Title: Cure For The Uncommon Cold
Author: Anne([email protected])
Category: R [Webb/Mac]
Rating: G
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: I don't own JAG, wish I did.
Feedback: Yes, please. Be gentle please--No flames
Archive: Yes.
Author Notes: Yes, I'm suffering from a terrible summer
cold;
unfortunately, I don't have nearly as good a reason to be sick,
nor
anyone offering my chicken soup!
Cure for the Uncommon Cold
1230 Hours—Local Time July 8, 2002 JAG Headquarters Falls Church, Virginia
"Achoo! Achoo! God damn it! I’m gonna kill him!" Sarah Mackenzie muttered huskily, stifling yet another sneeze as she poured herself another cup of coffee in the JAG breakroom.
"Kill who, Colonel? Commander Rabb?"
Sarah wheeled around, startled to see Harriet Sims standing in the door of the breakroom. She hadn’t realized that anyone could hear her tirade, which hadn’t really been meant for anyone ears but her own.
"Oh... Harriet. Sorry, I didn’t see you standing there. No, I meant I’m going to kill the person who gave me this damned cold. After all, a cold in the summertime is one of the worse plagues ever visited on humanity. It’s one thing to have the sniffles and sneezes when it’s only 25 degrees outside, but it’s inhuman to have to deal with all that when it’s almost 100 degrees and 100 percent humidity outside!" she whined, before breaking into a low cough.
Harriet briefly surveyed her friend and colleague, who did indeed look miserable. Her eyes were watery and puffy, her nose was red, and, from the pile of tissues in the wastebasket, the situation was only getting worse by the minute.
"Ma’am, where on earth did you catch a cold at this time of year? You must have been out running around in the crowds on the Mall this past Fourth of July weekend?" "Ha! No, in fact, I spent the entire weekend in my apartment," Sarah insisted, sounding strangely smug at the prospect.
‘I certainly don’t envy the fate of the person gave Mac that cold virus, if she ever gets her hands on them. But, you know, it’s odd that the Colonel doesn’t seem too irritated about having been house-bound over the weekend,’ Harriet reflected to herself. "Well, in that case, you’ll probably never know who the culprit is, Ma’am. So, whoever he or she is, I guess they’re safe from your wrath," Harriet laughed.
The Marine Lieutenant Colonel muttered something only halfway intelligible, sounding something like "We’ll see about that!" under her breath as she stomped off to her office and slammed the door behind her.
Lieutenant Harriet Sims sat back down at her desk with her fresh cup of coffee and surveyed her little corner of the world. While running JAG Ops for Admiral Chegwidden might not be the most earth-shatteringly important job in the U.S. Navy, it was her job, and she was determined to make sure that things ran as smoothly as possible. And having the Admiral’s Chief of Staff out sick with a cold could easily throw a monkey wrench in the smooth running of that world.
Harriet heard the soft chime of the elevator door, as it opened and disgorged its passengers. ‘Ah, there’s Tiner with the Admiral’s lunch. Another item to check off of the "to do" list for the day. And who is that? Hmm... I wonder what he wants?’
"Good afternoon, Mr. Webb," Harriet greeted the CIA deputy directory, noting that Webb’s only concession to the Washington, D.C. heat wave seemed to be the abandonment of his habitual trenchcoat. That, and the strange addition of a small white paper sack, which seemed oddly out of place. "I didn’t know that you were back in D.C., Mr. Webb. Did you just get back this morning?" Harriet inquired, not really expecting an answer, but trying to make some kind of conversation with the usually taciturn spy.
"Um... Huh?" Clayton Webb seemed taken off guard by Harriet’s small talk. Surprised enough that he actually answered her. "No. Actually, I got back into town on Wednesday night. Spent the holiday and the whole weekend in bed, though." "Oh, jet lag?" Harried asked sympathetically. As much traveling as Webb had to do, the poor man probably had permanent jet lag. ‘That’s funny, though. He doesn’t look all that put out about having to spend all that time in bed.’
"Actually, no. I was recovering from a bad cold. Summer colds are the worst, aren’t they," he confided chattily. "I swear, nothing’s worse than sniffling and sneezing when it’s so hot outside. Can’t figure out where I caught it, but I seem to be over the worst of it now," Webb pronounced, looking just slightly smug.
‘A cold? You know, common colds just aren’t that common in July. This is really too bizarre,’ Harriet thought. "Oh... well... That’s too bad, sir. Yep... A summer cold is the worst." ‘I could swear that I just had this conversation with someone. Who was it? Oh! Colonel Mackenzie... I wonder... Nah. No way! Must just be some kind of weird coincidence.’ "Who are you here to see today, Mr. Webb? Do you need me to see if the Admiral’s free to see you now?"
"Actually, I’m here to see Colonel Mackenzie," Webb pointed at the so-far unexplained white paper sack. "I brought her some lunch." He stopped abruptly, as if apprehensive of saying anything further.
"Lunch?" ‘Since when does Mr. Webb just stop by with lunch for anyone at JAG?’ Harried mused.
"Yes, lunch. You know, Lieutenant Sims, that meal between breakfast and dinner?" Webb joked, his customary sarcasm coming just slightly into evidence. "It’s just some chicken soup and orange juice; it’s not like I’m going to poison her, you know," he exclaimed, sounding just a little defensive, as the little Navy Lieutenant just sat at her desk and silently stared at him. Then, suddenly, her statement shifted, and a look of comprehension flashed across her pretty face.
She picked up the phone, saying, "Just a second, Mr. Webb. I’ll let her know you’re here."
Webb stood motionless, silently observing the almost negligible lunchtime activity in the JAG bullpen, while waiting for the formal "go ahead" to reach his stated objective. After just a couple of short exchanges over the phone, Harriet looked up at him and smiled, waving her hand in the general direction of Colonel Mackenzie’s office, and Webb was off, even before the Lieutenant could replace the telephone receiver in its cradle.
‘Chicken soup and orange juice... And a healthy dose of TLC!’ Harriet thought, smirking at the retreating back of the CIA agent. ‘The perfect cure for the uncommon cold.’
THE END