A/N Thank you very much Tecwyn and Ryn, and all other guests for your reviews! I appreciate the support. Thank you!

Falling: To Fall Ill

Amita fumbled with the unfamiliar keys with her left hand while she balanced some books in her right hand. Charlie should have told her which one would unlock the door, or maybe he had, and she just couldn't remember. Her head felt more like stuffed with wool than a useful brain.

Suddenly, the door was jerked open. "What!" Alan Eppes towered over her.

Surprised, Amita took a step back and looked up until she could look into Charlie's father's face.

"Oh Amita. It's you." His stern expression vanished and he relaxed.

"Mr. Eppes," she tried to say but the simple greeting started a new round of coughing.

"Come in," he said with a concerned voice and guided her into his house. "I assume that these books are for or from my son, Charlie?"

Carefully breathing, Amita nodded. "He asked me to bring them over," she said slowly to avoid another urge to cough.

Charlie's father took the books and the key and set them rather forcefully on the table. Then he turned and eyed her with his arms crossed and deep creases on his forehead. "How long have you been sick?"

"It's nothing, thank you, Mr. Eppes." Amita blew her nose. "Could you, please, tell Charlie that I brought the books and the key?"

"It's Alan," Charlie's father said while he uncrossed his arms. Raising an eyebrow, he pointed to the door and her parked car outside. "I hope you're not planning to go back to class? You belong in a bed and not in class."

She managed a tiny smile even as her face felt swollen from all the coughing and her running nose. "I'm on my way home. I just wanted to bring the books over." She coughed into her fist. Her head joined the ever-growing list of aches. "Besides," she cleared her throat, "the dean agrees with you and has sent me home to recover." Shuddering, she pulled her cardigan a little tighter around her shoulders. It was not only her cold but also the memory that made her shiver. "It's the first time I got sent home sick."

"You got sent home and Charlie asks you to take his books?" Alan closed the door with a louder than normal bang. His voice reflected the surprise and disappointment flickering across his face.

"He had to go to the FBI office and couldn't take them with him. It was an emergency." Amita shrugged. "He would need them later here. I was just in the right spot at the right time."

Alan pressed his lips together. Obviously, he didn't agree with Amita's assessment. Before she could add another reassurance that Charlie couldn't have known as they hadn't really talked yet, a new coughing fit overtook her, and she doubled over.

She coughed and coughed until tears streamed down her face. Finally, the coughing fit lessened, and she wiped away the wetness around her eyes. "Sorry."

"Nothing." Alan hovered, his hand near her back as if he had wanted to pat her on the back but had decided against it as it was inappropriate. Suddenly, his face lit up, and he raised a finger. "But I have just what you need. It's special family recipe."

"Mr. Eppes-"

"Alan. And please do me a favor and sit down on the couch before you fall down." He looked so sincerely worried and the couch looked really inviting. "I'm making you a chicken soup - our special family recipe." He formed a circle with his index finger and thumb. "It's the best. Works always. Believe me. You just have to drink it and then sleep and tomorrow," he nodded, "tomorrow this cough will only be a bad memory." He put his hands on his hips and waited.

He appeared so eager to help that Amita couldn't say no. She shuffled to the couch and sat down. "I don't want to impose -"

"It's the least I can do after both of my boys are responsible that you have to run across the city while you're sick." Alan grabbed an old afghan and offered it to her.

Hesitantly, she accepted the worn blanket. "Alan, this isn't necessary." Her resolve abated as she snuggled into the warm afghan.

"Here." Alan brought a footrest over and waited until she reluctantly had put her legs up on it. "And a remote. Watch whatever you want if you're bored." He raised his eyebrows. "But I advise you to get some sleep." He waited a short moment to give her a chance to ask for something. As she kept quiet, he turned and hurried into the kitchen.

Amita leaned her head back against the soft rest. Again a pain like a sharp knife cut through her chest, and she leaned forward fighting against the urge to cough. She could hear Alan in the kitchen working with his kitchenware. It was a comforting sound. Part of her wanted to get up, tell him that she would just go home, but she was so tired and the afghan was so warm, she scooted a little forward until she could lean back without causing a coughing fit. Then she closed her eyes. She would rest a little and then drive home.

"Amita?" A voice softly called.

Startled, she jerked upright. The warmth fell off her. "What?" Blinking, she finally recognized Alan Eppes in front of her.

He smiled. "Your chicken soup is ready."

She looked around in confusion while her fingers dug into the afghan. She was still in Charlie's living room.

Alan stood next to her and held out a cup of steaming soup. "You have been sleeping for two hours." Patiently, he waited for her to fully wake up.

The cobwebs of sleep refused to let her go, but the delicious smell of Alan's soup penetrated even her stuffy nose. She freed her hands to take the cup. "Thank you," she tried to say but her voice was all but gone.

"You're welcome." He wandered to his recliner and sat down with a sigh. "I'm not the youngest anymore," he offered as explanation, but his watchful eyes told her another story. He studied her like a physician, making sure she had nothing more like a cold. Somehow, she had no doubt that he would drive her to the ER if he would spot something worrisome.

Amita carefully took a sip of the chicken soup. "I usually don't get sick and now I just fell ill out of the blue."

Alan leaned forward. An amused grin flickered across his face. "Then I have some good news for you - you just have proved that you're human."

Smiling, Amita took another sip. It soothed her cough. "This is good." She paused. The warm soup entered her stomach and warmed her from the inside. "In my family chicken soup is common appetizer, but not food to cure you if you're sick." She looked down into the cup and contemplated the ingredients. "It's the first time that somebody made me chicken soup to cure a cold." She looked up to Alan. "Thank you." This time her voice didn't fail, and she could express her thanks.

Alan rocked back a little and regarded her with a content expression on his face. Suddenly, his face fell. "A spoon! I forgot to bring you spoon." He jumped up and rushed into the kitchen. A few seconds later he returned with his price - a spoon.

Amita smiled.

It wasn't the soup but the companion that made her feel better already.

"Amita?" A voice called her from afar. Forcing her eye open, she blinked. The light was unexpected bright, and she sighed. Charlie sat on the couch table in front of her. "Are you awake?"

"Mmh," she answered. Forcing herself to become more awake she found a guilty looking Charlie in front of her.

"I'm sorry. I didn't check in with you. I really didn't know you were sick or I wouldn't have asked you to bring my books home," he rambled.

"It's fine," Amita said. Her voice sounded deeper and husky. She cleared her throat. "I could have said no or I could have told you. It wasn't so bad. But you know the traffic in LA and then Alan offered his special recipe and -"

"I know. I don't know anything as effective as Dad's chicken soup. It's not scientifically accurate but I guess you could really call it a panacea." Charlie put his elbows on his knees.

"So, how's your case?" Amita asked.

"My case?" He grinned and an expression of pride appeared on his face. "That sounds so officially. But we got him in time. Actually Don got him but my hot zone was pretty accurate even if I did the calculations with speed rather than accuracy."

Amita smiled. If her eyes wouldn't feel so heavy and if just breathing without coughing wouldn't be so hard, she would ask him to explain every little detail of his math and the case. But so she just leaned back, contented with his short explanation.

"It's past eight o'clock," Charlie said. "We can offer you our guest room, actually it's Don's old room," Charlie hemmed, "but it has a clean bed and -"

"No, thanks for the offer." She forced herself to move. "But I'll go home. I already feel better and the rest has helped a lot." Resolutely, she removed the blanket and put her feet down on the ground. She missed the warmth immediately, but she would only need to drive herself home. Then she could return to a warm bed.

"Okay. If that's what you want," Charlie said and sounded a little disappointed. "But I should warn you, Dad is making Don driving you home, so don't even try to persuade my father to change his mind."

Amita climbed to her feet. "I don't want to bother -"

The kitchen door was opened and Amita could smell again the soup. It smelled like chicken soup and yet it also smelled like comfort.

"It's no bother," Don said as he came in. Alan followed him, a stern expression on his face. "I'll have to drive home myself. It's no problem to give you a lift." He glanced over his shoulder to his father. "And this way you can escape his clutches."

"Hey, watch it!" Alan chided him. "It's called having manners. Something both of you could sometimes use."

Don's mouth twitched. But he eyed her with the same scrutiny as Alan had done. She shifted under his watchful glare. Then Don raised his head and glanced to Charlie. Apparently, she had passed whatever he had been looking for.

"I'll just grab my stuff from my car and -" She turned and almost collided with Alan who held out a thermos bottle. "Here for you. Some chicken soup. For later."

"This isn't necessary," Amita said. But Alan just raised his eyebrows. She glanced to Charlie who looked away. Don also just shrugged, his expressions seemingly saying that she should just take it. Dropping her resistance, she smiled. "Thank you", she said before a new coughing fit overtook her.

"Better leave your keys here. I could give you a ride tomorrow," Charlie offered. He stood up. Hesitantly, he waved goodbye. "Feel better."

She nodded and then faced Alan. "Thank you for the chicken soup. I feel already better."

"Yeah, well, it's an old family recipe." He shrugged. "It's too good to not use it," he explained. But on his face, there was this contented expression that meant he knew what had helped the most.

Smiling, Amita let Don escort her to his car. About one point, Charlie was wrong, even if Amita would never tell him that. Neither the ingredients nor the soup was a panacea. But the intention and motivation behind cooking it and the care of a family – that was the pill that made her feel better already.

Don opened the car door for her. "Fasten your seat belt, please," he said before he closed the door with a soft bang as if he knew that her head hurt.

Amita leaned back and closed her eyes. The renewed coughing fit was not bothering her as much anymore as Don drove her home. Family was a really good pill to feel better.

END

A/N Thank you for reading!