WHAT'S IN A NAME

by Beth Green

Roy and Johnny had just finished the morning inventory of the Squad's supplies when the tones sounded their first call of the day.

"Squad 51, pedestrian hit by car, 11421 Wade, 1-1-4-2-1 Wade, cross street Conner, time out 08:45."

The paramedics quickly restowed their gear, as Johnny commented, "It's a good thing Dwyer and Bauer were able to restock supplies before shift change. It looks like it's going to be one of those days." As Johnny secured the Squad's storage compartment, he found that he'd been talking to the air, as Roy was already seated behind the wheel of the Squad. Johnny joined him, grabbing the run slip from Captain Stanley while Roy put the Squad into gear.

Johnny was glad to see the familiar face of Officer Vince Howard as they arrived at the scene. He and another officer had their hands full, trying to control the large crowd, which had gathered, obscuring their view of the victim. Vince's firm voice cleared a path as he shouted, "Please! Everyone! Move back so the paramedics can do their job!"

Vince filled them in on the details of the accident, although it was pretty obvious what had happened. A large Lincoln sedan was on the sidewalk next to their victim, its front end resting on the remains of a mangled bicycle rack. Apparently the driver, a short, elderly woman currently being tended to by another officer, lost control of her vehicle, driving it up onto the sidewalk. The victim, a tall, athletic-looking military type, had almost managed to successfully leap out of her path. Unfortunately, the car impacted his left lower leg, and his falling body connected with the brick facade of a building. It appeared that the car had come close to fatally pinning the man against the building, if not for the bicycle rack impeding its progress.

Johnny's quick visual inspection revealed some type of shoulder injury, with the man's right arm canted at an odd angle, held closely to his body. The left leg was bent at an impossible angle just below the knee, with an obvious fracture. The man himself, with his crewcut and tough-guy appearance, was doing his best not to reveal the considerable pain he was feeling. He was holding his body stiffly immobile, his left hand tightly clenching someone's right.

A younger man, the physical opposite of the victim, knelt at his side, not seeming to mind the tight grip of his friend's hand in his. The longhaired man introduced himself. "I'm Blair. This is Jim. Man, are we glad to see you guys."

Johnny introduced himself and Roy, then politely asked Blair to step aside so that he and Roy could work unobstructed. Jim's response was to direct a threatening glare towards Johnny. He showed no sign of releasing his friend's hand. Between teeth gritted tightly against the pain, he gasped out, "He stays."

Blair's eyes darted anxiously between the paramedics and their patient. He attempted to reassure them. "I'm sorry, guys, I'll do my best to stay out of your way, but I'm not going anywhere. Jim needs me." He gave his friend a reassuring pat on his uninjured shoulder and sat back, keeping their hands joined.

Not wishing to add to the stress of the situation, the paramedics agreed. Roy began the hands on physical assessment, while Johnny relayed the details to Rampart. "Jim, can you tell me where you hurt?" Roy was concerned when he received no answer, as their patient stared glassily at nothing. Roy took out his penlight to assess pupillary response, and Jim responded with a yell, turning his head abruptly away, with his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Roy thought that the man would have taken a swing at him, had his companion not retained a tight grip on his hand. Blair's voice immediately calmed the man, as he soothed, "It's okay, Big Guy, just let them do their job. They're trying to help you. Please, talk to me, man."

Jim replied, "God, Buddy, I hurt everywhere."

"Could you be a little more specific?" Roy inquired. He had noted two obvious injuries, a compound left tib-fib fracture, as well as an either broken or dislocated right shoulder. The victim was pale and diaphoretic, and, from his vital signs, also a little shocky. Roy continued the exam, noting no physical sign of head injury other than a small laceration on the back of his head. "Does your head hurt?"

Blair encouraged, "C'mon, Big Guy, answer the man."

Through clenched teeth, Jim responded, "Yeah; a little."

Blair contributed, "Trust me. If he says 'a little', it hurts pretty bad."

Roy continued his exam, palpating their victim's torso. Although he was as gentle as he could be, Jim couldn't help the moan, which escaped when Roy touched his right shoulder.

Jim offered, "The shoulder's not broken. Just dislocated. And it hurts like hell."

Johnny couldn't help the skeptical look on his face at their victim's self-diagnosis, and Blair saw it. Rather than take offense, he offered, "Jim was a medic in the Army. If he says it's dislocated, it's dislocated."

As he continued his exam, Roy privately agreed with their victim. He was relieved to note that the man seemed to have no other injuries other than the obvious.

Johnny was on the biophone with Dr. Morton, who ordered the IV, which Roy had already begun to prepare in anticipation of his order. Once the IV was established, Roy began splinting the man's injured leg. Jim immediately let out a half-strangled moan of pain, gripping his companion's hand so tightly that it paled from lack of circulation.

Blair pleaded, "Please, can't you give him something for pain?"

Roy's voice reflected the sincerity of his apology as he responded. "I'm sorry, but with a possible head injury, we can't risk giving him anything that might impair his mental status."

Jim, his face hollowed with pain lines, agreed. "He's right, Buddy."

When Roy again reached towards the splint, Blair reached to stop him. Anxiously, he directed, "Wait! Please! Can you just give me a minute, here? Jim and I, we have a kind of guided meditation that we do, that might help." Not anxious to inflict pain, Roy willingly postponed his actions.

As he and Johnny looked on, Blair began speaking in a calm, soothing voice. "You're pain's at, what, an eleven on a scale of one to ten?" At Jim's nod, Blair continued. "Okay, Big Guy, work with me here. Take deep breaths. In. Out. Find the pain dial. Turn it down as far as you can. Let it go." Roy was relieved as the man began to relax, as evidenced by the slight lessening of the death grip he held on his friend's hand. Blair finally stopped talking, and nodded to Roy and Johnny. They were able to splint Jim's injuries and prepare him for transport to Rampart.

Johnny offered to ride along with the victim in the ambulance. He'd been amazed at the whole mind-over-matter pain control. It didn't surprise Johnny that the younger, longhaired man was into meditation. No, the surprising thing was that his Army friend went along with it, and it worked for them.

All during the ambulance ride, Blair continued to talk to his companion, sometimes with a word or two of encouragement: "Hang in there, Big Guy." Other times, with more of the guided meditation. His friend would respond, "I'm hanging in there, Buddy."

More than anything, Johnny was impressed with the depth of the relationship between these two men, revealed by their words and actions. Johnny couldn't help but think of himself and Roy in comparison. He liked to think that they, too, were best friends. After all, they lived and worked together, at least part of the time. They were good friends; *best* friends. When Roy finally joined him at Rampart, Johnny shared his thoughts. "Those two guys, they reminded me of us."

Johnny didn't notice Roy's startled look at that statement, as he went on. "You just don't see that kind of friendship every day. It was really beautiful to see. You could tell, the one kept calling his friend 'Buddy', the other, 'Big Guy.' Not only are they partners in the police force back home, but they're roommates, too."

Roy felt himself flush, as he had thought that the two were partners of quite a different sort. He decided not to share that thought with Johnny.

Johnny continued to talk about the rescue any time that he and Roy were alone together for the rest of the shift. As day turned into night, Johnny began to focus more on the nicknames the two had used, rather than anything else. Roy sighed, resigned to enduring Johnny's latest obsession.

Heading out on a late night run, Johnny picked up where he'd left off. "I think I've finally figured it out. What the best teams out there have, that we haven't got." Johnny looked hopefully towards Roy, waiting him to ask for the answer. After a minute or two of being ignored, Johnny stated, "I'll tell you what they've got: nicknames!"

Roy rolled his eyes, wishing desperately that they were already at the scene, as Johnny continued.

"Take that rescue earlier today. Were they Blair and Jim? No! They were Buddy and the Big Guy. That's what you and I need: nicknames!"

Disagreeing, Roy said, "I've never had any reason to be fond of nicknames, and I'm not planning on starting now. I like Roy just fine, thank you very much."

Undeterred, Johnny enthused, "There's nothing wrong with nicknames. When I was on my high school track team, I was known as the Flash."

"Well, lucky for you. You never had people going around calling you 'Red', 'Sandy,' or 'Carrot Top'. Thanks anyway, Flash, but I'll stick with Roy." As far as Roy was concerned, the issue was not open for discussion. When Johnny did not mention it the rest of the shift, Roy was hopeful that he'd heard the last on that particular topic. He should have known that two days off would make no difference to an obsessed Johnny.

When next shift again found them at Rampart with an early morning run, Johnny decided that it was time to recruit some outside help to convince Roy of the wonderfulness of nicknames. Roy kept cutting him off any time he tried to talk to him about it. He and Roy were at the nurses' station, sharing coffee with Dixie. Looking for an ally, he asked, "Hey, Dix, what do you think of nicknames?"

"I don't know. I've heard some pretty good ones, as well as some down right hurtful ones. Why do you ask?"

"Last week, when we rescued that pedestrian hit by a car. He and his partner had a friendship that was really something special. And I never heard them call each other by name. They were just 'Buddy' and the 'Big Guy'."

Dixie rested her head in her hands. Her eyes got a far away look, as she recalled a tall, well-built blue-eyed man and his auburn-haired companion. "Yes. I certainly remember them."

Before Dixie could say anything else, Dr. Brackett stopped by to ask her a question. Johnny took the opportunity to ask, "Dr. Brackett, what do you think of nicknames?"

Without missing a beat, he replied, "As little as possible."

"No, Doc, seriously. I was just talking about the guy who was hit by a little old lady in a Lincoln last week: the Big Guy, and his friend, Buddy." Dr. Brackett nodded that he did, indeed remember them. "Those guys were really close, you know? The way they used nicknames, instead of their real names, just made it that much clearer that they were really good friends."

No one was surprised when Dr. Brackett answered, "I'm sorry, Johnny, all I really noticed were the man's injuries."

Roy raised his coffee cup in a silent salute as he mentally said, "Thank you, Dr. Brackett."

Making one last try, Johnny stepped in front of Dr. Early as he came out of a treatment room. "Doc, what do you think of nicknames?"

Smiling, he replied, "I'm rather fond of 'Doc', myself, but I'll answer to 'Joe'."

Grinning in return, Johnny said, "See what I mean? Everybody likes Dr. Early." Johnny did not notice the frown on Dr. Brackett's face at his implication that perhaps everyone *didn't* like Dr. Brackett.

Roy was very grateful when the handi-talkie chose that moment to signal that they were needed elsewhere. As he headed out to the Squad, Roy resigned himself to another long shift.

To his surprise and pleasure, Johnny did not mention the subject of nicknames again on any one of the half dozen runs that kept the paramedics occupied until early evening.

The A-shift crew was lounging in the day room, dinner and chores long done. Most of the guys were sitting around the table, sharing the daily newspaper and coffee. The television was playing in the background, but the only ones who seemed interested were Chet and Henry.

Johnny decided it was time to broach his current topic to a new audience. "Guys, Roy and I were having a discussion about nicknames earlier." He paused, waiting for one of his shift mates to join in the conversation. When no one deigned to, he continued. "It seems to me that the best teams always have nicknames."

Chet turned away from the TV long enough to respond, "Wait! I've heard this one! Who's on first? No, he's on second!"

Scowling, Johnny retorted, "That's not what I meant!"

"No, What's on second!"

Waving his newspaper at Chet as if swatting a fly, Johnny said, "Chet, if you'd just shut up a minute; I'm trying to make a point. I'm just saying, that guys like Dizzy and Daffy Dean; the M & M boys - Mantle and Maris; in addition to working really well together, the one thing that they have that Roy and I haven't, is nicknames."

Roy added tersely, "Because Roy doesn't *want* a nickname."

Johnny cheerfully ignored Roy's comment. "Heck, you're surrounded by them right now." He used his green pen to point around the room at each individual, as he spoke.

"There's Hank Stanley, better known as Cap." The Captain gave a distracted wave of acknowledgment, eyes never leaving his newspaper.

"You've got Michael Stoker, whose friends call him Mike."

Stoker chimed in, "Even some people who aren't my friends."

Johnny ignored the possible slur, continuing. "And, there's Chester B. Kelly, better known as Chet, sometimes known as the Phantom."

The firefighter thus addressed decided to try to derail Johnny's latest lecture. Gesturing at his friend seated to his right, he asked, "What about Marco?"

Marco Lopez, who had been doing his best to ignore the discussion, looked up at the mention of his name. Wondering what he'd missed, he asked, "What about me?"

Chet stated, "You haven't got a nickname."

Marco disagreed. "Of course I do. The ladies all call me 'muy caliente'." He sat back with a satisfied smirk.

Chet snorted in derision. "In your dreams, Marco. The only time anyone ever called you hot was when you were fighting a fire."

Johnny smiled, for once not the target of Chet's sharp wit. "Despite Marco's active fantasy life, the point is, nicknames are a good thing."

Johnny had once again called Chet's attention to himself. Chet contributed, "I've got a few nicknames I could give you, Johnny. Let's see, there's the Dateless Wonder, the Strikeout King, the Pigeon..."

Breaking in, Johnny suggested, "Chet, why don't you just quit interrupting other people's conversations?"

"Look, Johnny, you're the one who invited group discussion. Actually, the TV show I'm watching has given me a pretty good idea of nicknames for you and Roy." Every eye in the room turned towards the television, curious to see where Chet was going with this. They were treated to the familiar end theme of "Gilligan's Island", as the credits rolled by. "Roy can be the Skipper, and you can be his Little Buddy."

Johnny announced his opinion of Chet's idea with a snort of disgust.

Roy, however, was smiling. "The Skipper. You know, I like the sound of that. And Little Buddy seems kind of appropriate. After all, you are the junior partner."

Johnny frowned, shaking his head to indicate a major negative. "I don't want to be named after some stupid TV show!"

"Okay, then, how about if I call you 'Junior'?" Roy asked.

Deciding that it was time to end this conversation, Johnny stated, "Just forget I said anything."

Roy was not inclined to do so. He'd had to listen to Johnny extolling the virtues of nicknames for too long now to just let the matter drop. He answered, "Okay, Junior."

Over the next few shifts, Roy found himself calling Johnny "Junior" at every opportunity. The more he said it, the less it was meant to be offensive, and the more it came to be a casual term of affection.

Johnny had been annoyed the first few times he'd been called Junior. He kept quiet about his discontent, figuring the more he protested, the more he'd hear it, not only from Roy, but from the rest of the guys. However, as time went on, he sensed the change in Roy's tone of voice and attitude, from annoyance to affection. A few weeks later, he was surprised to feel a little warm glow when Roy acknowledged, after a particularly harrowing rescue, "You did good, Junior."

Although Johnny did not again mention the word "nickname" to Roy, he still held on to the belief that Roy, too, should have a nickname.

*A month later...*

Station 51 had been called out to the scene of a motor vehicle accident. A City Transit bus was perpendicular to the road, blocking traffic. A Volkswagen beetle, its dented front end abutting a utility pole, sat nearby. The paramedics split up, with Johnny, Chet, and Marco going to check out the bus passengers.

Roy, accompanied by Captain Stanley and Stoker, headed for the victims in the car. They were relieved at noting the relatively small amount of structural damage to the VW, indicating a low impact collision. With its engine in the rear, the front of the beetle offered little protection in the event of a front-end collision, and was known as a death trap. Both the driver and her passenger, a middle aged couple, were conscious, but pinned in the front seat of the vehicle. Using a pry bar, Stoker was able to pop the less damaged passenger door, giving Roy access to the victims. As Roy leaned into the tight confines of the interior, he was greeted with a friendly, "Hiya, Pally!" from the passenger. The man's breath in Roy's face was enough to make his eyebrows curl. He was obviously intoxicated, and feeling no pain.

"Sir, are you hurt anywhere?" Roy could not get a coherent answer from the man, who kept wanting to shake his hand, saying, "Hiya, Pally!"

He looked over towards the driver, who apologized, "I'm so sorry, George, I'm so sorry!"

"Ma'am, are you hurt anywhere?"

The woman didn't answer, explaining, "George, he'd had a little bit too much wine with dinner, so I was driving, and then this bus just came out of nowhere!"

Roy repeated over George's litany of 'Hiya, Pally! Hey, Pally!', "Ma'am, are you okay?"

The woman gave a little gasp, stating, "My ankle; I think it's broken. And, I seem to be stuck."

While Roy was assessing the passengers, the Captain and Mike had been working on the driver's side door, which finally opened with a screech of tortured metal.

Immediately thereafter, Johnny came up to join them. "Aside from some minor contusions and abrasions, the folks in the bus are doing okay. What you got here?"

Roy's "I'm not sure yet" was nearly drowned out by George's enthusiastic, "Hiya, Pally!"

Johnny bit down on the laugh, which wanted to escape when he saw the look on Roy's face at George's cheerful greeting, satisfying himself with a quickly smothered grin. He got to work assessing the driver, as Roy continued to assist her passenger.

The paramedics quickly determined that the vital signs for both victims were stable. Roy could detect no obvious injury to his victim, although the man's right lower leg was currently inaccessible. The vehicle's firewall had been dislocated in the crash, with the resulting mass of twisted metal pinning the leg in place.

Johnny discovered that his victim's right foot was broken, trapped within the remains of the foot pedal. Additionally, she was reporting neck pain. Johnny applied a cervical collar. With careful use of the pry bar, he was soon able to free her right foot. The Captain and Stoker assisted with removing her from the vehicle to the already set up triage area, where Johnny could treat her and perform a more thorough assessment.

By this point, Roy was wishing that he and Johnny could trade victims. While Johnny's victim was experiencing neck pain, Roy had the uncharitable thought that George was a pain in the neck. In the still, hot air of the vehicle, George's alcohol-laden breath was barely tolerable. His nonstop talking, along with his tendency to punctuate every statement with the word "Pally" had caused Roy to develop a headache.

Once the driver was removed from the vehicle, Chet was able to move in with the jaws. George greeted the new arrival with his customary, "Hiya, Pally!" wanting to shake his hand. Roy's job was now to keep George off of Chet, so that he could work unimpeded. Removal of the passenger quickly followed.

George was no sooner out of the vehicle than he shook himself free of his rescuers, declaring, "Thanks, Pally!" He hurried to his wife and Johnny before Roy could catch up to him, handily demonstrating that his leg was uninjured. He proceeded to overzealously pound Johnny on the back with a slurred, "Hiya, Pally!" Unfortunately, Johnny had been in a half-crouch at his victim's side at the time, and almost ended up being pushed on top of her, had Roy not arrived to pull him upright at the last second.

Roy's "Sorry, Johnny," was echoed by George's "Sorry, Pally."

Roy wished that he could take George's word for it that he was "Just fine, Pally." However, as the man's self report of his physical condition was unreliable - translation: he was too drunk to believe anything he said - Dr Morton wanted him transported to Rampart for precautionary follow up.

By the time both victims were ready for transport, the alcohol had finally caught up to George, and he was just dozing off when they put him in the ambulance. It was a blessedly quiet ride to Rampart.

After a quick restock of supplies, and some aspirin for Roy's headache, they headed out to the Squad. Roy would forgive himself eventually, some time later, for the lapse, which caused a short circuit between his brain and his mouth. With the words, "Let's hit the road, Junior," he'd set himself up. He should not have been surprised at Johnny's response.

"You got it, Pally," his partner grinned in reply.

Roy shook his head at himself, wondering if he were too young for early onset senility. He decided he'd better do a little memory test. "Did I ever tell you that I hate nicknames?"

Pretending to think about it, Johnny finally acknowledged, "Yeah, you might have mentioned something of the sort."

"Good. I'd hate to think I was that far gone."

Neither man ever again mentioned the subject of nicknames. But, from time to time, Roy would forget, and call Johnny "Junior", because, dammit, it was a pretty good nickname. And, every time, he would be called "Pally" in return. And, one day, he realized that maybe nicknames weren't such a bad thing, after all.

~end~
*****
Author's note: Any resemblance between characters in this story and characters from another fandom in another time and place, is purely intentional.;) The characters don't belong to me; I just took them out of the box to play for a while. Thanks, Janet, for sparking the muses (Thing One and Thing Two) with your contest idea.