Summary: Scott finally brings home a girl Robert likes. She's polite, she's clean, she cooks like a dream - she doesn't even have tatooes. There's just this one little thing about her . . .

Disclaimer: If they were mine, they'd still be in my living room every week. I'm not making any money; if you sue me, I'll stick you with ownership of my kids.

Special thanks to Paige, for her time, care, encouragement, and excellent beta-reading. A lot to ask from someone who doesn't even like Scott ...

At six o'clock Sunday evening, while he vomited for the fourth time in an hour, Robert McCall came to what should have been an obvious conclusion: He was not going to meet his son for dinner at seven.

He'd felt well enough in the morning, but around lunchtime he noticed that his apartment felt warm and he had a mild headache. By mid-afternoon his whole body ached, his fever was pronounced, and he generally felt like hell. He took some aspirin and drank some tea, hoping to head off this bout of flu or whatever it was.

Clearly, he had not succeeded.

He sat on the edge of the bathtub, blotting at his face with a cold washcloth, and took a deep breath. Scott was not going to be happy. This was not just another dinner. It was another meet-the-latest-girlfriend dinner. McCall had already postponed it once, having learned from experience that if such dinners were put off a week, the young lady sometimes disappeared. Of the half-dozen he'd met in the last year, every one of whom was, according to Scott, 'the one', only one had struck him as even vaguely suitable - and her suitability was deeply compromised when he saw the 'Legalize Pot' bumper stickers pasted all over her car. Robert could not imagine what Scott had seen in any of them. But he had wisely kept his opinions to himself, avoided setting off Scott's rebellious streak, and the young ladies - a liberal use of the term - each eventually went away.

So this latest one did not really interest him much. Certainly not enough to try to drag himself out when he felt this awful. And if Scott was upset, well then Scott could bloody well get over it.

He waited a moment more, to be sure he was done. Then he stood, rinsed his mouth out, and went to the phone.

At nine-thirty, McCall was dozing on his couch. He didn't really want to be; he'd just settled there for a little rest and inertia got the better of him. He knew he couldn't sleep the whole night there, that he'd have to move eventually. He also knew that his fever was climbing again, and that he needed to take some more medicine. Of course, that implied more vomiting, a notion he did not relish. His arms and legs felt like lead, and his head throbbed. As long as he remained perfectly still, he was something like comfortable. Later, he thought, a little later he would move.

There was a quiet knock on his door. Robert closed his eyes. Who in the hell would be at his door at this hour? He remained still, hoping they'd go away. The knock was repeated, still gently. When he still didn't answer, he heard the scrape of a key in the lock. Quickly he pushed himself up to a sitting position. He wasn't going to make it to his gun. The door opened, and Scott's blond hair proceeded him carefully into the apartment. "Dad?" he called softly.

Robert sat back. "Come in, Scott."

The boy was wearing his perpetual jeans and leather jacket, and carrying a grocery bag. His face was full of concern. "You look awful."

"I feel worse," Robert assured him. "I thought you had a date."

"I did. I do. But you sounded so bad on the phone, I wanted to check on you."

You wanted to be sure I was really sick, Robert translated unkindly. But the boy did look worried. "It's just the flu. I'll be fine in a day or two."

Scott nodded seriously. "Well, we brought you some things. Just Kleenex and aspirin and stuff. Oh, and Becky sent this." He reached into the bag and brought out a tall glass jar of murky liquid that vaguely resembled tea. It had chunks floating in it. "I'll warm some up for you."

"No, Scott," McCall protested quickly. His stomach was churning again at the very sight. "I really don't think . . . "

But the boy was already in the kitchen. Robert heard him in the cupboard, then pouring the liquid - another sound that made his stomach flip - then opening and closing the microwave. While the vile potion heated, Scott carried the other things into the bathroom. Then he came back to the room. "What else do you need?" he asked earnestly.

"To sleep," Robert answered honestly. "I appreciate your coming, Scott, I really do, but frankly, I prefer to be this miserable all by myself."

The microwave beeped, and Scott popped up. "Maybe some aspirin while you're up," Robert called after him.

"Sure. Do you have a strainer?"

"Second drawer on the right," McCall answered through his rising bile.

The boy came back with his hands full; a glass of water and the aspirin tablets in one hand, a cup of the tea-like substance in the other. Robert took the aspirin, but eyed the potion dubiously. "I really don't think . . . "

"It's sage," Scott told him, as if that explained everything. "It'll help settle your stomach." He shrugged. "That's what Becky says. Try it."

"Becky," Robert repeated dubiously.

"The . . . current," Scott reminded him, a little self-consciously. "She's, um, she's waiting in the car, I can't stay."

"Scott! You cannot be leaving young ladies in cars like that! She must think . . . "

"I wasn't sure I should bring her up here," Scott protested. "And the way you look, I'm glad I didn't. Look, I'm going, right now. Drink your sage, get some rest, and we'll check on you tomorrow."

McCall nodded weakly. "All right. All right. Thank you for coming."

Scott went to the door. "Drink it, Dad."

Scowling, Robert sipped the beverage. It was surprisingly sweet, heavily laced with honey, and it tasted completely unlike anything he'd ever considered to be tea. Maybe tea that had gone moldy, tea that had been brewed far too green, tea that had been left to ferment for several days. But amazingly, his stomach did not immediately try to heave the drink back up. He took another sip, checking his body's reaction.

Scott nodded in satisfaction. "There's more in your fridge," he said on his way out.

Robert took another sip of the surprising concoction. The taste was growing on him. He took a long drink. He wasn't imagining it; his tormented digestive system was actually relaxing, curling around this magic drink of Scott's.

Of Becky's, he amended mentally. So the current was some kind of new-age herbalist. Another hippie chick. Robert groaned.

But her potions at least worked. McCall finished his tea - might as well call it that, he decided - and then he gathered his strength and went to bed.

He slept fitfully, half-awake much of the time, desperate for rest but filled with old memories and strange visions, half-remembered dreams and conversations that never happened. The morning light annoyed him, and he turned away from his window and tried to sleep more. When he finally fully woke, his fever had spiked. He staggered out of his bed, feeling like death on toast, stumbled to the bathroom, and proceeded to vomit bile.

Well, that was unpleasant, he thought, when it finally stopped. He wandered bleakly to the kitchen. Becky's magic potion still waited in the refrigerator, looking like a jar of swamp water. But it had worked the night before, hadn't it? After some consideration, Robert took the top off the jar and put it in the microwave to warm. When it was done, he poured it through a strainer into a mug. The pieces of plant matter that remained in the strainer made him bilious again. He set it aside and drank the tea.

In a matter of five minutes or so, he could feel his stomach uncoil. Whoever she was, Robert decided, he was starting to like this Becky. He sat on the couch and rested for a few minutes, and then went to shower.

The simple effort of getting cleaned up exhausted him. He put on clean pajamas and his dressing gown, brought in the newspaper, and returned to the couch. A quick glance at the headlines: a small girl was still missing. Robert sighed. He would read the paper in a while. Just now he needed to rest.

About the time he got settled down to his nap, there was a knock at the door.

Robert groaned. Scott again? Fine, he could let himself in. But after the second knock, there was no key sound. Grumbling, slowly, McCall got up and opened the door.

A quite unremarkable young woman stood on his doorstep, with a grocery bag on one hip. "Whatever you're selling," Robert snapped, "I don't want it." He started to shut the door.

"I'm Becky," she said quickly.

McCall paused, the door half-closed. "Becky?"

"B-Becky Baker. Scott's . . . girl."

Robert frowned. This was Scott's girl? She didn't look like one of Scott's girls. She wasn't some wild, exotic beauty. She wasn't unattractive, she was just - ordinary. Early to mid-twenties. Brown hair, brown eyes, medium height and build, no excessive mark-up, clean, simple, sensible wool jacket over dark pants - ordinary.

She didn't seem to want to look him in the eye.

"I, uh . . . " she started again, nervously. "I know you're not feeling well, I don't mean to bother you, I just . . . I just brought you some . . . um, soup, some soup, for lunch, if you're feeling better . . . is the sage helping? And there's some noodles to add for supper, if you want, and

some pears, I thought pears would be easy to . . . to . . . "

She held the grocery bag out to him. Robert took it, bewildered.

"And there's more sage, just leaves, you just brew them like loose tea . . . and there's honey, and um, um, a couple rolls, dinner rolls, and some cinnamon rolls for breakfast . . . and Scott will call you later, if you need anything else."

With her hands empty, she was now quite unconsciously wringing them. "Won't you come in?" Robert asked, belatedly.

"I, uh, I can't. I have to get to work. I just wanted to . . . you know, to drop this off . . . I have to go . . . I hope you're feeling better."

She left.

Robert watched her go, then went back into his apartment. Bewildered still, he took the bag to the kitchen and unloaded it. There was an assortment of containers in it, all marked with the name of a restaurant, where Robert presumed the girl worked. One held chicken broth, another homemade egg noodles and vegetables, a third a pile of dried weeds that he assumed was sage. A small dish of diced pears, fresh. Three dinner rolls, very fresh. Two fat cinnamon rolls, also very fresh. Butter. Honey. Exactly as advertised.

McCall blinked. Of all the young women Scott had introduced him to, he could not recall one that had ever brought him food. And this one was so contrary to Scott's usual selection. So very - conventional. And shy. So terribly shy. Scott was usually attracted to strong-willed women. This one was anything but.

Well, he reflected, perhaps that was unfair. Perhaps he was kind of intimidating today. He'd showered, but he hadn't shaved, and twenty-four hours with the flu probably hadn't improved his appearance any. Besides, she'd never even met Robert, how was she supposed to act?

He put the groceries away and went back to his nap.

He woke up hungry and warmed himself a bowl of the chicken broth. He expected it to be just that, broth, but it was amazingly flavorful, slow-cooked, lightly seasoned. Wonderful. His stomach seemed to accept it gratefully. He made a mental note to check out this restaurant she

worked at when he was feeling better.

Later, while he was snacking on the pears - just pears, as far as he could tell, but conveniently peeled and cut and ready to eat - Scott called. "Feeling better?" the boy asked.

"Much," Robert answered. He was. "Becky was here. She brought me chicken soup."

"Yeah, she said she'd stop over. Good stuff, isn't it?"

"Very good. I'll have to pay her back for whatever the restaurant charges her."

"It's not from the restaurant," Scott answered offhandedly. "She makes it herself."

Robert's eyebrows rose. "She made it? Herself?"

"Yeah. She loves to cook. Anything you need?"

"Uh . . . no. I'm fine. Thank you." He was still being amazed that the girl could cook. Since when did Scott date anybody who could cook?

"Okay. I'll stop by tomorrow, then. And Becky'll bring you lunch again."

Dazed, Robert answered, "I'll look forward to it."

As he put down the phone, Robert mulled over the young woman again. She was very different from the last girl Scott introduced him to. The tattooed lady, Mickey had called her. This one - well, maybe Scott was finally growing up.

And then again, Robert thought, maybe it was just a fluke.

By Tuesday morning, Robert McCall had decided he was going to survive. He was still tired and achy, but he managed to be showered and shaved and presentable by the time the young lady appeared at his door.

Becky was every bit as nervous and elusive as she had been the day before. She met his eyes only briefly at the door, then at his invitation went into the kitchen and began unloading the bag she'd brought. "I was pretty sure you'd be tired of chicken by now, so I brought some beef vegetable soup for your lunch, and some bread and cheese, and some more fruit for afternoon, and then for supper I . . . "

Robert trailed her curiously to the kitchen. "I'm not an invalid, you know," he commented mildly.

The girl stopped in mid-word. "What?"

"I'm much better today," McCall continued. "I appreciate all of this, I truly do, but it's not necessary."

"I - I - I'm sorry," Becky stammered, turning red. "I didn't mean to be, to be p-pushy." She finished putting things in the refrigerator at a frantic pace.

Robert frowned. Had he yelled at the girl? Was there something in his demeanor that made her think he was angry? "You've never been pushy a day in your life," Robert guessed aloud. "I'm not angry with you, my dear. I'm simply not accustomed to being cared for as if I were elderly and feeble."

Her hand shot to her mouth. The blush deepened, and now tears filled her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered. She rushed past him, heading for the door, grabbed it, snapped it open, prepared to literally run away . . .

Robert had put the chain on. The door snapped open three inches and then snapped back. Becky sagged, resting her forehead against the door.

McCall followed her again, not fast, not making her feel like he was chasing her. "Oh, for heaven's sake, what are you going to do the day I bellow at you? I have been known to bellow on occasion, you know." She nodded, not turning toward him. "You have been exceptionally kind, and I feel as if I've been an ogre. Please don't run away. I will try to behave better."

Becky turned so that her shoulder was resting against the door. "It's not you," she answered very softly, only briefly meeting his eyes, then studying the floor. "I'm this way with everybody. I - I - I . . . " She stopped and took a deep breath, and Robert could almost feel how much she hated that stammer. "I'm not at all good with new people, and I, and I try too hard and I, and I . . . I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you think . . . that I thought . . . it's just . . . "

Robert wanted to take her in his arms, but he knew that would only deepen her panic. Instead, he reached up to unhook the chain.

As his hand approached her head, she flinched and took a full step back.

McCall continued more slowly, unhooked the chain and dropped his hand to his side. Her gesture, entirely involuntary, told him volumes about this young woman. Her shyness, her fear were suddenly illuminated for him - and he felt worse than ever that he had upset her. Damn it, Scott, he thought, you might have told me. If Scott even knew . . .

But as if the flinch had pressed some button, as if this final fear response had triggered some calming effect, the girl recovered some of her composure. "I don't speak well, especially not to strangers," she explained. "But I cook very well. And I thought . . . I thought . . . "

"You thought," Robert interjected gently, "that if you could cook for me for a time before you had to speak with me, that it would go better, is that it?"

"Yes." She was much calmer now; she managed to meet his eyes, and even gave him a half-hearted smile.

"You might have said something," Robert chided gently. Then he realized the paradox and chuckled. "But I suppose you couldn't."

Becky shook her head.

Robert sighed. He wondered if he should suggest therapy to her. She obviously needed it. But today was probably not the day to bring it up.

"I'm sorry," the girl said. "I just . . . I just really wanted you to like me."

McCall felt an eyebrow rising. Because of Scott? Since when did Scott date girls who cared what his father thought of them? "You're definitely growing on me," he said kindly. "All right. Now that I know why you're doing what you're doing, I propose that we arrive at some agreement on the terms of this relationship. You may cook for me whenever you wish, with the understanding that you are never obliged to do so. And you may talk to me as little or as much as you wish. But. You may not run out of the apartment every time I raise my voice. I raise my voice quite often, and I will go mad if I have to start editing my speech for your benefit. I will frequently be cantankerous or difficult or distracted for reasons that have nothing to do with you, and you are not to take it personally. Is that clear?"

Her smile actually brightened a bit. "Clear."

"Good." Robert hesitated, wondering if he should even say what came next. "And one more thing. I will never, ever, raise a hand to you in anger. And I will cheerfully pound the stuffing out of anyone who does."

The girl looked at him straight on for the first time. She didn't bother to deny anything. After a moment, she nodded. "It was a long time ago."

Robert nodded back and left the discussion there. "I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

"Yes."

"Good." He watched her out, watched her walk - walk, not run - down the hall. He shook his head, remembering an axiom he had learned his first weeks with the Company. It's always the quiet ones you've got to watch out for.

McCall stared at the container in confusion. The soup looked and smelled wonderful - but there was enough for three men. Well, maybe she intended him to have left-overs. And he was feeling a lot hungrier today. He poured the soup into a pan and put it over a low flame on the stove.

There was another knock at his door.

Robert rolled his eyes. In a normal week he might get one visitor, maybe two. This week, when he didn't want to see anyone, they were beating a bloody path to his door. He checked the fire under the soup, then went to answer. It was Kostmayer.

"Come in, come in," he said, going back to the kitchen.

"Smells good, McCall. What'cha cooking?"

"Just soup," Robert answered briefly. "Are you hungry? There's plenty." He considered the pan. Enough for three men, but only two if one of them was the perpetually hungry Michael Kostmayer.

Mickey shrugged. "I could eat. I really just came to check up on you. You sounded like hell the other night."

"I felt like hell. I'm better, thank you."

"Anything you need?"

Robert shook his head. He got out the rolls, and the little bag of cheese slices, and put them on a plate. "No, no. Scott brought me a few things, and Becky's seeing to it that I stay fed."

"Becky?" Mickey said evenly, carrying the plate to the breakfast bar. "She one of your hopeful little old ladies in the building?"

"She's Scott's latest girlfriend."

"Oh," Mickey answered in a practiced neutral tone.

"She stops by on her way to work and brings me meals. It's rather sweet, really."

"Scott has a girlfriend who has a job?"

Robert chuckled, stirring the soup. "Amazingly enough, he does. She works at that restaurant across the street from the theater."

"The expensive place."

"Yes." Robert spooned up a little soup and tasted it. It was more heavily seasoned than the chicken broth had been, tasted richly of beef. He sighed. "She cooks," he pronounced warmly.

Kostmayer looked skeptical. "She cooks?"

McCall got a clean spoon, filled it with soup, and offered it to his colleague. Mickey tried it. "She made this?"

"With her own tender little hands." He got bowls and a ladle and served them both. Mickey took the bowls over to the counter.

"Let me get this straight," Mickey said. "Scott has a girlfriend who cooks like this? And has a job? Does she howl at the moon or what?"

Robert considered as he sat down. "She's pretty enough, I suppose. Not a head-turner, but - pretty. Clean, anyhow - and no visible tatoos."

"The tatooed lady frightened me, McCall," Kostmayer admitted. He took a big bite of his soup. "So what is wrong with this one?"

"She's very . . . shy," Robert answered after some consideration. "She doesn't talk much, and when she does she gets nervous. She stutters. It's getting better, I think, as she gets to know me."

Mickey nodded thoughtfully. "So, she has a job, she cooks, she's okay looking, and she doesn't talk. I'm not seeing a down side here."

Robert chuckled. "Well, there is . . . there is more to this young woman than meets the eye, Mickey. Perhaps a great deal more. For one thing, she's head-shy."

"Somebody hit her?"

"In the past, she says. But she's not over it yet." Robert shrugged. "It's really none of my business, I suppose. If she can trust Scott. . . "

"Scott is about the last person I would expect to take a swing at a woman," Mickey offered.

"I know. And I think she knows it, too. It's hard to tell, I haven't seen them together." He shrugged again. "Well, we'll see. I doubt it will last. She's not really his type. But a father can hope."

"Yeah," Kostmayer answered. He'd gotten to the bottom of his bowl, and stood to help himself to another. "And play sick for a while longer, huh? This is great."

Scott showed up at dusk, carrying his father's dry cleaning and clean laundry from the shop down the block. He also brought a stack of magazines. "I thought you might want something to read."

Robert was genuinely impressed. "Thank you, Scott. That was very thoughtful."

The boy shrugged, embarrassed, pleased. "There's clean sheets in here. I can change your bed if you want, and take the rest of your laundry on my way home."

"No, don't worry about it. I'll do it later."

"I don't mind." Scott was already wandering off to the bedroom. Robert followed, bemused. This was so unlike his son. It wasn't that Scott wasn't good-hearted, he was, but he didn't think of practical applications for his affection. There was definitely a woman's touch behind all of this sudden helpfulness.

The bed really was a mess; Robert had spent the better part of three days in it, not counting meals and naps on the couch. He offered to help, but Scott insisted he could do it himself - and did. Robert sat in the armchair and watched him. "I must say, the young lady is quite a good influence on you."

Scott flushed. "You think so?"

"You never would have thought of this on your own."

"I should, though." He smoothed out the bottom sheet. "Do you, um, do you like her? Becky?"

Say no, Robert's impulse said, and Scott will never let her go. But the boy was clearly serious, and troubled. "I like her very much. At least, as far as I know her. She's very elusive."

"Yeah," Scott agreed quietly.

"Something wrong?"

The young man shook his head. "I don't know. She's just, like you said, elusive. She's like you. I never know what's going on in her head." While Robert was trying to frame a response to this, his son had gone right on. "I mean I really like her, but I feel like I don't know anything about her. When I'm with her all we talk about is me. I mean, I talk, and she listens, she almost never says anything, even when I try to get her to talk. I'm not even sure she likes me."

"Well," Robert answered, "as a rule of thumb, if a young lady takes meals to your convalescent father, it usually means that she has at least some affection for you."

"She takes meals to the guy who lives in the cardboard box behind the restaurant, too."

"Oh." Suitably deflated, Robert watched while his son put remarkably sufficient military corners on the top sheet. He had been so sure of that argument. If the girl wouldn't talk to Scott, what made him think she was talking to his father? As far as Robert could tell, Becky Baker didn't talk to anybody. "I know it's not terribly helpful, Scott, but I think you need to give it some time."

"I suppose," the boy answered morosely.

He's not sleeping with her, Robert realized suddenly. He had nothing to base that on - but he was certain he was right. Well, good. It was about time Scott got away from easy women and involved with a girl with some moral fiber . . .

. . . unless, of course, she was holding out for a wedding ring, with an eye on Robert's money . . .

Too many years on the job, he decided, too much time with the hardened cynics of the world. Becky didn't want his money. If she wasn't sleeping with Scott, it wasn't an act of manipulation, or probably even an expression of her moral standards. It was because she was just plain scared.

He remembered her snapping her head back again, and sighed. What had happened to her? How long ago? And why hadn't someone helped her put it behind her before now?

His son was fluffing the pillows viciously. "Scott," Robert said gently, "Scott, stop a minute. Listen to me." The boy plopped down on the edge of the freshly-made bed. "You're accustomed to dating woman who are . . . " simple, Robert realized, was not the right word to use in this situation, however accurate it might be. ". . . who are less complex than Becky is. Something's happened to her. I'm not sure what, but she's been hurt somehow . . . "

Scott was nodding. "I know. She told me. She didn't say what, but she said . . . I don't care about that, Dad, I'd wait forever, if I just thought, if I was just sure . . . that she's not going out with me because she's too polite to say no."

Robert chuckled. Scott bristled angrily. "It's not funny . . . "

"No, no, Scott, I'm not laughing at you. I promise, I'm truly not. It's just that you're usually so sure of yourself, so full-speed-ahead, whether you're right or wrong. She's getting to you."

Scott had to chuckle himself, reluctantly. "She is, isn't she? She's not . . . like anybody I've ever known. I don't want to mess this up."

"You won't, son." Robert stood and stood by the boy, his hand on his shoulder. "You are a wonderful young man, and I think she knows that. Just be patient with her. Let he do things at her own pace. It'll be fine."

The boy looked up at him, believing absolutely in his father's wisdom. "Thanks, Dad."

McCall smiled warmly down at his son, the picture of confidence - hoping all the while that he wasn't dead wrong.