Ya tebya lyublyu…

"John…?"

Ya dastanu tebe zvyozdee snebes…

"John, wake up…"

Ya tebya lyblyu, laskovaya moya…ya ne magu bez tebya shzit…

"Wake up, John…wake up…"

He came awake with a start, his muscles tensing as he sucked in a ragged breath and gripped the hand that had shaken him out of his delirium.

Ilsa! He opened his eyes and felt his heart lurch a little. No, not Ilsa…Ellie.

"Hey," she said, her hand involuntarily clasping his hand in one of her own as she smoothed his hair from his forehead with the other. "You were talking in your sleep."

Oh, fuck... Please let it have been in a language she doesn't understand.

"I didn't know you spoke Russian," she said, smiling down at him.

Didn't know you did either, he thought to himself as he tried to adjust his position in bed. He was more clearheaded than he'd been in days and it didn't hurt to think anymore, but there was a downside to this newfound clarity: head-to-toe, he was drenched in rank, oily sweat. Ugh…

"Good work, Marine," she said cheerfully as she used the hood of his sweatshirt to wipe at his forehead. "Your fever broke while you were out of it."

He slowly turned his head to look at the clock. It was almost five in the morning. He was due to report to the General Beckman and Director Graham in a little more than three hours.

He had to get her out of here, pronto.

Unfortunately, she was not a mindreader.

"C'mon, big guy," she said, flipping back the covers. "Bathroom time!"

He had no idea how it happened. One moment he was lying on his back, contemplating how he was going to word the text message to Sarah asking her to hustle Ellie out of the apartment before the morning briefing, the next he was in the bathroom and she was closing the door on him to give him some privacy while he took care of business.

Fuck this diddling with Intersect shit, John said to himself as he lifted the lid, put Ellie Bartowski in the field and watch the terrorists scream like little girls as they scatter like sheep before her.

"Probably took a lot out of you just to wake up, didn't it?" she asked as she helped him sit on the edge of the tub.

He nodded, his face contorting as he struggled to get comfortable. He was getting better, but he still had a long way to go.

He was not going to make it into the Buy More today, that much was certain, but he wondered what in the world he was going to do with himself. He'd read every single book in his home at least twice and his bonsais were not due for trimming for another three days.

"Well you are in for a treat," she declared, bending down and reaching for the zipper of his black hooded sweatshirt, "because you are going to feel so much better after a shower!"

His hands closed over her wrists and she looked up to find him staring at her with an expression on his face of the "excuse me, ma'am, but what the hell do you think you are doing?" variety.

"I'm helping you get undressed," she explained.

"Oh no, you're not," his eyes seemed to say as he removed her hands from his sweatshirt and looked at her.

"Don't worry, I'm a doctor," she assured him. "This is completely professional."

His eyes narrowed as he turned his head a little to the right, considering her. He was not convinced.

She laughed a little as she sank onto her haunches and made the Girl Scouts hand gesture. "On my honor as Chuck's sister, I solemnly swear I am only trying to assist you out of your clothes!"

He stared at her for a few seconds before his eyebrows twitched upwards and Ellie realized what she'd just said. She blushed beet red and covered her face with her hands.

"Oh my God! That did not come out right at all!"

He patted her shoulder in mock commiseration, chuckling without sound as she giggled into her palms.

"Okay, okay, no more of this silliness," she said, lifting her head and grinning at him as she flipped her bangs out of her eyes. "Let's get you cleaned up."

He nodded and allowed her to help him out of his sweatshirt, which left him in a plain white t-shirt, black sweatpants and whatever undergarments he happened to be wearing.

She dropped the sweatshirt on the floor – she would wash it, along with the sheets on the bed and the rest of the clothes he was wearing, while he was in the shower.

He had a little trouble with the t-shirt, and she helped him with that, too, pulling it over his head as he held up his arms and dropping it on the floor next to the sweatshirt. When she turned back to him, she found he had managed to drag himself onto his feet.

He now stood facing her, one hand maintaining a death grip on the shower rod as he tried to keep his balance.

He has a really nice chest, she thought absently as she went for the waistband of his sweatpants.

Once again, he gripped her wrists, but this time he easily captured both of hers in the hand that wasn't holding on for dear life to keep him from falling over and crashing into her.

"Hey, I'm not trying to take advantage of you," she scolded, shaking her head at him as he extracted her hands from his pants. "That fever took a lot out of you and I think you could use some help getting ready for your shower."

He shook his head at her as he released her wrists, stumbled into the tub and slid the shower curtain close.

"We get all kinds in the ER, John," she called over the thin white plastic barrier. "It's not like you've got anything I haven't seen before."

No response, just the rustle of clothing.

"You know, Chuck mentioned you had a Puritanical streak, but I didn't think it was this bad," she teased.

He pulled aside the curtain just enough to give her his sweatpants, boxers, and a ferocious scowl before yanking it back in place and turning the shower on full blast.

"That expression may work on my brother and his friends, John Casey, but it doesn't scare me one little bit," Ellie declared, pitching her voice so she could be heard over the water.

He responded by flinging water droplets at her over the shower curtain.

"All right, all right! I'm going!" she yelped, scooping up his clothing as she beat a hasty retreat.

John took his time working the shampoo through his hair and the soap over his body, grateful for the steam that was temporarily soothing his inflamed respiratory tract.

He hadn't been this sick in God only knew how long and if Ellie hadn't come looking for him, it was very likely that he would still be lying on the kitchen floor, running a high grade fever and being haunted by visions of his dead lover.

But maybe that would be preferable to what he was going to have to do when he got out of the shower: he was going to have to stop seeing her.

Hold on one goddamn minute and back the hell up, he told himself. "Seeing" her? Since when am I "seeing" her?!

It's not a bad idea, his inner voice replied. If she ever breaks up with that dillweed she calls her boyfriend, it would be the perfect cover – dating her would keep you close to the Intersect and you could break up with her before you had to put the kid down…

He glanced down and his eyes widened.

Obviously, a certain part of him was not in any way averse to the arrangement. In fact, despite his being sick as a dog, it was downright enthusiastic about the notion.

Hey, Dr. Bartowski, do you think getting a hard-on at the thought of you naked is a sign that I'm getting better? He grinned as he imagined her reaction to the question.

Why, yes, John, I'd imagine that would qualify.

He shook his head as he finished washing up. He had to stop going down this mental tunnel because it was just going to lead to trouble of the Prague-variety and he had no interest in anyone getting a third picture of him chained to a headboard, his clover boxers on display for anyone to see.

Betcha she looks fan-fucking-tastic in nothing but her birthday suit, his below-the-belt brain mused idly.

Shut up! he thought at it. I am not going to pay attention to you so you'd just better settle down, all right?

Okay! I was just saying…

She is a good, kind, respectable woman – he scolded mentally.

With a really nice rack! it retorted gleefully as it bobbed a little.

Please go away, he wheedled, I'm too tired to deal with you right now. I'm going to need her help to get dressed and she's going to come back here in a moment and see you and let's just say that I'm not up to making introductions at this point in time.

He said a silent prayer of thanks as it heard and obeyed…for now.

A few minutes later he was clad in boxers and a pair of athletic pants, mutely arguing with her as she tried to anoint his face with shaving foam.

"Oh, stop being such a big baby," she ordered, pushing his hand out of the way as she wielded the brush. "I swear, you're worse than Chuck when he needs to get a haircut!"

Between the time she'd presented him with fresh clothing (back turned to give him some privacy, but still there to catch him if he collapsed) and he'd brushed his teeth, she caught him eyeing his day-old stubble with pain.

John liked having a perfectly smooth face, and that growth, short as it was, made him feel, well...unkempt. Like he was some kind of Wild West desperado on the run.

If he was particular about anything, it was shaving. Being cleanshaven was something he and his father had in common, one of the few things they agreed on outside of the Corps. He made do in the field, but cushy assignments like this one made it possible for him to indulge in his love of the perfect shave.

He had all of the tools laid out on his counter – pure badger brush, pewter mug, bay rum-scented glycerine shaving cream, classic safety razor – and the moment Ellie saw his eyes dart to his reflection and scowl at himself, she sprang into action.

She waited for him to finish with his teeth, then rinsed the sink, filled it with hot water and put the brush in to soak.

"Stay," she told him, slinging his towel around his neck as she plunked him on the toilet seat.

It galled him to know that the combination of her tone of voice and his lack of energy would ensure that he obeyed her.

She opened his tin of shaving cream and inhaled slowly. "Mmmm…no wonder you smell so nice."

Don't even think about it, he warned his "little brain".

It twitched a little just to make sure he knew it heard him.

"Okay, if I remember correctly, we start with the brush – " she retrieved said item from the sink and held it upside down to let the water run out – "and I swirl it in the cream."

John watched, mesmerized as her fingers rolled the brush tips in the shaving cream in a circular motion, gathering lather. She turned it upside down again and advanced on him, plainly intent on applying it. That was when he put his hand up to take the brush from her.

He knew if she got as close as she needed to get to be able to start painting his face, he was not going to be able to concentrate on not getting hard.

Ellie had slept in the recliner all night, and it showed. Her hair was messy, her makeup was completely gone, her clothes were wrinkled, but she was still the sexiest woman he'd ever seen, Ilsa included.

There was no way in hell he was going to be able to keep from showing that in the most basic, animalistic way Mother Nature invented for a man to tell a woman that he was interested in her.

"Stop it," she commanded as she neatly evaded his attempts to grab the brush. "I don't care how many people you've shot – you're the patient, I'm the doctor, so just sit there and behave or I'll make you."

He froze and gave her the eyebrow.

She stood above him, a very stern look on her face. "I've restrained heroin addicts going through convulsive withdrawal, John Casey. Marine or not, I can take you."

I'll bet you can, he thought, half-believing her.

"Now, you are going to stop fighting me and let me shave you or I am going to make you drink more Tamiflu. We clear?"

Yes, ma'am, he nodded, fully buying into her authority in this situation.

"Good. Now just relax and it'll be over before you know it," she said with a smile as she began coating his face with shaving foam.

He had to sit on his hands to keep them from reaching for her hips as she bent over him.

She was giving him an unwitting view down her shirt as she ran the razor over his cheeks, his jaw, his throat. Her breasts were on the smallish side, but they were so her – not too much, not to little, just completely fucking perfect.

And that little line that appeared between her eyebrows as she moved the razor, slow and sure, down his left cheek…adorable, adorable in every goddamn way.

He wanted her.

Fuck.

When in this lifetime was he finally going to catch a goddamn break?!

He was on assignment and she was the sister of his mark.

And she was taken. Very taken.

He barely kept from whimpering when the small, pink tip of her tongue poked out from between her lips as she shaved the tricky spot under his chin.

She was a lady, for chrissakes! She didn't deserve to have a scumbag like him lusting over her while she looking after his invalid ass!

But here he was, like always, in the middle of a goatfuck of epic proportions: recovering from the worst flu he'd ever had in his life and contemplating a million and one ways to get her naked and make her moan his name.

"Oh, John…you are such a trooper," she said as ran her delicate, skilled fingers over his throat. "Ready to rinse?"

He nodded, grateful that she turned her back to him while she rinsed the razor off because it gave him a chance to stand up and adjust himself out of sight. She drained the warm, foamy water out of the sink, filled it back up with cold, clear water and he splashed his face and patted himself dry.

Damn good job, he acknowledged, running a hand over his jaw.

"Aftershave?" she asked, offering him the bottle.

He poured some out into his palm and spread it over his face, marveling at how good a job she'd done. He had decades of shaving under belt, and here she'd gone and done just as good as he at his best.

"Thanks," she said, going off of his expression as she handed him a t-shirt which said "My Guns Are Outlawed" across the front. She took him by the hand and guided him back into his bedroom. "Back to bed with you, mister."

She's made the bed up with fresh sheets, he realized with dismay, gaping at the crisp new linens as he put on the t-shirt. She's bound to have come across the gear!

"Oh, don't worry, I put them over there on your bookcase," she said, guessing at the reason for his discomfort.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he visually confirmed that the three guns, two knives and grenade he'd hidden between the mattress and box spring were present and accounted for. She didn't appear to be upset by his "princess and the pea" set-up – interesting.

"No such thing as an ex-Marine," she commented as she gave him a little shove in the direction of the bed.

He knew better than to argue with her as he crawled back under the covers and submitted gracefully to yet another dose of the cough suppressant.

"Now you go to sleep," she said, running a hand through her hair. "I'm going over to my place to get a shower, a nap and some food for you. You are not allowed to eat anything out of your freezer on my watch, mister."

He gave her a look of absolute adoration as he nodded, his mind working overtime at conjuring all sorts of delicious things she was going to make him eat as he got better.

She smiled and gave him a little wave as she left.

He was smart enough to make sure she was really gone before he reached for his Blackberry.

John sent a quick pair of texts: one to Beckman and one to Walker, letting them know that he was out of commission for the day. Then he put the device back on the nightstand and went to sleep.

"Here we go with my patented 'get better soon' lunch: more chicken soup and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich," Ellie announced as she appeared in the doorway six hours later bearing a tray full of food, looking well-rested and freshly scrubbed.

John sat up a little straighter against the pillow and helped her settle it on his lap.

"Listen, I have an idea," she said as she sat down on the edge of his bed. "Today's my day off and the Top Chef marathon is on TV right now. Do you want to watch it with me?"

He froze, half a much-diminished sandwich in one hand and a napkin in another. You want to hang out with me? his expression seemed to say.

"Sure," she replied, folding her arms. "Who else do I know who can truly appreciate the absolute genius of Anthony Bourdain?"

John shrugged. She did have a point.

"Since you're sick, we're going watch it right here," she said, indicating the flat screen TV situated at the foot of his bed. "so move over and make room for me."

He scooted over a bit, awestruck, as she rummaged through the drawer of his nightstand, looking for the remote control.

How in the hell had she managed to buffalo him like this? He was completely at her mercy. Hell, she could have her way with him right now if she wanted to and there was no way he could stop her.

Not that he'd try all that hard.

"Yay!" she said as she pushed the button to turn on the TV and settled in next to him. "This is going to be so awesome!"

He looked at her.

Ellie blushed. "I just sounded like Devon there for a moment, didn't I?"

John nodded.

"Oh well, I guess there are worse thing in life," she said with wry grin. "How's your sandwich? I didn't know if you liked grape or apple jelly, so I took a chance."

He smiled back at her as he chewed, pointed to the sandwich and gave her a thumbs-up.

"Good," she replied. "Glad to know I made the right call."

"I can't believe that guy won!" Ellie fretted, watching Hung's victory speech. "Casey was a much better cook than he was!"

"And not nearly as conceited," John commented in a dry, scratchy voice, secretly thrilled at her loyalty to the family name.

She stood up, stretched the kinks out of her spine and shook out her legs as she gave him a once-over. "Well, you're looking a lot better and you can finally talk now. I guess my work here is done."

There was an awkward moment as they both realized how much they had enjoyed each other's company over the last two days and that it was quickly coming to an end.

"Bet you'll be glad you won't have me bossing you around anymore," she offered as she shoved her hands into the pockets of her jeans.

He cocked his head to the side, made a "considering" face, then looked at her and nodded a little bit with a gleam in his eye.

She laughed – he was teasing her. Again.

"Don't get so cocky there," she cautioned. "I know your Achilles heel – you're a complete baby when it comes to taking your medicine."

He scowled at her and held up a finger, indicating for her to "hold on just a minute there, missy" as he turned his back to her.

"You can't shoot me," she taunted as he searched the drawer of his other nightstand for something. "Everyone would know you did it."

When he turned back around, he had a piece of paper in his hand which he held up smugly for her perusal.

Her mouth dropped wide open as she leaned forward to read the number that was written on it.

He managed to pull his hand back just in time as she crawled across the bed and made a mad grab for it.

"Give that back! That is über-classified, top-secret, lock-it-in-a-safety-deposit-box-and-throw-away-the-key intelligence!" she squawked as she wrestled with him for the paper.

"Uh-uh," he said as he effortlessly played "keep-away" with her. "We made a deal, lady, fair and square – you tell anybody my secrets and I tell yours. I'll bet there's a lot of enquiring minds down at Kaiser Santa Rosa who'd like to know how much you really weigh."

"You tell anybody what's on that paper and I will come back here with a rectal thermometer!" she threatened, then burst into the giggles at the look of horror on his face before she collapsed on top of him.

They both laughed for a full thirty seconds before their eyes locked and they became conscious of the position they were in – him on his back on the bed, her straddling his hips.

One moment became two as they remained there, neither quite sure of what they should do.

Then Ellie, always cool in a crisis, rolled off him and the bed in one smooth motion and stood up. Taking a deep breath, she said, "I think it's about time I returned home. God knows what the boys have done to the apartment while I was gone."

John followed her down the stairs and opened the door to let her out.

"You're coming to dinner on Sunday, aren't you?" she asked, her eyes hopeful and expectant as she looked at him over her shoulder. "We're having pot roast. You never actually got to have any the last time I served it."

He nodded, grateful that the door hid the clenching of his fist as he gave into her yet again. "I'll bring dessert?"

"Sure!" she replied, their easy camaraderie once more in place.

He watched her walk away, not closing the door to his apartment until she was inside of hers. One never knew what might happen crossing a courtyard in this section of town, he told himself as she waved at him before she closed her door.

Jesus Christ, John thought as he closed his, leaned back against it and sighed heavily. I am so fucking screwed…