When the Bough Breaks
RATING: PG. Pretty benign,I think.
AN: Hee, hee...This is my interpretation of the forthcoming ep, based on the information we were privy to in "Family Business." I don't recall if there was ever a date given during the episode to orient us as to how far along the calendar we are in JAG world. I'm assuming the episode, and Singer's departure, took place some time in the middle or so of August. What transpired at the end of that episode simply could not be ignored by this opportunist! :-)
This, as it says, is part one. I don't intend to make this an epic like my other work (that truly is the goal. Really). This should be wrapped up in, at the very, very, most, two more parts. Enjoy!
Part 1*Achoo!*
"Gesundheit," I reply, taking in the miserable-looking spectacle that is my partner. He pulls out a starched white hanky and presses it gently to his red nose. "You're looking a little worse for wear, Commander."
He sniffles and moans something in response. "Damn weather," I make out before another sneeze grips him. The elevator dings and we step inside, both of us drifting to the back, not just to make room for others, but so we can have a little privacy, despite the obvious difficulties achieving that.
I spend a moment, as he reaches inside his pocket once again for the white, not quite as starched, hanky, examining his appearance. He looks pale, except where his nose and cheeks are red. His eyes are puffy and when he looks to me to give a glare for my scrutiny, I can see that they are watery, too. Judging by the general slump of his shoulders and his haggard appearance, I would venture to say he hasn't slept well, if at all, in a couple of days.
Quite frankly, he looks the most pitiful I've seen him, and that includes the time he spent in the hospital after being pulled from the Atlantic.
The normally intimidating (well, not to me) glare comes across more as a grudging plea for help and I take it as such. Switching my briefcase and cover to one hand, I reach up with the other and press my palm against his forehead. He feels a little warm and I'm certain he's at least running a low-grade fever.
"Harm, you should be at home in bed."
"Dime find," he responds dismissively.
"What?"
"Dime find," he says again. I pause, trying to conjure up what he could possibly be referring to.
"I don't follow, Harm." Maybe he's much sicker than I thought. I press my hand against his forehead again in reassessment. Yup, he does seem warmer.
"Dime…find…" he grounds out, jerking his head away in annoyance and swaying, just a little, from the sudden movement. Then it hits me what he's trying to say.
"No, you are not fine. Harm, you can barely stand."
"Dime find, Mac. Bust a head code."
"You should be home in bed," I scold, wondering how he possibly drove this way to work, and thankful he made it in one piece.
"Di hab things to boo tobay, Mac. Besides, Di took domething for it," he adds, as though that should satisfy me. He shuffles a little to his right, away from me, and I shuffle along with him, earning another pathetic look of annoyance.
"Mac."
"Harm, go home. You look terrible."
"Di can't. Di hab court."
"You can ask for a postponement."
"Di bon't want to," he says stubbornly. "Di feel find."
"Commander, you look like hell. What are you doing here?" Our CO interrupts the debate as we step out of the elevator and into the bullpen.
"Di work here, sir."
The admiral gives him a look. I shuffle away from Harm, deciding that if he wants to be petulant and irritable to our commanding officer, he can do it alone.
"A fact that can be changed rather easily with the right paperwork, Commander."
"Bes sir. Sorry."
"Hmph. Are you feeling all right? You look rather pale."
"Bust a head code, sir. Dits nothing. Di took dumb mebication for it. Di should be bokay in a cubble hours or doe."
"What?" The admiral crosses his arms and his brow furrows in confusion.
"He said it's just a head cold sir. He took some medication for it and he should be okay in a couple hours or so."
The admiral gives me a look of incredulity, his eyebrow arching in disbelief. "I don't know how you do it, Colonel."
"What? Understand what he's saying?"
"No, put up with him. You should be home, Commander," he says and walks off, shaking his head. I cross my own arms and give him a pointed look. See?
He rolls his eyes and the gesture almost causes his eyes to water. He disappears inside his office with a sneeze. A moment later I hear another one follow. And another.
I stand at his doorway watching him fumble with the no longer as white, and as-starched handkerchief. After dabbing a little less gently at his tender nose he raises his eyes to me.
"All bight, look. Dile go home afber court, bokay?"
"You'd better. And you'd better let me drive you."
"Mac, Di can drive byself."
"I don't think so, and don't argue with me, flyboy," I add warningly, seeing that he is about to. "You can just consider it part of your Christmas present."
"Hmph."
"Now, now. I make an excellent Nurse Nightengale," I add with a mischievous smile before sauntering out and closing the door behind me, but not before seeing the expression on his face.
He looks a little less miserable.
***********
I shuffle along the hallway thinking of how much I enjoy the Christmas season. The snow, which has come early this year, blanketing the ground in a wet cushion of white. The lights, the tree, the mall and D.C. at Christmas time. The presents. Okay, I admit it. I love presents. The songs of Christmas and nights spent around a warm fire, wrapped up in a blanket, sipping cocoa and staring at the tree lights and decorations, imagining my handsome sailor adorned in a Santa suit. Well, maybe just the hat. My handsome sailor adorned only with a Santa hat. Now there's a nice dream. Christmas cookies and candies.
Mistletoe.
I bought some of my own this year and hung it just inside my kitchen doorway yesterday. Harm's always bustling about in my kitchen and I'm always trying to shoo him out. Now maybe we can have a little extra fun fighting over the space. I smile at the thought. First, I'll have to nurse him to health. Or at least make sure the stubborn squid gets some rest and some fluids.
I walk into the bullpen from a meeting with a client and notice everyone standing in front of the television monitors.
"Harriet, what's going on?"
"Turn it up!" Someone calls, and Tiner steps forward and stretches to reach the volume button of the middle monitor.
A ZNN reporter, a woman I don't recognize, is standing on the flight deck of a carrier. In the left hand corner of the screen, small white lettering identifies the ship as the USS Seahawk. In the right hand corner, bold block letters notify viewers that this is a "LIVE" broadcast.
"I'm Teresa Maller on board the carrier Seahawk in the Arabian Sea," the woman reports. "Seven months ago a member of the Seahawk's crew was seriously injured. An officer, Lieutenant Bud J. Roberts of the JAG Corps, lost his leg below the knee after stepping on a land mine in Afghanistan."
The screen flashes an official picture of Bud and I can't help but smile at the young Bud Roberts smiling back. I nudge Harriet with my shoulder and she smiles nervously, uncertain as the rest of us, where this report might lead.
"After the Navy accidentally destroyed a local school, Lieutenant Roberts and his legalman helped to secure funds to build another. On the way to the ground-breaking ceremony, the lieutenant noticed a little boy standing in a mine zone. While trying to prevent serious harm coming to the child, the lieutenant stepped on a mine. The child escaped harm, but the lieutenant found himself facing an uphill battle of rehabilitation and uncertainty."
The reporter pauses poignantly to allow the drama of that statement to sink in and I see the admiral step beside me with arms crossed over his chest.
"Lieutenant Roberts was awarded the purple heart and stands to earn another medal for his meritorious service aboard the Seahawk.
"Another JAG was sent out to the carrier to assume the lieutenant's former duties. Things aboard the carrier were running fairly smoothly up until four weeks ago, when crew members began noticing peculiar behavior from the new resident JAG."
Harriet, the admiral and I all exchange glances. Sturgis joins the soiree, "What's going on?"
"Shhh," someone responds.
"Finally things came to a head two days ago, when, during a critical juncture in a mission, the lieutenant lost consciousness."
Someone laughs and quickly covers it up with a cough when the admiral looks towards the noise.
"After being taken to sickbay, the doctors found the lieutenant to be dehydrated and suffering from exhaustion."
"I guess Singer needs to pace herself if she wants to take over the whole ship," I remark quietly and both Harriet and the admiral snort. Sturgis smiles.
"But that's not all. The JAG officer, Lieutenant Loren Singer, is 16 weeks pregnant."
There's a collective gasp and a brief moment of silence, broken by the sound of a very loud thud. Harriet, Sturgis, the admiral and I all glance behind us in confusion.
Harm is passed out cold on the floor.