Believe it or not, I started writing this weeks before the first "Nuisance"-inspired stories written by Lisa O’Brien were posted on CJ Smith’s page, so I’m not stealing the idea - honest!

This story’s not completely original; it takes place during the time frame of "The Nuisance" and incorporates some scenes from that episode, which was written by Robert Hamilton. It was in no way my intention to plagiarize Mr. Hamilton’s work in writing this story.

Finally, and there’s no Johnny in this story (sorry!). How could I write a spin-off of "The Nuisance" without including Johnny??? Read it and find out. J

THE SQUARE PEG

By Shawn Quandt 

Craig rolled over and glanced at the clock radio. Even without his glasses, he could read the large red digital display. Six twenty-nine. The alarm would be going off in a minute, but he decided not to wait for it. He moved the switch from alarm to off and got out of bed.

On his way to the bathroom, he grabbed his glasses from the dresser, catching sight of his reflection as he hooked the wire rims behind his ears.

These used to make me look like John Lennon, he thought to himself. Now they make me look like John Denver.

He sighed heavily as he started to shave. There were days he wished that he was permanently assigned to a station, and today was one of them. It was ludicrous, but ever since he learned that he’d be temporarily replacing John Gage at Station 51, he’d had butterflies in his stomach.

From the first day of his paramedic training, he’d been hearing all about the team of Gage and DeSoto. To hear some of the instructors talk, you’d think the pair were the High Exalted Patron Saints of Paramedicine. "The camaraderie and rapport between these two partners is something that every paramedic team should strive for. If you’re fortunate enough to be assigned to Gage and DeSoto during your field training…"

"Ouch!" He flinched as the Norelco pulled one of his hairs. Lift-and-cut system, my ass! More like the lift-and-lift system.

It wasn’t that working with DeSoto intimidated him, far from it. Sure, DeSoto was one of the "original six", but he wasn’t a god. Every paramedic in the field had gone through the same training he and Gage had.

Gage.

He would inevitably be compared to him at some point during his tenure at 51’s, and that’s what bothered him. As far as their skills and knowledge went, he could easily match Gage stride for stride. But they were different men with different personalities and, no doubt, different approaches to their work. DeSoto would just have to live with that.

*******

"…might be a little peculiar, but he’s certified, so he’s capable."

Craig only caught the tail end of the statement, but he knew it was about him. He’d grown used to hearing himself described with such adjectives. At least DeSoto seemed to be defending him, if somewhat backwardly.

"Listen to Roy," said an unfamiliar but authoritative voice. "Be nice."

He took a deep breath, squared himself and rapped on the open rec room door.

"Morning," he said with a slight nod and a slighter smile. "I’m Brice." He could feel the stare of five pairs of eyes as the captain approached him.

"Yeah… yeah. Welcome to 51’s. I’m Captain Stanley," he introduced himself and shook Craig’s hand. "How ya doin’?"

"I’m Roy DeSoto." The paramedic’s smile was almost sincere. "Nice to see you again."

"Ah, cardiology meeting last winter," Craig remembered, returning his handshake. "November 4."

"What?" A look of puzzlement came over DeSoto’s face.

"That’s the last time we met," he explained. "The meeting was November 4."

There was silence in the room. It only lasted for a fraction of a second, but it seemed much longer until the captain spoke again.

"Well, okay... This is Marco Lopez." He motioned toward one of the crew.

"Lopez," Craig repeated, nodding politely.

"Chet Kelly," the captain continued, indicating a stocky man with an Avery Schreiber moustache.

"Kelly."

"And our engineer, Mike Stoker."

"Stoker."

"Well, Craig," DeSoto began, "you want to…?"

"Brice," he corrected. "Brice, not Craig. My rule is last names only. First names can be very confusing in a crisis situation," he explained. "I believe in being totally prepared as a firefighter."

There were stifled smirks and half-rolled eyes all around. He’d grown used to reactions like that, too.

"Yeah… great," Roy managed. He then took a step toward the counter. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"Well, actually, no. I’d like to store this," Craig said, indicating his bag, "and then check out the squad." The words sounded terse, even to him. The stares became more intense. "We could go out on a run at any minute," he offered in explanation.

"Well, the squad’s pretty standard," DeSoto replied with an uncomfortable chuckle.

"Well, everybody has their own way of doing things," Craig said, softening slightly and further explaining his motive. "I just don’t want to be confused in a moment of crisis."

Roy was about to say something else, but Captain Stanley interrupted him before he had the chance.

"Roy, show Brice a locker, then show him the squad." He turned to Craig. "And then after that we’re going to have a drill on some new ladder techniques you might enjoy."

DeSoto slowly exited the room, motioning for Craig to follow him.

*******

"DeSoto, there’s a filling station up ahead. I think we should stop."

The nearly automatic response, which came from the daddy corner of Roy’s brain, was, "You should’ve thought of that before we left the station." Had Johnny been the one to make the suggestion, he wouldn’t have hesitated to use that retort, but somehow he didn’t think Brice would appreciate it nearly as much.

"Why?" he asked instead.

"We’ve got a minute. It wouldn’t hurt to check the oil."

"Brice, we checked it once already today. Remember?"

"Of course I do. But as long as we’ve got the time, I think we should check it again."

Please don’t say it, Roy thought.

"You can never be too careful," Brice said, as if on cue.

So much for saying "please".

"You never can be too careful." Roy had been constantly hammered with the phrase since the beginning of last shift. Maybe Brice should start giving lectures on the grade school circuit, seeing as he was such an authority. And now kids, here he is… the Friendly Fireman!

Nah, that wouldn’t work, Roy thought. He’d probably get pelted with gumballs the whole time. A smirk came to his face at the thought. Gee, maybe I can get Brice to lecture at Chris and Jennifer’s school…?

"DeSoto?" Brice’s voice interrupted his daydream.

"Hmm?"

"Aren’t we going to stop?"

"Brice, I really don’t…" The rest of the thought was lost in a frustrated sigh.

Just do it. If you don’t, you’ll be hearing about it for the rest of the shift. Besides, we may just have burned a quart in the two hours since we checked it last. You never can be too careful!

Roy pulled the squad into the small, potholed parking lot, grabbed the HT off the seat, and headed into the station. He wouldn’t dream of intruding on Brice’s little dipstick party; besides, he needed some junk food. It seemed that not having Johnny around was doing the strangest things to his appetite. Gage was always munching on some preservative-filled delicacy, Hostess something-or-others being the current favorite. Roy usually observed rather than partook; after all, not all paramedics had the metabolism of a hummingbird. But now that Johnny was gone and the goodie supply line had been cut, he was finding that his hunger – he hesitated to call it a craving – for junk food had escalated considerably. Joanne, who found the situation extremely amusing, said that it was nothing more than stress. Whatever it was, Roy needed a Mounds bar; and fast.

A few moments later, a somewhat more content Roy DeSoto walked out of the station, whistling the tune of "sometimes you feel like a nut" as he approached the squad.

*******

As he and DeSoto entered Rampart, Craig noticed that his partner’s expression strongly resembled that of a bee sting victim. He seemed to wear that expression a lot; or at least, in the one-plus shifts they had thus far worked together.

"I think I’ll stop up and see Johnny for a minute," DeSoto said as they neared the base station. Craig nodded.

"I’ll take care of the supplies."

Craig watched him disappear into the elevator, fairly certain that John Gage’s ear would be bent considerably over the course of the next several minutes. As to how the session would affect DeSoto’s disposition, he couldn’t hazard a guess. On the one hand, it could improve after he’d vented his obvious frustrations to Gage. On the other hand, it could worsen after he’d seen his real partner and been reminded of how much he missed working with him.

Craig had done everything he could to get along with DeSoto and still maintain his professionalism and identity; but it seemed that the more he tried, the more he rubbed him the wrong way. Whenever he made a suggestion, he was met with a look that silently said, that’s not the way Johnny does it.

Well, damn it, DeSoto, I’m not Gage!

"Craig?"

He didn’t need to look up to see who had interrupted his thoughts. The only person he knew in a professional capacity that called him Craig was Dixie McCall.

"Miss McCall," he replied politely.

"Everything alright?" she asked, her eyebrows slightly raised.

"Fine."

"We haven’t seen too much of you lately."

"I’ve been pulling shifts on the other side of the county," he explained. "Most of the runs over there go to St. Francis."

"Well, I’ve missed you," she said warmly. "You know, you’re the only paramedic around here who doesn’t clutter up my base station with half-empty coffee cups."

"Thanks, Miss McCall," he said, displaying a genuine smile.

"Where’s Roy?" she asked, looking around. Craig’s expression changed subtly.

"He’s visiting Gage." His voice had an edge to it that he didn’t like hearing, and which the nurse detected immediately.

"Mm," she replied with a nod.

"How, uh…" He cleared his throat slightly. "How is he?"

"Johnny? He’s doing well, but it’ll be a while before he’s back on the job." She was relieved to see Craig’s expression soften a little.

"Good."

Good?? What are you saying?

"Uh, I mean, good that he’s doing so well," he quickly elaborated.

"I knew what you meant," she said teasingly. "Are you going to be partnered with Roy the whole time Johnny’s out?"

"It looks that way."

"That must be some kind of a relief for you."

"Relief?" he asked, somewhat confused.

"Having a home for more than one shift at a stretch, I mean."

"It’s not my home; it’s Gage’s."

What are you doing? he mentally chastised himself. If you’ve got problems with DeSoto, you don’t need to whine to Miss McCall about them.

"Aren’t you and Roy getting along?" Her tone was casual, but the question was serious.

"Oh, DeSoto and I get along just fine," he said evenly. "Now that I’ve got things straightened out over there."

"What things?" she asked, surprised.

"The drug box, for one. You wouldn’t believe the way those two—" He stopped, trying to check his swing. Judging by the look on Miss McCall’s face, he wasn’t entirely successful.

"Oh, speaking of drugs," he quickly segued, "I’ve got a list of supplies here…"

She took the list from him and started gathering the supplies.

"Craig," she began, "Roy and Johnny have worked together for a long time. It’s not you that Roy’s having trouble adjusting to. I’m sure he’d have a little trouble with anybody who substituted for Johnny."

He stood in silence as she boxed the supplies. He knew she was trying to make him feel better, but he knew Craig Brice a lot better than she did; the proverbial square peg in a round hole. And it seemed that no hole he’d tried to fit into was rounder than the one in Squad 51.

"I’ll, uh… I’ll try to keep that in mind," he finally said. He took the box from the counter and glanced at her. "When DeSoto comes down, would you tell him that I’m waiting in the squad?"

"Sure," she said with a reassuring smile.

"Thanks, Miss McCall." …for everything, he silently added.

"Anytime, Craig."

*******

As Roy followed the ambulance to Rampart, he found himself becoming more and more upset. He couldn’t get the image of Mr. Brightweiser, a look of complete despair on his face, out of his mind. He was still having trouble believing the scene that had taken place at the man’s house only a few minutes before.

"Brice must’ve been absent the day they covered compassion in training." He spoke aloud, though he was alone in the squad. "There are ways to tell a victim that they may be having a heart attack, but saying ‘you may be having a heart attack’ isn’t one of them! Let him think it’s indigestion, at least until he’s ready to hear that it may be something more. Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable!"

Talking about it was just getting him more upset, so he stopped. It took some doing, but by the time he pulled into Rampart, he was ninety-five percent under control. A quick cup of coffee in the doctors’ lounge – away from Brice – should bring him back up to one hundred.

*******

Craig sat in the passenger seat of the squad, replacing the compartment key on the ring. He could tell that DeSoto had something on his mind – the sting expression had graduated to a full-blown grimace. He’d heard about DeSoto’s famous lectures and wondered if he was about to be on the receiving end of one.

He didn’t have to wonder for long.

"Brice," he began, "I think we should talk about what happened at that man’s house."

"Oh? Seemed like a pretty routine heart attack to me." Although it wasn’t his intention, he ended up sounding somewhere between nonchalant and indifferent.

"Nothing’s routine," DeSoto replied curtly. "These aren’t medical events; they’re people. We’re supposed to try and help them."

Craig looked at him, not entirely surprised to see his shoulders squared, as if he were expecting an argument.

"Meaning?" he asked.

"Meaning you should’ve never said the words ‘heart attack’ to that man," he replied. "As soon as you did, his condition went right down the hill."

"He asked me a question and I answered it," Craig said. He could see where DeSoto was going with this, and he didn’t like it. It wasn’t his fault the man had a heart condition; nor was it his fault that the man couldn’t take the news. "My answer was medically correct," he added.

"Medicine is people. We’re not supposed to panic them. Part of our care is to try and help them."

Helping them is one thing, holding their hand is another.

"It’s obvious that we have a different approach," he said calmly, "and I’m sure mine’s right."

"Well I could give you twelve reasons why it’s wrong, but I’m gonna give you just one," DeSoto said, a definite authoritative slant to his voice.

Here it comes, Craig thought.

"I’m the senior member here," he continued, pointing to himself for emphasis, "and as long as I am, we’re gonna do things my way."

Pulling rank on me, huh? Okay…

"Well, if you want to put it that way, I don’t see any point in discussing it further." He began scribbling on a piece of paper, wondering if DeSoto would drop the subject or not.

When he silently started the squad, Craig got his answer.

Hmm, he thought triumphantly. I actually out-calmed him!

*******

Roy, Brice and Marco pushed through the narrow doorway, leaning against each other to keep their balance as they wrestled with the heavy hose. They inched their way into the small room, forcing their enemy to retreat with each step they took. Clouds of thick smoke filled the area, bridging the visual contrast between the blackness of the room and the brightness of the flames. Each of the men was becoming fatigued; their arms, shoulders, backs and legs burned almost as intensely as the fire they were fighting. But they pressed on. They were here to do battle, and they wouldn’t leave until they’d won.

They didn’t anticipate that the fire’s victim, the aged building, would turn on them.

The rumble was low, inaudible above the roar of the inferno. It was the shudder, which caused each of the three men to lose some degree of their balance, that clued them to the fact that they had more to worry about than the flames before them. They looked at each other, fear evident in their eyes.

"What the hell was that?" Marco shouted.

Before Roy or Brice could answer, chunks of concrete began to drop from the ceiling. Almost immediately, the few stray pieces turned into an avalanche. The men had no time to react, no time to shield themselves from the escalating onslaught. They suddenly found themselves on the floor, debris fast burying them. Blackness steadily closed in on them as rubble piled up near the doorway, blocking all light from entering the room.

*******

Roy awoke face down atop a layer of jagged rubble, his head pounding mercilessly. He carefully sat up and looked around, trying to get his bearings; but he couldn’t see anything through the shroud of blackness. He couldn’t hear anything either, save the intermittent sounds of debris settling in various corners of the room.

Marco. Brice.

"Marco?" he called lightly. It was supposed to have been a yell, but he wasn’t able to put enough force behind it.

"Roy?"

"Yeah. You okay?" He turned in the direction of Marco’s voice, a wave of dizziness overtaking him as he did so.

"Oh, sure," he answered sarcastically. "If it weren’t for this slab of concrete on my leg, I’d be perfect."

"Don’t try to move, Lopez," Brice’s voice interrupted Roy before he could speak.

"Brice, are you hurt?" Roy asked.

"No," he replied. "What about you?"

"I may have a concussion, and, uh–" He stopped as a sharp pain pierced his side. "I think a couple of my ribs are broken, too."

"Other than that, you’re alright?"

"Yeah," Roy answered impatiently. "Other than that, I’m fine." He sighed and tried to get comfortable, or rather, less uncomfortable.

"Hey, guys," Marco began, "did we get the fire knocked out?"

"We must’ve," Roy replied. "I don’t see it."

"I don’t see anything," he remarked. "Can either of you reach your flashlight? Mine’s kinda buried right now."

Without thinking, Roy leaned over to one side so he could reach into his pocket. His ribs quickly reminded him that bending wasn’t such a good idea right now.

"Ahhh! Shit!"

"Roy?" Marco’s concerned voice came through the darkness. "You okay?"

"Yeah," he replied through gritted teeth, his hand on its target. "But my flashlight’s in about the same condition as this room."

"I’ve got mine," Brice said.

Of course you do, Roy thought uncharitably. You’re in one piece. Why wouldn’t your flashlight be?

Brice clicked his light on and pointed it at Roy, who squinted when the beam hit his face. Now perched on one elbow, he raised his other hand to shield his eyes from the light.

"Don’t worry about me, Brice," he said. "Check on Marco."

"Right," he replied, scanning toward the other firefighter.

Roy followed the light with his eyes, frowning when it settled on Marco. He hadn’t exaggerated much when he said that his leg was under a "slab" of concrete; the piece looked to be about two feet by three feet. His foot was visible, poking out from under one side of it. The foot seemed to be pointing in the right direction, though – maybe his leg wasn’t broken.

*******

Craig carefully made his way across the room, his mind racing. If there was one thing a paramedic hated, it was being stuck somewhere without any equipment. If Lopez’s leg was only broken, he might be able to rig some kind of splint, but if he was bleeding…

One step at a time, he thought to himself. See what you’ve got and then decide how to handle it.

"Lopez," he said as he reached him, "do you have any feeling in your foot?"

"It’s cold," he replied.

"Alright," Craig said, handing him the flashlight. "Can you shine this so I can see what I’m doing?"

"No problem, Pal."

Craig paused for a second, wondering if the term was spoken sincerely or sarcastically. It didn’t matter; either way, he needed to free Lopez. He stepped over and examined the slab. One edge of it was on the floor, but the majority of the weight was being borne by the firefighter’s leg.

"I think I can just tip this over so it lands on the other side of you," he said. "I can’t tell what kind of injuries you’ve got while it’s in place, but you’ll probably experience some pain once the pressure is off of your leg."

"Okay," he replied, nodding.

Craig placed his hands on the underside of the slab, his fingers curled around the edge and his forearms against his chest. He bent his knees and took a deep breath. The slab was heavy, but then, it was concrete. He was able to lift it a few inches, but he didn’t have the strength to tip it all the way over.

"Lopez," he said, his voice strained, "it’s too heavy. Can you pull yourself out?"

"Yeah… yeah."

Using his arms and his free leg, Lopez pulled himself clear of the slab. It took a couple of minutes – minutes that seemed to Craig like hours. His legs and arms were getting shaky, and he could feel sweat beading on his brow.

"Okay, Brice," he finally said. "Let her go."

Craig jumped clear and released the slab at the same time. It crashed to the floor with a loud thud, a cloud of dust rising up from the debris at the collision. He sat for a moment, catching his breath; then got up to check on Lopez.

"You were right," he said, rubbing his leg. "It hurts."

"Let’s see if it’s broken." Craig carefully but quickly ran his hands down the leg, allowing a grin to creep across his face as he finished.

"Well, Brice?" DeSoto’s voice came from across the room.

"No fractures," he replied, then turned back to Lopez. "I think the weight of the slab just cut off the blood flow to your foot. Are you getting any feeling back in it?"

"Yep," he said gingerly. "Needles and pins."

*******

Roy jumped when, almost simultaneously, three air tank alarms began to sound. He looked down to check his – as if he really needed to.

Shit. Five minutes. He closed his eyes and silenced the alarm. This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen. I’m not supposed to know how much time I have left; it’s supposed to be sudden, unexpected. Bam! Over.

The sound symbolizing the end of his life went through his mind until he thought he could actually hear it. Bam… bam… bam…

"DeSoto, Lopez, Brice? Can you hear me?" a muffled voice filtered into the room.

He opened his eyes.

"Did you guys hear that?" he asked, trying to sit up.

"Sounded like Cap," Marco replied.

He and Brice started to yell. Roy wanted to lend his voice too, but he couldn’t draw anything even resembling a deep breath. They continued yelling until the pounding came again.

"We’re gonna come in for ya," the captain shouted. There was a pause, then, "Okay, we’ve got a K-12 coming up here. We’re gonna cut you out, so just hang on a couple more minutes."

Roy could feel his pulse quicken. The image he had of Joanne wearing a black dress and standing over a fresh grave was replaced by one of her standing at his bedside in a semi-private room at Rampart.

A few scolding words followed by a kiss? he thought with a smile. I can handle that.

*******

The tank alarms started going off again, but their sound was masked by the buzzing of the K-12 against the metal door. Each of the men was finding breathing more and more difficult with each passing second, but they didn’t dare remove their masks; there was enough smoke and dust in the air to choke an elephant. Finally, the door broke free. Slivers of light filtered into the room, followed by a flood as the door was removed.

Marco hobbled out to freedom, pulling his mask off as soon as he was clear of the room. He slumped down on the floor, bowed his head and crossed himself. A man from another station, he didn’t know which one, offered him some air, which he gratefully accepted.

Roy crawled out next, ignoring the pain in his ribs. A crewman grabbed him and pulled him into the hall. He didn’t have the most gentle touch in the world, but the air he gave Roy from his bottle more than made up for the manhandling.

Brice walked out as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, removed his mask and rubbed his eyes.

"Everything’s under control, Cap," he reported.

*******

Craig reported for duty at Station 51 three days later, wondering who he’d be partnered with now that DeSoto was in the hospital. He changed and went to the rec room, surprised to find it deserted… except for one man.

The first thing he saw of him was his posterior sticking out of the refrigerator. When he emerged, he had a chicken leg in one hand and a bottle of milk in the other. Oblivious to Craig, he closed the door with his foot and began drinking straight from the bottle.

Craig immediately recognized the man, as much from his face as from his manner.

Bellingham?!

THE END