? The tsunami? You were in the tsunami as well, yes?"

"Yes. I was. I'm fine."

"So you would willingly state and attest that you were in the right state of mind to help Mr. Buckley the night of his embolism?"

"Maybe we should stop," Buck said quietly.

"What are you implying?" Mariana ignored him.

"I'm asking, Miss Ramirez, if you are fully capable of taking care of patients before you have a medical malpractice suit. A racing addict with PTSD could easily slip up in the field."

The pen in her hand snapped, splattering red ink across her skin and the table. Mariana's breathing was ragged and heavy as she threw the pen down, blinking rapidly as the red ink stained her fingers and looked a hell of a lot like blood.

"Listen, I get that you are a spineless, desperate, miserable man who just wants money. You weren't there when that truck exploded or when the wave hit or when the bullets hit. You don't know what it's like.

You don't know what it's like to be next to your best friend, terrified that they're going to die before help can get to you because a crazy fucking kid has a bomb strapped to himself above you. Buck is like my brother and the last thing I want to do is have to hold my brother again and watch him bleed out because guess what? If Buck got injured on a call and started bleeding out, it's up to me to save him. I held Luis as he died, I can't do it again and if Buck doesn't realize that, fine. But I can't. I just can't. I love my brother and the last thing I want to see is him dead in the middle of a building because I couldn't save him.