Vega & Jane
Jack and the lieutenant—Vega, she keeps reminding herself—trade off at around noon. Jack exits the room with a mocking nod, and Vega enters with a stiff salute.
"Ma'am," he says.
"We're going for a walk."
He keeps a few steps behind, watching the halls and her balance, baby in one hand, IV pole in the other.
"Isn't this detail a little cushy for you?"
"No, ma'am."
"You know how to say anything else besides yes, no, and ma'am?"
He laughs, a breathy, comforting sound.
"Yes, ma'am, I do. Just not much of a talker, I guess."
"Look at that. I just tripled your vocabulary."
"Yes, ma'am."
They step out onto the surgical isolation floor together, and she has to pause.
"I could take the little niño, if you're tired."
She takes him up on the offer because, what the hell, she's going to have to start trusting the new people at some point. Vega's been trained, or at least studied some theory: with a little cooing and snuffling, the baby's settled in the crook of his ridiculously beefy arm.
"You work out a lot, don't you?"
"Flattered you noticed," Vega says with a grin. "Hate to put on the gun-show without a few admirers."
With his free hand, he gestures up the ward.
"C'mon, Elvis is waiting."
They make it a few more steps before it hits her.
"Elvis?"
"Yeah," Vega nods, gesturing over his scalp. "You know, because of the hair?"
"Gave your CO a nickname?"
"I give everyone nicknames. Scars, Sparks, Bones, Ice, Squid, Boom, Blue, Flash, Doc."
For a moment, she is speechless, contemplating.
"Blue's Samara?"
"Oh, hell no, she scares me too much to call her anything but ma'am."
"So no nickname for me?"
Vega shrugs.
"Gimme time. Gotta get a feel for you first."
He grins, and she can't help smiling back.
"Ma'am."