Steele Will, a remington steele fanfic

SUMMARY: What determines that someone have a will to fight, a need to win, a stubborn, headstrong will of cold, hard steel? What made Laura so set to prove she could do it all on her own?

STEELE WILL (a VERY pre-Remington Steele story)

January 28, 1956...

"What's wrong with them? What do you mean, a respirator? Why can't I see them?" Jack put a comforting arm around his hysterical wife. Abby had never been good in a crisis. He rubbed her back soothingly. "Abby, calm down and let the doctor talk."

"But Jack, our babies—"

"Abby, it's gonna be okay." Jack hugged his wife and faced the doctor. "Why can't we see them?"

Matthew Goldberg, M.D., sighed. News like this was the part of the job he wished he could avoid. "Mr. Holt—" he paused, placing a comforting hand on the soft one of Abigail's. "Abby, your pregnancy was very hard. The twins were early by three months, and they shouldn't have come this early–"

"Doctor, my wife and I want an answer." Jack Holt's voice was razor-sharp, that of a military man, a voice that expected obedience...immediate obedience. Goldberg shook his head and continued. "They're both very small. Both of their lungs aren't fully developed and...well, we'll have to see what the next forty-eight hours bring. I just want you to be prepared--"

A teary, "For what?"

Goldberg smiled gently at the young woman, knowing it was all he could do. He was a doctor, not God. "For the chance that you may lose one or both. They're just too early."

"It's not—" Abigail Holt (nee Brenner) broke down, pulling away from her husband. "I didn't do anything! They weren't supposed to come until April."

Goldberg shook his head and walked out, Jack Holt following. The young Army captain grabbed the doctor's arm. "Sir, honestly, what chance do they have? Losing them is going to kill my wife."

The elderly doctor stared at him, not mincing words. "The older twin, the girl, we had to attach to a respirator almost immediately. She stopped breathing a few times. The boy...same thing. I don't know."

"The chances, Doc. That's what I asked."

"Realistically Jack, you should probably call your rabbi and be prepared to sit shiva."

He turned on his heel and walked off. Matthew Goldberg would need a drink tonight. Badly.

January 31, 1956

"I'm sorry." He wanted to close his eyes and turn away. There was nothing more heartbreaking than a mother weeping over her child's too-soon passing. "His heart just stopped."

Jack Holt's voice sounded like it was in a tunnel. "We lost our son."

Goldberg nodded. Abby's sobs grew convulsive. He barely heard Jack's question. "—our daughter?"

He looked up, not daring to give false hope. "She's still on a respirator and can't breathe by herself. And she's so small. I don't know. Even if she does survive, she'll probably never be very strong...have difficulty with asthma, bronchitis, things like that. And...as weak as she is now, even if she lives, she'll probably die very early, possibly of an asthmatic attack, a seizure...or even a heart attack."

His eyes were suddenly watery. Goldberg turned and walked out and the young couple mourned the loss of their youngest.

February 1, 1956

Matthew Goldberg slowly pulled off his glasses and massaged his temple in exhaustion. His tired eyes could barely make out the scrawl on the certificate of death. Name—Seth John Holt. Sex—Male. Age at Death—4 days. Reason for Death—Cardiac arrest. Date of Birth—January 28, 1956. Date of Death—January 31, 1956.

Slowly he reached into his file. Might as well get ready to mail them together. He filled in everything he could. Everything but her name, cause of death, date of death, and age. He gave the female infant twenty-four hours. If by some miracle she should live, five years. She was so damned small.

February 1, 1956

The young couple stared through the plexiglass into the intensive care nursery. There lay their surviving twin, their middle child. They wouldn't tell Franny yet. How did you tell a seven-year-old her little brother and little sister were dead? Did you tell her they slept with the angels? Did you say they were now angels?

Their new little girl could probably fit in only one of Jack's palms, so small was she. Her smallness made her nearly impossible to see among the various tubes which pushed oxygen into her underdeveloped little body. The only noticeable feature was her head of dark hair.

"What are we going to call her?"

"I'm not naming her yet." Abigail looked up despondently from her wheelchair.

"What? Why!" Jack looked at her askance. She took a deep breath. "Jack, she's so small...Dr. Goldberg said she probably won't survive the next two days. She's getting weaker instead of better." Her voice began to crack. "I only gave our boy a name because they needed a name for the death certificate, so I named him after my father and you! And I lost him! I can't get attached to another baby that's going to die too! I'm going to lose my little girl too! And Franny—she'll never know her brother and sister–" She broke down completely.

Jack knelt down beside her, taking her beautiful smooth, pale hands. "Abby, she has a cha-"

"No Jack, she doesn't. That was Dr. Goldberg's–"

"We'll prove him wrong honey!"

The pretty blonde looked back at the window. "I can't Jack. Not yet."

Jack stared blankly at the incubator. He wanted to name her now, to let her know (as silly as it sounded), that he believed she could survive. That she was a fighter. He looked down at his heartbroken wife and then back at his remaining earth angel (did Dion sing that? Or was it the Penguins?)...his little earth angel. She needed a reason to fight. Everybody needed a reason to fight. And Abby couldn't give her one right now. He could. He had to.

"Let me name her."

"What?"

Jack never took his gaze off his daughter. "Let me name her."

Abigail shook her head. "Jack–"

He gripped her hands tightly. "Please! You named Frances. You named Seth. At least he had a name! Let me name her! She deserves a name."

Abigail knew Jack. This was his way of grieving. She stroked his dark wavy hair. "Alright."

Captain John Lee Holt, U.S. Army, knew the tiny doll-girl, his little doll-girl, needed a strong name. Names meant something. She needed a fighting name. His mind drifted back to Western Civilization, his favorite subject from high school, thinking of all the great names...Napoleon, Alexander the Great—Alexandra? No, she didn't look like an Alexandra...Churchill, Pericles, the great Greek ruler, wearing his crown of laurel branches in victor—Victory...victory in a fight. The laurel branches. Laurel...Laurie...Laura.

"Laura." He whispered the name, his eyes never leaving his baby girl.

"What?"

Was it his imagination or did his little...no, avenging angel's chest just move in a struggle to breathe on her own? He said it louder. "Her name is Laura."

Abigail sat back slowly in her wheelchair, wondering, daring to believe Jack could actually make her daughter...no THEIR daughter live because he willed her to live. "Laura. It's a pretty name."

Jack's gaze never wavered from the baby. He didn't pick the name because it was pretty. He picked the name for victory.

"Laura what?"

What sounded good with Laura? Again his mind drifted back to the victorious leaders of the world... but she was a little girl. Was there any woman who had ever dared to shake her fist at the world and scream, "It's mine. I want it!"? Had there been any woman in history who had ever ruled a man's world? Again his mind drifted back to high school Western Civilization. Queen Isabella of Spain...the woman who dared to finance a silly dream of riches...Katherine of Aragon...her daughter who dared to tell Henry VIII she would remain queen. No, neither sounded right with Laura. Laura Isabella, Laura Katherine...not quite right. Was there another woman who had dared to make up her own rules and rule the world? Elizabeth I.

"Laura Elizabeth." He whispered the name almost reverently.

Abigail, too, turned her gaze to the window. The young parents were each lost in their own thoughts.

/She's so small. I'll always protect you if you live. You'll always be taken care of. You'll be just like Frances...a happy, perfect little girl./

/You'll live Laura. I'm going to teach you how strong you really are. You'll never need anybody. You're going to live./

Little Laura Elizabeth Holt's respirator pumped up and down, pushing oxygen into all four pounds of her.

The beginning of the woman who created Remington Steele...