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There was a “firefighters of LA County” pinup calendar stashed away under Chet’s bed, way in the back, next to the skin magazines and the lingerie catalog he’d liberated from his older sister about a lifetime ago.
It wasn’t the kind of thing he’d usually have gotten for himself - not because it was a calendar full of blokes; no, he liked that sort of thing, or didn’t mind it, anyway. He’d never really cared about what kinda plumbing someone had as long as they were pretty enough, and he’d come to terms with that a long, long time ago. No, it was just that the job seemed a bit less sexy to him because it was his bread ‘n butter, and most of the pictures looked more like a laundry list of safety violations than anything suggestive. Besides, most of the guys just weren’t his type, and for the most part, pin-up pictures of his co-workers weren’t terribly high up on his wishlist either.
For the most part.
And yet, there was that calendar under his bed – and as per usual, it was all Gage’s fault. It always was in one way or another, and even if something wasn’t, strictly speaking, Gage’s fault, it was still about him in one way or another, like Chet’s whole stupid world revolved around that infuriating, strange, beautiful creature that was Johnny Gage.
So, yes, Gage was to blame for all of this. Gage and his long legs in frayed jean shorts, bare thighs sticking slightly to the hood of the squad and an enigmatic look on that infuriatingly pretty face of his. It was that look that captivated him the most whenever he dug out that calendar, fiercely proud and intensely vulnerable all at once, one of the stranger moments of Chet’s life perfectly preserved on glossy paper – and seared into his memory.
–
It had all started with an innocent little piece of paper that Cap handed to him to pin to the big cork board in the rec room one morning.
“Now accepting photography submissions for the inaugural LACoFD firefighter’s pin-up calendar,” it said. “Submissions should be aesthetically pleasing and/or erotic but are not permitted to contain obscene or objectionable content. All serious submissions shall be awarded a premium of $10. All submissions appearing in the finished calendar shall receive an additional $50 as compensation.”
So far, so good – and honestly kinda boring. Until Johnny stepped into the room, a deeply displeased expression on his face. Johnny, displeased… well, that was never boring.
Chet casually, innocently ambled over to where Johnny had let himself fall onto a chair at the kitchen table, picking apart the newspaper on the hunt for comics or the crosswords or the sports pages or something.
“What’s wrong, babe?” Chet asked, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Johnny’s expression made it abundantly clear that he knew Chet was up to something, but as per usual he didn’t seem to care – he just sighed.
“I am never letting my date pick a restaurant again,” he grumbled. “‘Least not when I’m paying.”
“Drained your wallet dry, did she?”
“You bet. Practically on her own, too – I sure wasn’t feeling like eatin’ much after seeing those prices…”
Chet nodded sagely. As far as he was concerned, Johnny would be doing both the female population of LA County and himself a great favor if he’d just forget about dating entirely. Chet had never been exactly quiet about his convictions either – but if anything, Johnny just seemed to take that as a challenge.
The paramedic threw the newspaper a baleful look and pushed it aside. Chet could see his jaw muscles tense – a pretty surefire sign that something was actually wrong.
“So, what’s the big deal?” he asked and sat down on the table next to Johnny, mildly concerned but careful not to let it show. “It was just one dinner – you cut your losses and maybe skip out on a date or two and that’s that, right?”
“Yeah, sure,” Johnny said, absentmindedly rubbing a corner of the newspaper between his fingers, “but… look, I’ve been cutting it kinda close lately, had to get my bike fixed and the Rover checked ‘n all, and I still need some cash left for that trip I’m gonna go on with Roy in a couple weeks – and it’s not actually that bad, and yeah, I can make up for it, easy, but… it stings, is all.”
He paused and glanced up at Chet.
“You know that feeling when something’s just buggin’ you but you can’t really do anything about it so it just won’t leave you alone? I’ll be feeling broke no matter how much money I actually have until I pick up overtime or something, I just know it.”
And then, something clicked. Not even Chet himself knew if he was trying to help or stir up trouble, or if his baser urges were rearing their ugly head at the thought of the prettiest guy in the department taking photos for a cheesy pinup calendar, but whatever the reason, he barely stifled a grin as he put a hand on Johnny’s skinny shoulder.
“You’re in luck, Gage,” he said. “I’ve got just the opportunity for you.”
Johnny’s expression turned to confusion, mixed with a healthy dose of probably justified distrust.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
Chet just pointed at the corkboard, blue eyes wide in mock innocence.
Johnny looked over at it, then back at Chet. At the corkboard again. Finally he got up, his eyebrows cocked in that amazing look of dubious distrust that only he could pull off like that, and made his way across the room. Skimmed the pinned notices until his gaze fell on the one Chet had put up earlier.
Silence.
“A pin-up calendar?” Johnny finally asked. “Me? Did you hit your head on your day off or something?"
Chet walked over to him, the innocent look still firmly in place.
“Believe me, I don’t want your scrawny ass plastered all across the county’s living rooms, either –” only half a lie, really “– but you don’t have to take it that far, anyway.”
“What are you talking about?” Johnny asked.
“See that $10 participation price?” Chet asked, and he knew that mischievous gleam was back in his eyes. Thankfully, Johnny’s obliviousness usually made up for his lack of poker face. “All you have to do is take a photo that looks like a serious submission, but which they wouldn’t wanna print for sure, and pocket your ten bucks. Sure, you won’t get rich that way, but it ain’t bad for a few minutes’ effort.”
Chet knew he had him when Johnny’s look turned pensive.
“You think it’d work?” he asked.
“Sure I do.”
Johnny mulled that over for a few long moments.
“I don’t have anyone who’d take pictures, though,” he finally said. “I, uh… I don’t think I’d want to tell Roy about this.”
Oh, perfect. Too good to be true, almost.
“I’ll help you,” Chet quickly said.
“Yeah?” Johnny asked, beaming with excitement for just a moment before the doubt took over again. “Why? What’s in it for you?”
“I just enjoy people stickin’ it to the department and getting paid for it, especially if they really should be getting paid more in the first place. ‘Sides, I like taking pictures. Think I could borrow your camera again?”
“Again?” Johnny asked back. “You didn’t borrow it the first time, you just took it.”
“Eh, same difference. It’s a good camera, and you know I know how to use it.”
Johnny sighed.
“Alright, yeah, why not. I’ll bring it with me next shift.”
And with that, Johnny clearly considered their conversation over. He turned to walk back to his spot at the table – but abruptly paused. Stabbed a long, skinny finger at Chet.
“Not one word to Roy – or to any of the others.”
Chet nodded. He sure wouldn’t mind keeping this one all to himself.
–
Chet didn’t fully realize just what he’d gotten himself into until he was alone with Johnny in the locker room after their shift was over, and Johnny practically bounced over to him and leaned against his locker, shirt already unbuttoned, the dark circles under his eyes after a dreadfully busy night contrasting sharply with his energetic demeanor.
“So,” he said. “I’m betting you know a whole lot more about pin-up calendars than I do, so I guess you can make yourself useful – what d’you think I should do for that calendar picture?”
Johnny was going to be the death of him, and he didn’t even mind.
“I, uh…” he stammered, before he quickly caught himself. “Well, I figure they’re mostly looking for real manly proper firefighters, right? Maybe not quite bodybuilder types, but ones that look really fine shirtless, you know?”
Silence.
“Are you sayin’ I can do whatever I want because I wouldn’t have a chance if I was genuinely trying, either?” Johnny asked, sounding strangely disappointed for someone who was deliberately trying to fail anyway.
Oh, Johnny. Sometimes, Chet was almost tempted to retire the Phantom; wasn’t easy to be this guy’s nemesis when he seemed so adamant to be his own worst enemy.
“Gage,” he said carefully, trying not to confirm his assumptions without making things weird – well, weirder, anyway. “I think you’re overestimating how many manly men there are in this department, and how many of those are up for some cheesy pin-up pictures. Not that I think you have the best chances, but I still think we should put some thought into this. Better safe than sorry.”
And that… was pretty much as close as it got to his honest opinion. Sure, Gage was good-looking, everyone with a functioning pair of eyes would have to admit that, and he was no weakling, either – but more than handsome, he was just… real pretty, and Chet didn’t think pretty was what the department would be looking for. And yet.
“Got any more specific ideas, Chet?” Johnny asked with a sigh.
“Man, I dunno – be coy about it, I guess. They’re probably expecting macho confidence stuff, y’know – ‘this is me and these are my abs, look at me and feast your eyes on my greatness’ kinda things. So, the opposite of that. Whatever the hell that means to you.”
“Yeah,” Johnny said slowly. Then, after a long pause: “Yeah! Yeah, I think I know what you mean. Do you think we could sneak into the engine bay before the start of the next shift and snap a quick picture on the hood of the squad without anyone noticing? I think I have an idea.”
Chet had a vague hunch that nothing good would come of this, but it was entirely too tempting to see what Johnny had in mind.
“Sure,” he said with a shrug. “If we’re quick and sneaky…”
“Good deal!” Johnny exclaimed and patted him on the shoulder, too enthusiastically to be comfortable, and Chet suddenly knew he was in way over his head, knowingly walking into a disaster, and completely and utterly unwilling to do the smart thing and bow out gracefully while he still could.
–
The next shift proved him right. He’d shown up a few minutes early, which wasn’t terribly unusual – he’d never minded mornings, and he lived close enough to the station that a couple minutes more or less didn’t make too much of a difference. Normally, those couple minutes also didn’t come with so much nervous anticipation, though – he was almost vibrating with it as he stepped into the locker room.
Johnny was already there, and he looked just as antsy as Chet felt. Nothing else about him seemed out of place, though; he looked perfectly normal. Jeans, button-down shirt, his usual get-up, and for a moment Chet thought that he’d chickened out, the thought of it relief and disappointment in equal measure.
And then…
Well, then the first words out of Johnny’s mouth were a breathless “hey Chet, I’m wearing the pinup stuff underneath this to save time, here’s my camera; you good to go?”
“Huh?” Chet asked before he finally managed to parse Johnny’s run-on sentence.
Johnny was impatiently wiggling a camera at him until he took it, dumbfounded, and watched Johnny unbuckle his belt and unbutton his pants and slip out of the baggy old thing, revealing… well, legs, mostly. Long, slender legs, seemingly endless, all the way up to where they finally disappeared into faded, frayed denim shorts – short enough that the pockets were peeking out of the leg holes. Short and tight, and Chet made a strangled noise, hastily covered it with a cough.
Holy shit.
Holy shit.
Johnny didn’t seem to notice his reaction, he just calmly took off his shirt to reveal a washed-out old department t-shirt, artfully knotted at the front to turn it into a crop top that revealed a toned stomach.
Without a belt, the shorts sat low on Johnny’s hips, and Chet’s gaze had free reign over all those rarely-seen bits of skin, on display in a way they never were, demonstratively, purposeful, erotic in every way their casual locker room nudity was not.
Chet had expected Johnny to be awkward, bumbling, faintly ridiculous. He hadn’t been expecting this, and he suddenly wasn’t so sure anymore that Johnny was entirely safe from winning by virtue of being too much to print.
This, he realized, this might have been a mistake.
He couldn’t even tell Johnny, couldn’t explain his reasoning without giving away more than he’d have been comfortable with.
And so, despite his guilty conscience, he stayed quiet. All he said was “alright, let’s go,” while Johnny toed off his shoes and socks. Damn him. Damn him and his long legs and the nervous anticipation in those pretty brown eyes.
They snuck out into the engine bay as quickly and quietly as they could; Johnny swung by the equipment locker and grabbed his turnout coat. Chet had no idea what for, but he figured he’d find out soon enough.
“So,” Chet whispered when they’d arrived at the front of the squad. “You know what you’re gonna do?”
Johnny nodded.
“Figured I’d just hop up onto the squad’s hood,” he said, “and kinda half-slip into my turnout coat; just the sleeves, so it looks like it’d just slipped off my shoulders or something.”
“Show me what you’ve got,” Chet replied quietly, “and I’ll tell you how ridiculous you look.”
“Yeah, alright.”
Johnny was so focused on the task at hand that he didn’t even acknowledge Chet’s artfully crafted jab, just pulled himself up so he was sitting on the squad’s hood, carefully arranging his legs to make sure Chet was gonna get them on film in all their graceful glory, and then draping the turnout coat around himself. The results were actually kinda remarkable.
And then, he looked over at Chet with wide doe-eyes, all innocence and nervousness, defiant in his shyness, flaunting it.
“What do you think?” he asked, daring Chet to make fun of him.
Chet’s mouth was dry, his tongue like sandpaper.
“Uh, I – yeah. Yeah, that’s, uh. Very good, that’s perfect. Just… just perfect.”
He got the camera ready, waited until Johnny nodded, and then photographed away, carefully capturing what he saw in Johnny in that moment, all that coiled-tight, ephemeral, tense beauty, shimmering like air over hot asphalt, fleeting, burning. Another photo, then another, a dozen or so, just to make sure he’d gotten it just right. Sure, they were trying to lose, but that didn’t mean Chet was about to half-ass any of this.
Distant laughter from the rec room shattered the silence, and Johnny’s look turned from stubborn to startled.
Another photo, just for good measure.
“Alright,” Chet said and turned off the camera. “Let’s scram.”
Johnny scrambled off the hood and into the locker room, so quickly he must’ve set some kinda speed record. Chet followed him at a slightly more natural pace. By the time he’d caught up, Johnny had already whipped off the denim shorts and tossed them into his locker, with the shirt quickly following suit. Yeah, Chet told himself, he was still exceptionally pretty in his underwear – but it just wasn’t the same.
Johnny took a deep breath after all the damning evidence was out of sight and smiled, and Chet barely suppressed the urge to snap a picture of that, too.
Instead, he just changed into his uniform and turned to Johnny halfway through buttoning up his shirt, smirking. Might as well pretend that nothing was out of the ordinary, that he hadn’t been at all affected by any of this. And anyway, he wouldn’t have been the phantom if he hadn’t tried to needle Johnny about all of this at least a little bit.
“How’s it feel to be a bona-fide pinup model?” he asked, keeping his tone light and conversational.
Johnny shushed him, frantically peered around the locker room.
“Chet,” he hissed. “I swear, if anyone hears about this, I’m never gonna talk to you again.”
“You tryin’ to tempt me?” Chet shot back, but they both knew that Johnny had hit a nerve. For all his posturing, he liked the guy – more than liked, really, and for more than just his looks. Sure, he was pretty, but so were a lot of people – but there’d only ever be one Johnny.
For most of the shift, that was the last they’d said about the whole thing, and Chet still half-expected Johnny to chicken out – but then the paramedic pulled him aside just before lights-out, when they were all alone in the quiet locker room once more.
“Hey, Chet,” Johnny half-whispered, pretty brown eyes darting to his locker where he’d hid the evidence of their little improvised photoshoot. “Would you, uh… would you do me a favor?”
It had always been kinda hard to say no to Johnny when he got like this, all quiet and serious. One of these days, Johnny would catch on, and then he’d be in trouble. One of these days – but not yet.
“Depends on the favor,” Chet said.
“Can you get these pictures developed for me?”
That… hadn’t been what Chet had expected, especially because he’d figured that the less hands these pictures would go through, the better.
“Are you, uh…” Chet replied. “Are you sure? Why?”
“‘Cause if you do it,” Johnny explained, “they’ll just think that it’s for… I dunno, an artsy photo project or something. And even if they assume it’s for something indecent, it won’t really matter, because they won’t know who I am. But if I do it and they take even half a look at those photos, they’ll be able to put a name to the photos and wonder why I’m getting them developed, and… no. Just no.”
“So I’m supposed to sacrifice my good name and be your sleazy pin-up photographer?”
“Good name?” Johnny shot back. “Besides, you can pass for the artsy type if you find a weird shirt or something, nobody’s gonna question it.”
Chet pretended to consider it, even though he’d long since made up his mind.
“Alright,” he said slowly. “Alright, sure, I’ll do it. Just give me the film.”
“But don’t forget about it, alright?” Johnny said as he dropped the little plastic tin into his hand, their fingers brushing against each other. “And not a single word to anyone.”
“Not a word,” Chet confirmed, uncharacteristically seriously. He wouldn’t have risked this for the world.
–
He got the pictures a few days later, and the moment he laid eyes on them, he knew for sure that they’d made a mistake.
They were… well, frankly, and without wanting to pat his own back, the photos were stunning; haunting and evocative, and damn the paramedic for looking like this, all vulnerable yet defiant, so proud yet strangely insecure, his long limbs artfully draped over the hood of the squad, his deep brown eyes unfathomable, his face like a work of art, dignified and fragile in equal measure. There was something fundamentally wrong about seeing Johnny like that, something almost painfully validating about seeing those flashes of beauty that sometimes caught him so off-guard frozen in time and fixed on paper, irrefutable proof that he wasn’t just hopelessly gone for no reason.
Johnny was beautiful, Chet had been painfully aware of that for a good long while, had wished he’d never noticed more than once – not that it mattered in the end. Even if Johnny was just as odd as he was and cared just as little about his partner’s gender as Chet did, he was still painfully aware that he wasn’t the guy Johnny would choose, and he never would be.
Chet picked a photo out of the stack, marveled at the grace it exuded. If Johnny had been a woman, this photoshoot could’ve been iconic, like Marilyn Monroe’s flying skirt, like Rita Hayworth in a slinky negligee… which probably made this whole thing a terrible candidate for their cheesy little pin-up calendar – and yet.
If Chet had been a better person, he would’ve put a stop to this whole affair, because if anyone selecting those pictures had an ounce of taste, they were doomed. If any of these people were even a little bit attracted to guys, proper guys, not some posturing kind of macho manliness, they were doomed.
But he didn’t say a word.
All he did was pick a photo from the stack, one of those Johnny wouldn’t have wanted to send in anyway, one of those that really captured Johnny’s… Johnny-ness, exemplified what Chet tried so hard not to see in him. He didn’t feel particularly guilty about it – after all, he was pretty sure that Johnny was never gonna pay him back for getting these pictures developed, so it was only fair, really.
Come next shift, he handed Johnny his pictures and the negatives without a word. If anyone had ever asked him about the whole thing in retrospect, he’d have claimed that it was all a prank, just another one of the Phantom’s nefarious plots. If anyone would have asked, he just never thought that far ahead. He just hadn’t noticed that strange allure these photos possessed. After all, why should he? He was Johnny’s nemesis. Sometimes-friend. Nothing more.
But nobody ever asked, and for a while, he’d almost managed to forget about it all. Johnny’s ten bucks got added to his next paycheck, Johnny seemed pleased enough, and that was all anyone ever thought of it.
Until, that is, Johnny got a letter a few weeks later. Chet didn’t even notice at first despite sitting right next to him, way too busy with the sport pages to pay attention to the world around him.
“Hey, Chet,” Johnny sharply hissed at him.
“Chet!” A little more insistent when he didn’t react quickly enough, and then Johnny poked him in the arm.
“Can’t a guy read his newspaper in peace around here?” Chet asked.
“Look at this!” Johnny hissed and shoved a piece of paper right into his face, and Chet assumed that answered his question. He pushed Johnny’s hands away until he’d put enough distance between himself and the paper to actually make out words. It was an official department thing, he could see that much right away – and the next thing that jumped out at him was a number.
$50.
Wait, what?
He plucked the letter from Johnny’s fingers and quickly skimmed it.
‘While your submission,’ it read. ‘did not conform to the committee’s aesthetic expectations –’ so far, so according to plan ‘– all six of our judges elected to inform us that it would be a ‘smashing success with the ladies’.’
Chet groaned.
Who’d they gotten to judge? Probably the committee’s wives or something. Fuck.
‘Therefore, we have elected to accept your submission. Your $50 reward will be added to your next paycheck.’
Oh dear.
Chet handed the letter back, accompanied by a pensive look.
“What are you gonna do?” he asked. “Get them to withdraw your submission?”
Johnny sighed and shook his head, chewing on his lower lip like he sometimes did when he was thinking.
“No, then I’d have to admit that I didn’t really send in a serious submission in the first place, and maybe they’d even make me give back those ten bucks. I guess… I guess all I can do is accept it.” He sighed. “Guess it’s not the weirdest thing I ever did, and at least I’m getting paid for this one.”
“You sure?” Chet asked, surprised and almost a little disappointed that Johnny in short shorts on the squad wasn’t gonna be their little secret anymore.
Not that the whole thing didn’t have some upsides.
He’d have to find an excuse to buy one of those stupid calendars.
Sure, he had that one photo at home, the most Johnny out of the bunch, but there was something to be said for seeing the objectively nicest one of them all printed nice and big and hanging on his wall.
Johnny looked up at him like he was going to say something else, before shaking his head and starting over.
“You know,” he finally settled on, “I guess I gotta admit that you’re a damn fine photographer, at least.”
“And you’re, apparently, one hell of a pin-up model,” Chet replied. He’d mostly intended it as a jab, but Johnny just looked pretty pleased with himself. Well, that was alright, too.
–
There was a photo print of Johnny lounging on the hood of the squad in faded, torn jean shorts in the back of Roy’s closet. It had been part of a set once, a calendar of skimpily-clad firefighters from Roy’s department that a friend of hers had gifted Joanne as a joke a few years ago, trying and failing to rile her up. She’d put it up in the bedroom without hesitation, always up for some mischief, and she’d been duly entertained by Roy’s feeble protests and pained “but I know these men”s.
They’d gotten used to it by the time August rolled around and Joanne flipped to the next picture and came face-to-face with a scantily-clad Johnny making doe eyes at the camera.
To her surprise, Roy hadn’t said a word about it, just gone very quiet for a few days whenever he laid eyes on that oddly charismatic picture of his partner.
By the time she’d thrown the calendar out at the end of the year (replaced by one with chunky printed flower motifs in bold colors that seemed oddly stale in comparison), she’d almost forgotten about Johnny’s little surprise appearance in their bedroom.
She’d been more than a little taken aback when she found that damned print stashed under Roy’s shirts a few months later, hastily cut from the calendar, the upper edge frayed where he’d simply ripped it out of the spiral binding.
The surreptitious way he’d saved the print, the way he’d hidden it like he'd used to with his embarrassing magazines back when they’d both been teenagers, made it pretty clear why he’d considered the photo worth saving. The first, blinding stab of jealousy hurt, and she’d been poised to have a stern talk with her husband when he got home from work – but then he’d brought Johnny along for breakfast that day, who’d been bruised and scraped and exhausted and looking at Joanne like she’d personally hung the moon and the stars when she’d handed him a plate of pancakes, and her anger vanished into thin air as Roy looked between them and smiled.
Whatever Roy might have felt for Johnny, she knew it left plenty of room for her, too.
And besides,
It really was a damned good picture.