Red-Shirted

part two

******************

Saturday, October 11, 6:30 a.m.

The television set was on in the living room when Sam woke. She pulled on her robe and found her daughter scowling at the morning news.

"There aren't any cartoons," she said.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart. What do you have on your hands?"

"Socks." Chloe rubbed a mittened hand roughly over a spot on her arm. "I itch."

"I know. Don't scratch."

"I'm not scratching," she answered irritably. "I'm rubbing. John said it was okay with the socks."

Wondering at the wisdom of leaving one overgrown kid in charge of another, Sam gently pulled Chloe's hand away from her arm. "Let's put some lotion on you and then you can try not to� rub it while it's drying."

After half-drowning Chloe in calamine and convincing her that the remote worked much better without stockinged fingers Sam left her flipping channels and went to check on John.

She hadn't intended to brush her fingers through his hair, but she found herself doing it anyway. He didn't stir. His skin was warm beneath her touch but it seemed that his fever had finally broken. He looked so peaceful that she hated to wake him just to say she was leaving. Instead, she smoothed the hair that she had ruffled and went to get ready for work. She hated working on Saturdays but with John out, the VCTF was short-staffed and every extra minute they could each spare put them that much closer to solving the recent string of murders along the Gulf coast.

She asked Chloe to have John call her when he woke. The girl was cranky this morning, but Grace had warned Sam to expect that both of her patients would be more irascible than usual. She knew that neither of them liked being sick and this illness tended to make even the gentlest of people prickly. She wasn't entirely comfortable leaving Chloe essentially alone, but if an emergency arose, John could probably be roused quickly. And there were four agents on guard downstairs. She shook her head at the thought. Four agents seemed rather excessive most of the time. She always felt guilty when she passed them, but she was secretly glad they were there. If anything ever happened to Chloe...

Sam kept a watchful eye on the monitor in her office. About nine-thirty she noticed that John finally gotten up. She could just see the top of his head as he slouched on the sofa beside Chloe. She waited five minutes before reaching for the phone.

"I was going to call in a minute," John said. He still sounded tired.

"It's okay. I just saw that you were up and didn't know if Chloe had given you the message." There was a pause on the other end of the line. She watched him sit up straighter and then turn to frown at the camera. He had obviously forgotten it was there. She heard his sigh a fraction of a second before she saw it as he slumped back on the sofa.

"Yeah. We were trying to decide whether to have crackers or toast for breakfast."

"Nothing much sounds good, huh? Don't scratch," she added automatically as he began to rub at the back of his neck. His hand jerked away and she heard him sigh again.

"How do you live with that thing all the time?"

***************

Saturday, 2:14 p.m.

Sam looked around the briefing table at the rest of the team. Each member was wrapped silently in his or her own thoughts. She noticed Bailey glancing about as if he had lost something. It occurred to her suddenly that she knew what he was looking for. She was fairly sure that he wouldn't find it in one of his folders. Now was the time a certain wisecracking agent usually tried to lighten the mood. Although Bailey would never admit it, she knew that he depended just as much as the rest of them on John's smart-mouthed comments and inappropriate levity to pull them all out of the darkness that each new victim sucked them into. Without his quick wit the room seemed unusually quiet and the team unusually somber.

The team continued to sit around the table waiting unconsciously for a signal that wouldn't come today. More often than not it was John's wise-ass remark and Bailey's gruff admonishment that indicated that the briefing was over. Bailey would chase them all off to their assignments, shaking his head at John's unrepentant insubordination. Sam knew that George had a sense of humor as sharp as John's but without the certainty of the younger agent's support, she doubted he would risk Bailey's ire. She suspected that Marcus shared John's irreverent sense of humor as well, but like George he seemed to rely on John's presence to instigate the banter.

Deciding that no one else was going to make the first move, Sam rose.

**************

Sunday, October 12, 3:17 a.m.

It couldn't have been the alarm clock. She reached for the phone as it rang again.

"We've got another one in Biloxi. How soon can you be here?"

"Good morning to you, too, Bailey." She listened half-heartedly as he gave her the basics.

When Bailey hung up she began dialing. The blurry voice that answered might have said "Grant". It might as easily have said "What". She wasn't sure. She felt terrible about waking him. He hadn't been home more than a couple of hours and had probably just gotten to sleep.

"Hi, it's Sam. I hate to call you in the middle of the night and ask you a favor, but we have another victim in the Gulf coast case."

"When do we leave?"

"Not we, John," she said gently. "You're sick, remember?" She smiled at his muffled swearing. Apparently he had forgotten.

"I guess Angel's still out of town and you want me to baby-sit. There are still four agents downstairs, aren't there?" He sounded tired and annoyed.

"I'm sorry, John." She was suddenly aware of how selfish she sounded. It was just that she trusted so few people with her daughter. "You're right. I shouldn't be bothering you about..."

"I didn't say I wouldn't do it, Sam," he interrupted. "I just wanted to know if I was your first choice or your last."

"Actually," she admitted, "you were the only person I thought of."

"Oh." His tone was a little more conciliatory. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."

"John?" She cringed inwardly at having to ask anything else from him, but she had to. "I hate to keep dragging you out of bed to come look after Chloe in the middle of the night. Could you just pack a bag and plan on staying till you're both well?" There was a pause long enough to make her wonder if he had fallen asleep again.

"Yeah," he said at last. "Sure."

*******************

Sunday, 1:38 p.m.

"Autumn."

"Autumn. A-U-T-U-M."

"Uh-uh. No. M-N."

"That's not how you said it," Chloe protested.

"No, but that's how you spell it."

"Then you're saying it wrong."

"I'm not saying it wrong." John sighed. Spelling homework. Had he really offered to help?

"You say lots of stuff wrong."

"Oh, really?" Pronunciation lessons from a seven-year-old. This ought to be interesting.

"Yeah. Mom says it's because you're from Massachusetts."

When had that come up, he wondered? "It doesn't matter where you're from; you still say it autumn."

"Why'd you move to Georgia?"

He was jarred by the sudden shift in her train of thought. "My grandfather used to live here," he said finally.

"Where does he live now?"

"He died a while back."

"Oh." She looked at him sadly for a moment then asked, "Where's the rest of your family? Are they here or in Massachusetts?"

He stared at her while his mind raced. Was there any simple way to explain his bizarre family, or lack thereof, without raising fifty more questions that he really didn't want to answer? Probably not. She was a curious child and no matter what he told her she would no doubt ask him something completely unexpected anyway.

"My mom� died a little before my grandfather did." He paused before adding; " I haven't seen my dad in a long time."

"Does he live in Massachusetts?"

"Yeah. In Boston, I think."

"Why?"

"Why Boston?" He knew it was a rather weak attempt at sidetracking her but he tried anyway. It didn't work.

"No, why haven't you seen him in a long time?"

"It's a long story, Chloe." He hoped she would take the hint and drop it when he didn't say anything else. She picked up her pencil again and he breathed a sigh of relief. Sensitive as well as curious, he thought.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

Damn. "Why don't we go back to your spelling list and not worry about my family for a while, okay?" He didn't mean to sound curt, but this wasn't really something he wanted to discuss. "Spell pumpkin."

She threw him a speculative look and apparently realized that he had volunteered all she was going to get out of him on the subject. "Say it again," she asked.

*******************

Sunday, 8:20 p.m.

Sam entered quietly. John was half-asleep on the sofa. A hockey game was on the television.

"You're home early."

"I'm sorry. I tried to keep track of time better today�"

"Hey! It was just an observation." He raised his hands in mock defense. " I'm not being sarcastic. For once," he grinned. "You really are home earlier than I expected. Chloe just went to her room. She's probably still awake."

"Sorry. Just a little guilt there," she said with a smile. "Is that hot chocolate?" she asked, noticing the mug on the end table.

"Yeah. Want a cup?"

She looked at the mug thoughtfully for a moment. "You know, that actually sounds pretty good. I'm going to go check on Chloe. I'll be back in a minute or two."

She found him in the kitchen when she returned. He handed her a cup.

"What's this?"

"Cocoa." He gave her a perplexed look.

"No. I mean, what's on it?" She pushed the mug toward him, pointing at the strangely colored film that floated on top. His expression became slightly embarrassed.

"Lucky Charms," he said sheepishly. "We couldn't find any marshmallows..." He shrugged.

Sam looked back into her mug. She could see the half-melted shapes now. Lucky Charms, she thought. Of course, they are. Pink, yellow, blue, orange� The man put Lucky Charms in my cocoa. She tried not to giggle. She didn't want him to think she was making fun of him. But still... She had a brief flash of John and Chloe picking the little colored marshmallows out of the cereal and couldn't help it. Her sudden burst of laughter made John jump. She had to set the mug down or she would have spilled it.

"Chloe wanted marshmallows," he said defensively. "It seemed like a good idea at the time." His attempted explanation only made her laugh harder. When she had regained her composure she picked up her mug again. It was an effort to look at John without chuckling, but she managed. His lopsided smile was amused and unguardedly affectionate. "You know, I don't think I've ever heard you laugh like that before. You should do that more often."

"If you keep hanging around," she smiled at him, "I just might. Lucky Charms..." She stifled another burst of laughter and took her mug into the living room. John followed.

"So, how's the case coming?" he asked as he dropped to the sofa. Sam wondered if it was illness that made him sprawl so bonelessly or if he was simply comfortable enough in her house that he could be completely relaxed. In faded blue jeans and an old tee-shirt he looked less like a Federal Agent and more like a college kid. It's no wonder Frances has a crush on him, she thought. His short hair looked like it hadn't seen a comb in a couple of days and she had a peculiar urge to rake her fingers through it until it behaved. She quickly decided it would be better to concentrate on his question instead.

He scanned through her notes eagerly, obviously thrilled to have something besides second-grade homework to read. She walked him through the crime scene layouts as he sorted through the photos. If they were lucky they would have the case solved by the time John was back at work. If not, she reasoned, he might as well be up to speed already. She glanced at the television as he began reading the toxicology report. The fast-moving game was difficult for her to follow but she did notice that one of the teams was from Boston. She wondered which team he was rooting for. When she turned back to John he was still engrossed in her notes.

"Don't do that."

"What?" he asked distractedly. She realized that he probably had no idea what he was doing.

"Don't scratch."

"I'm not."

"John, I've been watching you do it for five minutes."

"It itches."

"Did you take a Benadryl?" She was rewarded with an exasperated look.

"I'm already over my recommended daily allowance."

"Calamine?"

"Doesn't work where I can't reach." He rubbed his shoulder blade against the back of the sofa in what was most likely an unconscious movement.

"Don't scratch, John."

"I'M NOT SCRATCHING!"

Sam barely succeeded in smothering her laughter. She wasn't sure his fragile ego could take her laughing at him twice in one evening.

*******************

on to part three