Chapter Text
Disclaimer: The E! characters do not belong to me. They have been borrowed strictly for fun and not for fortune.
"Copped Canteens and Keeled-Over Wookies"
By Ross
Chapter One
The moment his partner appeared, LA County Firefighter/Paramedic Roy DeSoto knew they were gonna be in for a real interesting shift.
John Gage came strolling into the locker room of Station 51 in his street clothes. Well, actually, since Johnny had dressed for the hundred-plus degree weather they were experiencing, beach clothes would probably have been a more apropos description.
He was wearing tire-tread sandals, a pair of white shorts, really dark shades and a white muscle-shirt, upon the front of which was plastered-in big, bold, bright-red, flaming letters:
FIREMEN ARE ALWAYS IN HEAT
"Hey, Johnny!" DeSoto called out, suppressing a smile all the while.
Gage returned the greeting. "Hey, Roy!" The cooly-dressed paramedic opened his locker and reluctantly began pulling out various articles of clothing. "Hot black socks...hot black shoes...hot navy-blue slacks," he stopped and held up the only not-so-hot piece of his entire uniform-his pale-blue, short-sleeved shirt. "Postal workers get to wear shorts. Why can't the department issue us some shorts?"
Firefighter Chet Kelly entered the room just then saw the shirt and groaned in mental anguish. "Gage, your taste in clothes has just hit an all-time tacky low!"
"You're just jealous cuz you could never pull it off," John shot back.
"I wouldn't have to pull it off," Kelly quickly determined. "Cuz' I'd never pull it on, in the first place!" His eyes sparkled, as he was rewarded with a sneer. "That is so incredibly tacky! Go on, Roy! Tell 'im...and be honest."
Roy studied the article of clothing in question. He wasn't sure if his partner was trying to make a fashion statement, or a long-range weather forecast. "If it's just a fashion statement, it's kind a' cute. But if it's the long-range weather forecast, I hate it!"
"Tacky!" Chet repeated.
"Tacky on you, maybe! On me, it's cool. You gotta cop an attitude when you wear a shirt like this. You gotta think it's cool. I think it's cool. So, it's cool. You think it's tacky, so on you it would look tacky."
"Leave it to Gage to go around advertising how horny he is-on the front of his chest!" Kelly told their two missing shift-mates, as they came stepping into the room. Then he turned back to his mark and exclaimed, "Have you no shame? I suppose if they made a shirt that said: HUNK A' HUNK A' BURNIN' LOVE you'd wear that, too!"
"I actually have a shirt like that at home," John teased. "I would have worn it today, but it's in the wash."
The guys snickered.
"Anyways, I didn't pick it out," the shirt's wearer assured him. "I got it from Cheryl. She thought it looked sexy."
"A tacky gift from an old girlfriend," Kelly sadly summed up.
"Sexy!"
"Tacky!"
"Sexy!"
"Tacky!"
"Sexy!"
"Eh-hem!"
The sound of their Captain, clearing his throat, put an immediate end to the argument.
John slowly turned around. Sure enough! Their boss was standing right there behind him.
Hank Stanley lifted Gage's shades up and then stared down at his shirt. "Hate to put a halt to such a stimulating conversation, gentlemen, but it's almost time for Roll."
"Right, Cap," John rather sheepishly acknowledged.
Their Commander spun quickly on his heels and then headed for the garage, before the grin he'd been suppressing could escape.
The silenced paramedic swung back around and finished stripping.
"Tacky!" Kelly whispered, getting in one last dig before exiting the room himself.
Gage aimed an irritated glare in the disappearing Irishman's direction. "On you-ou!"
Roy closed his locker and sighed.
Yes, sir! It was going to be an interesting shift, all right.
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Three exhausting hours-and one bad brushfire-later...51's crew climbed stiffly down from their trucks and staggered into the Station's rec room.
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Kelly saw Gage limping over to the sofa. "THEY say, you're supposed to let sleeping dogs lie."
"Yeah...well...THEY didn't just spend the entire morning on their feet. Move, Henry!" John warned the snoozing pooch. "Or you're going to be fallen upon."
To everyone's amazement, the lifeless Basset hound got up and made some room for him.
Gage gave the mutt a grateful pat on the head and then collapsed onto the vacated cushion. "Oh, man!" he groaned, reaching for the floor. "I feel like I just stomped every square inch of that fire out with my feet!"
Chet sank into a chair directly across from the complainer. "It looks like you used your face," he teased, upon spying the paramedic's soot-besmudged visage.
John ignored the taunt. "Ahhh! To be home right now...in my air-conditioned apartment...soaking my sore feet."
"Why don't you go try soaking your head, instead. I'm not feeding anyone who doesn't wash," Kelly threatened.
Gage wiped some of the soot and sweat from his forehead. "I'm not hungry, anyways!" he quickly came back. "I mean, who can eat in this heat? You hungry, Marco?"
Marco dropped onto a chair at the dining table and shook his head no.
"Mike?"
Stoker plopped down beside Lopez. "I was...a little...'til I heard who was cooking."
Snickers ensued.
"Roy?"
"Not particularly."
The surveyor turned back to Kelly. "See? No appetites!"
Chet looked pleased. "Great! That means I won't have to stand in front of a hot stove."
Their boss entered the room just then, looking very beat. "Kelly, get some grub on!" he ordered. "The rest of you, go get cleaned up! Get a move on, gentlemen! Before we get another call. And, don't forget to take your salt tablets!" he added, on his way to his air-conditioned office.
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Fifteen minutes later, the firemen were seated-quietly-around the dinner table, sweating...and staring disinterestedly down at their soup and sandwiches.
Their Commander tried to set a good example by eating his lunch, but, after just a few mouthfuls, he stopped chewing and made a face. "I have an idea," he told his men. "Why don't we each eat whatever we feel like whenever we feel like it, and forget about formal dining? At least, until this heat breaks."
His men voiced their unanimous approval and the table was quickly cleared of the soup and sandwiches.
"Okay. Who's hungry for what?" their Captain inquired.
The men exchanged glances, but no one deigned to reply.
Stanley frowned. "I can see this isn't going to work. I want everyone to think of something they could probably get down-and keep down. We have to eat to keep up our strength." He turned to their cook. "Chet?"
Kelly wiped the perspiration from his forehead. "I think I'll go on a liquid diet. Chocolate malts...and ice water."
The rest of the guys agreed with Chet's choices.
Their captain looked pleased. "Great! We can stop at one of those fast food joints next time out." He turned to his engineer. "Mike, take their orders and their money." He slid his wallet out, removed a dollar bill and tossed it to their accountant. "Chocolate," he ordered.
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One car fire and two heatstroke victims later, John was seated on the bench in front of his locker, pulling the little cubbyhole's entire contents out onto the floor. He paused in his pillaging and held up a shoe. "So, that's where you've been!"
Stoker strolled into the locker room, saw Gage talking to his shoe, and shot him a strange stare.
John saw the look and showed him the shoe. "I've been looking for this thing for over a week!"
Mike caught sight of the mess on the floor. "Johnny! What are you doing? What if we got an inspection right now?"
Gage dropped the shoe and went back to rummaging in his locker. "I'm looking for my canteen."
The engineer exhaled an annoyed gasp. "What on earth do you need that for?"
"I'm gonna carry ice water around with me so I won't dehydrate," the paramedic shrewdly confided.
Stoker placed his hands on his hips and stood there, shaking his head. "This isn't Death Valley, you know. We do have running water here, in Los Angeles Coun-"
"-Ah-hah! I found it!" John declared. He pulled on a canvas strap and a cloth-covered canteen appeared. He opened the thing and held it up to the light. "Better sanitize it," he determined, upon inspecting the container's insides. "Uhhh, Mike, could you throw this stuff back in for me?" he wondered and rose to his feet.
The engineer's jaw dropped.
"Thanks!" Gage told him and started heading for the garage. "I owe yah one!"
Stoker stared down at the disaster for a few moments. Then his shoulders sagged in defeat and he-begrudgingly-began cleaning things up.
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A short time later...Roy and Marco were seated at the dining table, sipping ice water.
Chet came sauntering into the room, saw something cooking on the stove, and walked over to check it out. He stared down into the boiling water and did a beautiful double take. Then he grabbed a fork and began spearing at the canvas strap. "I know the Cap said we could eat whatever we felt like eating," he pulled the steaming container out of the saucepan and stared at it, "but who can stomach a canteen casserole?"
Roy and Marco grinned.
"What are you doing?" Gage irritatedly inquired, upon entering the room. "It has to boil for ten minutes!" He snatched the fork from Chet and lowered the canteen back into the bubbling water.
Kelly rolled his eyes. "I should've known it was you. You're responsible for the vast majority of strange things that go on around here."
"What's so strange about sterilizing something?"
"Not just something," Kelly corrected. "You're standing there-cooking a canteen! Man! Most people would find that pretty strange."
"Oh yeah? Well, I don't think it's so strange."
"Most normal people would think that it was strange. Of course it's not gonna appear strange to a strange person. To a strange person, strange things like this are bound to appear normal. Cuz' they're just naturally strange, to begin with." The Irishman's eyes got that devious sparkle to them again. Then he shrank down and started slinking away.
Roy and Marco looked highly amused.
John just stood there in front of the stove, looking thoughtful. He held his hand up and opened his mouth to speak, but then stopped, finding it impossible to argue with Kelly's logic.
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Five minutes later, the entire engine crew gathered around the kitchen table to watch Gage fill his canteen.
John ignored them-and their wisecracks. First, he smashed some ice cubes and dropped the crushed ice into the canteen. Next, he took a pitcher of ice water from the fridge and carefully filled the container-right to the brim. He put the cap, and the cloth cover, back on and then stepped over to the sink. Lastly, he held the canteen under the faucet and turned the water on.
Chet nudged Marco. "Why's he doing that?"
Lopez shrugged. "Must be an old Indian trick."
"Actually," Stoker began, assuming his best lecture stance, "I believe the principal behind it is to wet the cloth case. Then, as the water evaporates, it will help to keep the canteen cool."
His shift-mates were duly impressed.
"I saw an old cowboy do it in a Western once," the engineer explained with a rather wry grin.
Gage slipped the canvas strap over his shoulder-just in time!
The Station's alarm sounded.
"Squad 51..."
The paramedics started heading for the garage.
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"Unknown type rescue...Meet the Coast Guard helicopter at the county airfield...Lot ten...Lot one-zero...Time Out: 14:25."
"Squad 51, KMG-365," their Captain acknowledged and then passed the paramedic team their copy of the call slip.
DeSoto pulled out onto the street in front of the Station, lights flashing and siren blaring.
"If we have to work in this heat," his partner spoke up over the siren, "I'm glad it's with the Coast Guard."
"I thought you hated Coast Guard calls? Because we usually end up in the ocean...and the saltwater ruins your shoes."
"Yeah, but right now, I'd gladly sacrifice a pair of shoes...for a refreshing dip in the ocean."
Roy was forced to smile...and to agree!
TBC