Spoilers: Nothing specific.
Disclaimer: Emergency isn't mine, but I'd really like to keep Johnny and Roy. I don't think anyone will let me, though. *pouts* ;)
A/N: As always, I thank my Lord Jesus Christ for his incredible mercy and grace and his many blessings. I would be utterly lost without him.
I hope you enjoy this, and please let me know what you think!
Junior
John Gage sat at a table, one hand propping up his chin, the other picking morosely at the label on the bottle of beer in front of him.
It wasn't a bad beer, though. It wasn't even a bad bar.
Eddie's, as it was called, was a little hole-in-the-wall place that had managed to find a home in the largely industrial neighborhood surrounding Station 51. It had a lived-in sort of feel, with peeling red and yellow paint on the walls, battered tables and chairs, a well-used pool table, and a Jukebox from the 1950s. Popular with the factory workers in the area, it had obviously stood the test of time, and was known for having good beer, cheap prices, and a decent menu.
Chet had, of course, extolled all of these virtues when he'd invited Johnny and Roy to join him at Eddie's after their last shift.
"It's great," he'd insisted. "You'll like it."
And okay, sure, so Chet hadn't been lying about that. The bar had just the right sort of atmosphere for a good time, and was filled with a happy din, a mix of joyful voices, laughter, and the clinking of glasses.
The only problem was that Johnny just wasn't in the mood to enjoy it. (He knew he shouldn't have let Chet talk him into going - he should never let Chet talk him into anything, really, just on principle.)
Johnny bit back a sigh and picked up the beer bottle, taking a drink. The three of them had claimed one of the tables up front, but Roy had wandered over to the Jukebox a few minutes ago, curious about the selection they had, so that left Johnny alone with Chet. The Irishman had been talking since then, though Johnny had to admit that he just wasn't paying attention.
"…and I'm telling you, acupuncture really does have a lot of great benefits. My neighbor, Ted, tried it last week, and it got rid of his back pain in just one session! I've got an appointment in a couple days. I know you have a thing about needles, Gage, but maybe you should come with me. I'm sure they could work you in."
"Uh-huh," Johnny said absently.
Chet's eyes narrowed. "Okay, Gage, that's it. You just agreed to acupuncture, so now I know something's up. What's with you? You've been moping since before we left the station."
"I'm not moping."
"Well, whatever you wanna call it, you're starting to resemble Henry. Just look at those big, sad eyes and drooping jowls."
Johnny glared, but Chet only smirked in response.
"Alright, fine," Johnny admitted grudgingly. "Something is bothering me. Happy?"
"Thrilled," Chet deadpanned. "So, what gives?"
Johnny didn't answer right away. He wasn't sure that he should answer at all, actually, because Chet was, well…Chet, and he was bound to use this against him sooner or later. Still, a second opinion couldn't hurt, and even Chet would have to back him up on this one, right?
"Okay," Johnny said at last. "You're never gonna believe this, but here it goes. You know that new nurse at Rampart? Vanessa?"
Chet thought for a moment then nodded. "Haven't seen her myself, but I hear she's really somethin'."
"Oh, she is! She really is. Long brown hair, green eyes, legs that go on for miles…"
Chet grinned. "Mm, nice."
"Very," Johnny agreed. "Well, I've been talking to her for the last few days, you know, trying to find just the right moment to ask her out, and-"
"And, what, she turned you down? Shouldn't you be used to that by now?"
Johnny gave him a dirty look. "Do you want to hear this or not?"
"Okay, okay," Chet placated. He pressed a hand to his chest in mock solemnity. "I apologize. Please continue."
Johnny just rolled his eyes.
"Anyway, we were talking today, and she mentioned that new restaurant downtown. I thought, 'Great, this is it!' and I asked her if she'd like to have dinner with me sometime. But you know what she said? She said I was too young for her!"
Chet made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. "Did you tell her how old you actually are?"
"Yes!"
"And?"
"She thought I was lying! Can you believe that?"
Chet's mustache twitched. "Actually, yeah, I can. I totally, absolutely can."
If looks could kill, Chet Kelly would have been a dead man.
"Gage," Chet added, his voice brimming with mirth, "I hate to break it to you, but I thought you were a boot straight out of high school when we first met."
"Yeah, right."
"I'm serious! When they told me you'd been a rescue man for three years already, I was sure they had their facts mixed up. You've just got one of those faces."
"One of what faces?" Roy asked, his voice drifting over Johnny's shoulder.
"Chet thinks I look young," he explained as Roy retook his seat at the table.
"You do!" the Irishman insisted.
"Tell him he's wrong, Roy."
Silence answered him, and Johnny narrowed his eyes, turning to look directly at his partner.
"Roy?" he pressed.
The other paramedic grimaced and reached up to rub the back of his neck. "Well…" he hedged.
"Well what?"
Roy sighed and let his hand drop, looking vaguely apologetic. "You've gotta admit, Junior, you do look young for your age. I'd think you were younger than you are if I didn't know better."
Johnny opened his mouth to argue, then promptly closed it again, the words dying mid-sputter.
He'd never been mistaken for being older than he was, so there wasn't any example he could point to and say, "See? Not everybody thinks of me that way." And sure, maybe he'd used his looks to date slightly younger women a time or two - nothing crazy, of course, and not very often. There had just been a couple instances where he'd had a few more years on a beautiful woman than he'd wanted to admit (he would have told them the truth about his age on the second date…if there had been a second date).
Johnny's shoulders slumped. "Okay," he conceded. "So maybe I do look a little bit younger than my age…but not that much! I mean, there's no way anyone in their right mind would ever think that I'm younger than say, twenty-five."
Chet smirked, leaning back in his chair and shaking his head. "You, my friend, are in denial."
"I am not! I'm right and you know it."
"I think you have that backwards, there, pal," Chet retorted. "We're right and you just don't want to admit it."
Johnny looked at Roy again, hoping for a little back-up this time, but his partner had suddenly become fascinated with the bottle in front of him, giving it the sort of scrutiny he usually reserved for the accident victims they treated.
Johnny huffed and reached for his own beer, snatching it off the table with little more force than necessary. He took a drink, trying to find a suitable comeback for Chet, but nothing he thought of seemed good enough. When he finally did have something that would put the smug Irishman back in his place, he saw a movement out if the corner of his eye and realized that one of the waitresses was headed their way.
Her curly hair was in a messy ponytail, and she wore a faded white apron over a figure-fitting blue t-shirt and pair of red bell-bottoms.
She smiled as she reached them.
"How are you boys doing?" she asked. "Can I get you anything else?"
"We're fine, thanks. And no, not right now," Roy answered for everyone.
"You sure?" the waitress asked again, giving them each another once-over.
Her eyes lingered on Johnny for a moment longer than the others, her gaze switching from his face to the bottle he held, and her smile dimmed a bit.
"Honey," she said, "I hate to ask, but can I see some I.D.?"
Chet snickered, and even Roy's lips were turning up at the corners as he tried and failed to hold off a grin. Johnny glared at them both, then gritting his teeth, he reached into his back pocket and took out his wallet.
"Not one word, Chet," he growled, handing the waitress his driver's license. "Not one word."
Fin
A/N: In the U.S., the legal drinking age was raised to 21 nation-wide in 1984. But, before that, drinking ages varied state to state. Most set the limit at 18 because that was the age you needed to be to qualify for the draft, or to vote. However, the legal drinking age in California was already 21 decades before the National Minimum Drinking Age Act was passed. So, this sort of thing happening to Johnny in 1976/1977 didn't seem like too much of a stretch to me. (Even as young as Johnny looks, I'm not sure if anyone would have thought he was under 18 by that point, lol.)
Thanks again for reading, and I hope that you enjoyed it! Please let me know what you think.
Take care and God bless!
Ani-maniac494 :)