BackStory 9: The 42 Isotopes of the Butterfly

Allow me to offer my apologies up front - this is not my best work. A more polished, coherent version of it will likely appear in the next Mike & the McConnikees story I write.

Note: This takes place about three years before The Call of the Day.

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Mike Stoker felt a wave of tenderness sweep over him as he brushed a strand of dark hair back from her tear-stained face. She had cried herself out in his arms then fallen into an uneasy sleep on the couch. Despite what his mother would call the impropriety of the situation, letting Patty sleep here until morning was the best course. And, he'd promised to look after her.

"Patty?" His voice was soft, hesitant. He was relieved when she didn't stir and moved to pick her up. This wasn't exactly the way I expected our date to go, he thought, suppressing a sigh as he carefully carried her to his bedroom, placing her on top of the brown and russet comforter. From the foot of his bed, Stoker picked up a ripple afghan crocheted in pumpkin orange, olive green, and mustard yellow. He unfolded it over Patty gently and left the room.

In the living room, he quietly collected her shoes and purse from beside the couch, parking the shoes by the door and the purse on the dining room table where they would be easy to find. Mike finished clearing the table and slid the dishes into a sink full of warm sudsy bubbles to soak. A crying jag wasn't exactly the same as a hangover, but the dehydration and resultant headache were remarkably similar. Or, so said his sister. He refilled Patty's glass with ice water and found his bottle of Tylenol, delivering the remedy to her bedside and exiting silently, leaving the door ajar about an inch. A small strip of light from the hallway fell across her face. He extinguished the light as he headed back to kitchen to finish washing the dishes, thinking soberly about the woman now resting in his bed.

=+++=/====+/+====

To say Patty Mack was a bit of a mystery to Mike was an understatement. They'd met about three years ago, on one of the more embarrassing nights of his life. He had been extremely drunk – by design but really drunk could still be really embarrassing – and she'd found him wandering the halls of the dorm where she was the resident assistant. He only remembered part of that night and the next morning when they'd gone through the first Kyson Drill of the week.

When he woke up, he had the vision of green eyes and dark hair in his head, the memory of 'call me specialist' in his ears, and a first name and a number scribbled on the back of a discarded library catalogue card in his hand. With only a hazy albeit tantalizing memory of the woman, Stoker didn't call. Curiosity – about both the woman who signed her name in green ink and the peculiar book on the reverse – made him keep the card.

And it was the book which brought them together again about six months later. He'd been at the university, seeing what classes might be available, when he decided to pay a visit to the campus library and check out the book if he could.

"Excuse me, ma'am, could you help me locate a book?" Stoker said politely to the older woman at the reference desk. The curved desk was made of medium-colored wood with a natural finish and was topped with black and gray flecked granite. The same natural shades of wood were repeated throughout the two-story entrance of the library, flanking clear glass windows and banded with brushed silver knobs, handles, supports and trims. A large brightly-colored mobile was suspended above the entrance, turning slowly by means of some unseen mechanism, the matte finish catching but not reflecting the light as it did.

"Have you checked the card catalogue?"

"Yes, ma'am, but I didn't find it. I wasn't sure of the exact title and didn't know the author."

"What do you think the title is?"

"The 42 Isotopes of the Butterfly," he replied, saying it aloud for the first time and hearing the oddness of it afresh.

"Is this some kind of a joke, young man?" she asked sternly. Apparently she also thought it was an odd title.

"Uh, no, ma'am."

"Butterflies do not have isotopes."

"No, ma'am."

"Excuse me, Mrs. Hendricks?" A small voice broke into the conversation. "I believe that was one of the titles pulled after that, uh, incident last semester." The woman, Mrs. Hendricks, looked at the student worker who had stopped checking in returned books to offer her hesitant observation. She turned back to Mike with a suspicious look on her face.

"Where did you hear about this book?"

"The title was on the back of a note I received," Mike explained briefly. He wasn't about to admit a mystery woman had given it to him after a night of drinking at O'Malley's. Such an admission was unlikely to raise his standing in Mrs. Hendricks' eyes; he probably already sounded like an idiot. After all, what kind of a person couldn't find a book with a library card catalog?

She sighed. "Green ink, right?"

"Uh, yes, ma'am?"

"Well, that explains it," the older woman said cryptically. "Just a minute." She turned from the desk and walked down a short aisle to a closed door and entered, leaving Mike with the diminutive sophomore student worker who kept casting admiring glances up at him as she checked in the same book three times. When Mrs. Hendricks returned, she actually looked amused when she told him 'Miss Patty Mack herself' would be right out to help him 'find' the book.

"Thank you, ma'am," Mike responded and stepped to the side of the desk to wait. It was not a long wait.

"Firefighter Specialist Michael D. Stoker?" The feminine voice uttering his name and rank was full-bodied and pleasant. When he turned, he discovered the voice matched the woman – who did look familiar, especially those green eyes. Pretty eyes, pretty edges, wandered through his mind again and this time he was able to latch onto it, along with some of their conversation that night.

"Pattyfirefighter, I presume?" he said with a slight smile.

"My friends call me Patty Mack, specialist," she replied, holding out her hand.

"Mike," he responded, taking her hand.

"Oh, no, you don't," Patty replied pertly. "You said I could call you 'specialist', and I'm gonna." When he looked surprised, she added, "You were most insistent about it, specialist." Some things he didn't remember and perhaps that was good for all concerned. And he could live with 'specialist' – especially the way she said it. It made him feel special.

"Well, okay," he said, not sure of where to go next when he caught sight of the mobile which looked like a butterfly at this angle. "The 42 Isotopes of the Butterfly?" he asked, raising his eyebrow at her.

She laughed a little too loudly by Mrs. Hendricks' standards and was summarily shushed. "A little MLS practical joke," Patty said, after giving the head librarian a contrite look, "that got out of hand last semester." She looked ready to continue the explanation when a skinny, dark-haired kid, no more than eighteen, stepped out from between the stacks and tossed his arm around Patty's shoulders. She responded by putting an arm around his waist, squeezing once and letting him go, but not dislodging his arm.

"Hey, Patty, c'mon, we're gonna be late for class," he said without acknowledging Mike's presence. He started to guide her toward the door when she tapped her chest and then the book he was carrying. Reluctantly, he pulled his arm from around her shoulders and sighed at the delay.

"Sorry I can't chat now, Mike, I have class," Patty told him, reaching behind the desk for the book bag she'd brought from the backroom. "It's good to meet you again. You should call me sometime … if you want to hear the rest of the story … or something."

"May just have to do that," he said noncommittally, not sure what to make of the kid eyeing him suspiciously.

"Call me, specialist," Patty said again, green eyes impish but intent.

"Isn't that supposed to be my line, Patty Mack?" Mike replied with a grin, enjoying her laughter as she left the library with her book bag grasped in one hand and the glaring youth in the other. Definitely interesting, definitely worth a call.

=+++=/====+/++===

It took him a few days to find the card he'd tucked away. When he called mid-morning, an irate female voice told him there was no 'Miss Mack' at this number. Figuring he'd only dialed the number wrong, he started to call again when they were toned out for a fire. By the time they returned and cleaned up the equipment, it was early evening. He dialed again and a male voice answered this time. When Mike identified himself and asked if he could speak to Miss Patty Mack, a heavy silence greeted him. A gruff 'Leave her alone, mister' was followed by an abrupt click. Stoker's third attempt to reach her around noon the next day went unanswered. After a few other tries – some hang-ups, some not answered – he tucked the card away again, disappointed he hadn't been able to get in touch with her. Seeing the card among the papers on his desk would make him wonder about the green-eyed lady who had flitted into and out of his life. Maybe I'll catch her at the library again, he thought, when I'm on campus next semester.

=+++=/====+/+++==

An unfavorable offering of classes, however, kept Stoker off campus the next semester. The not-unexpected arrival of a new captain at Station 51 gave him the opportunity to return but the abrupt arrival of two sets of twin nieces dominated his days off as the Stokers rallied to tend the newborns. When Mike did take another class at the university, it didn't surprise him to learn no one at her old number had heard of her.

He was surprised, however, to find The 42 Isotopes of the Butterfly back in the card catalogue. When he read the 'description' of the book, Stoker smiled … and discretely slipped the card from the file. "A diploma in hand results in a change of phone number for a green-eyed girl. Specialist call number 213.555.4673." A series of dates about two months apart, over the past year, were written on the reverse, in green ink. Apparently, he'd made an impression on her, too.

=+++=/====+/++++=

"Good morning, this is Patty. How may I help you?" He thought he recognized the voice cloaked in a professionally neutral tone.

"Good morning, miss. I'm looking for a 'book' I lost track of. Perhaps you could help me find it?"

"I'm sorry, sir, this is an architectural firm. Perhaps you have the wrong number?"

"Is this 213-555-4673? That's the special call number on the card I found."

Pause. "Yes, it is. Perhaps I can help you. What is the title of the book you are looking for, sir?"

"The 42 Isotopes of the Butterfly."

"Mike!? Is that you, specialist?"

"Yup. How ya been, Patty Mack?"

=+++=/====+/+++++

After explaining the difficulty he'd had in reaching her and learning her cousin was responsible for the gruff hang-ups, Mike suggested they meet somewhere for coffee on his next day off, to get to know each other and exchange phone numbers. Patty readily agreed.

She'd been telling him the story of the practical joke her Masters of Library Science class had pulled with the card catalogue when a couple of young men sat down at the table beside theirs and stared at her pointedly. Both were dark-haired with stocky builds. It was clear Patty knew them but after a brief glance in their direction, she ignored them. Mike raised an eyebrow at Patty, who rolled her eyes in return and continued her animated storytelling without pause.

They had finished their coffees and made plans to meet again when Mike asked if she was going to introduce her, uh, friends. The pair had been staring at him darkly ever since he'd reached across the table and touched her arm to see if she wanted more coffee.

"They're not exactly friends," she replied, gathering up her bag.

"Enemies, then?" he asked.

"Worse – family!" she quipped and he laughed with her. After that, it became a semi-regular occurrence for them to meet for coffee … and to see various stocky dark-haired young men in the vicinity whenever they did. Patty had said to ignore them and Mike was content to comply.

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Their first 'date' had been nothing fancy: dinner and a movie, followed by coffee and dessert at one of the cafés they'd discovered in their increasingly frequent coffee talks. Patty suggested they sit outside and Stoker readily agreed, a little concerned about the unusually large crowd stuffed into the small establishment that evening. While they were finishing off pieces of an overly tart apple pie, Mike suddenly tensed and looked down the street intently. Within a minute, Squad 51 and Engine 51 went racing past, lights and sirens cutting across the pleasant night. Stoker turned to watch the vehicles, losing sight of them as they turned at the next corner. He scanned the darkening sky in the general direction the apparatus had gone, half-rising in his seat to get a better visual on the – .

"Specialist?" Patty asked. "Is something wrong?" She'd noticed the screaming fire truck was from Mike's station, 51s.

"Just checking for a header," he replied absently.

"A header?" There was a smile in her voice which caused him to twist back around to face her.

"Sorry," he said, sitting back down. "I was looking for a smoke header – an indication of how large the fire is. If you can see smoke from a couple miles away, chances are the fire is pretty big already. That can determine how you attack the fire, whether you call in other companies to assist, what kind of hose to – uh, well, all kinds of, uh, things." Mike broke off, realizing Patty probably didn't want a dissertation on how to size-up a fire scene. He knew he could go on and on about firefighting once he got started, a trait which had, in the past, screwed his chances for a second date. Not gonna risk that tonight.

"'All kinds of, uh, things', huh?" Patty replied. "Like what?" There was amusement as well as curiosity in her voice, but he wasn't sure which was dominant. He'd already learned she had a wicked sense of humor. Not malicious, just … wicked.

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to ramble. I'm sure you don't want to hear about the details of fire scene management." Part of him wished she really was curious, not just polite. He thought he heard sirens coming from the other direction but refrained from turning to check. Appearing more interested in a fire than the girl you're with isn't exactly the way to win Brownie points with her. "You were telling me about that charity for – ."

"Michael," Patty interrupted, her expression serious. "There's something you should know about me." She paused, leaned forward, and motioned him closer as well, until their faces were mere inches apart. She caught and held his eyes, watching him intently. "I am more curious than a cat, more tenacious than a bulldog, and more stubborn than a mule – especially when it comes to finding out things. If I'm not curious about something, it generally means you should check for a pulse." Having made her proclamation, she leaned back in her chair. "Now move your chair to this side of the table so you don't sprain your neck 'not-looking' toward the fire, and tell me about headers and footers and fire scene management and 'all kinds of, uh, things'." Her mouth curved into a smile. "Please," she added.

Mike blinked. As he moved his chair beside her as ordered, he started to smile as well. This was going to be an interesting relationship. With or without the Irish mafia lurking in the background.

=+++=/====+/==+++

Patty Mack had gone out of town for a library conference shortly after their first date. She returned to find her apartment had been broken into and trashed in the interim. Fortunately, her roommate had been visiting family for a few days so only their possessions had been damaged. But Julie and Patty had both been rattled by the incident and planned to move to a better neighborhood. Mike had been hesitant to ask her out again, when her life was so unsettled, but decided to take a shot anyway. Her heartfelt 'that's just what I need, specialist' had reassured him he'd made the right decision.

Stoker had two goals for their next evening together – to stymie Patty's 'Irish mafia' bodyguards and to saturate each of her senses with beauty as an antidote to the ugliness of the break-in. So he tried to plan carefully. Fragrant flowers would be ready at the florist when he drove over to pick her up for an early dinner at a small out-of-the-way restaurant with a reputation for excellence. The Los Angeles Chamber Orchestra, conducted by Neville Marriner, would be performing Albinoni, Janácek and some other pieces in the first half of the concert at Royce Hall; a short contemporary program would be featured after the intermission, including jazz-style works by Lee Ritenour and Dave Grusin. After the concert, Mike would suggest a leisurely drive along Mulholland Drive or, if Patty preferred, along the PCH. He had even scoped out coffeehouses along both routes in case they wanted to stop for a late dessert.

Whether he'd have the opportunity to delight her with the touch of his lips would depend on how things progressed.

Of course, it hadn't quite gone that way.

Patty had been delayed by a flat tire on her way home from work and the altered spatial chronology of the evening resulting in Patty driving herself to Mike's instead of being picked up, and dinner being rescheduled so as not to miss any of the concert. Being unable to pick up her flowers and missing dinner had been unavoidable but still frustrating.

The concert itself, however, had been everything Stoker'd hoped it would be and more. Rich baroque music skillfully played flowed over the entire audience and her delighted reactions to the performance quickly soothed Mike's ruffled feathers. Any awkwardness had faded completely away by the time he reached over and held her hand, long before the segment concluded with a haunting rendition of Adagio in G minor.

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"Enjoying yourself?" he asked her during the intermission, handing her a glass of raspberry punch before picking up one for himself. She smiled up at him and took a sip of the icy concoction, as they strolled to the other side of the lobby.

"Very much so, specialist, very much," she said, giving him a quick side squeeze,appreciating the subtle aftershave he wore.

"I'm glad." He paused and took a large drink of the punch. "I had planned to suggest a drive after the concert, but I think we'd better eat first." Mike put his glass down and pulled a small paper cup out of his pocket. "I don't think this will be enough," he quipped, spilling the contents out into his napkin-covered hand.

"A drive would be great but, yeah, lunch was a while ago," she admitted. "I don't think we'd be able to get into a restaurant any time soon, though." Patty took another sip of the punch and eyed the napkin full of party mix Mike had in his hand. He moved it closer and she began to daintily pick out the Spanish peanuts and dark Chex, munching as she thought.

"Do you trust me?" Mike asked suddenly. Patty raised an eyebrow in response, waiting for more as she nibbled on a pretzel. "I can cook for us."

=+++=/====+/====+

"That was delicious," Patty said, sighing with contentment a few hours later.

"Thanks," Mike said, long legs stretched out comfortably in front of him. She looked at him across the table that held the remains of spaghetti, garlic bread, and salad. Looking good, specialist, looking good, she thought, noting his closed eyes and relaxed pose.

When they'd arrived at his apartment, Stoker had discarded the jacket and tie he'd worn to the concert, unbuttoning the collar and the top few buttons of his shirt before setting to work in the galley kitchen. He'd turned up his sleeves, displaying the muscularity in his forearms, after starting the water for the pasta. Standing in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room, Patty had enjoyed watching him move, efficiently going from task to task as he cooked and asked about her new job. As he listened to her responses, Mike peeled the garlic cloves by rolling them between his thumb and fingers, before slicing them finely with a sharp knife. His large hands gently pulled apart half a head of lettuce in a bowl and grated a carrot to the nub before popping it in his mouth, resulting in happy crunching. In turn, he offered her a piece of the red bell pepper slated to revive the leftover sauce he had pulled out of a neatly stocked refrigerator; Patty had playfully eaten it from his garlic-scented fingers, looking up at him through her long dark lashes as she did. The corner of his mouth had snuck up in response.

Now, the open collar of his still-spotless white dress shirt revealed the smooth tanned skin of his throat and chest, and Patty found herself eyeing his relaxed frame with – .

"I'm beginning to feel like dessert," Stoker said placidly after several minutes of being silently observed.

"I don't think I could eat anything else right now, specialist," she murmured, eyes lingering on the tanned hands he'd folded across his stomach. She noticed a small scar on the back of his right hand and wondered about its origin.

"Not exactly what I meant, hon," came the amused reply. Through his eyelashes, he observed her observing him, blue eyes mere slits. As a public servant, he was often in the eye of said public, and had come to terms with people of all ages and stations watching him as he worked, especially since he'd become an engineer. He'd learned to project reassurance and professionalism. Even so, it felt odd to have someone stare at him so intently. Stoker found it stimulating, given who was doing the staring. This date might turn out better than I expected, even without the flowers. Maybe the garlic was an aphrodisiac.

"Hmmm?" Patty continued taking inventory, languidly letting her eyes travel up one muscular arm only to begin a new exploration from his shoulder to his hip. I like the way you fit together, specialist.

"So, are you thinking apple pie or chocolate mousse?" Pause. "I feel a bit like cherry cobbler, too." Pause. "I just hope I don't look like a cream puff to you." Pause. "It would be bad for my macho fireman ego."

"Cream puff?" she said, finally meeting his lazy blue eyes. He had started to chuckle at the color rising in her cheeks when his phone rang.

Mike stood, took the few necessary steps to the kitchen and picked up the phone. "Stoker," he said, still chuckling. "Yes, this is. … Uh-huh, she's here. … Okay, just a minute. ... Right. Patty, it's for you, your roommate Julie." He brought the phone over to her and ducked back into the kitchen for the notepad and pen he kept there. He set the items down next to her plate, grabbed up the leftovers from dinner, and stepped back into the kitchen to give her some privacy. And catch his breath.

"What's up, Jules? … Uncle Tommy? Did he say what he wanted? … That's weird. … But I'm supposed to call yet tonight? … He's at Hilda's Place? … Well, did he leave a number? … Yeah, I'm ready. … Thanks, Julie. I'll let you know. Bye." Patty finished scribbling on the notepad and forced herself to exhale. A icy finger slid down her spine, short-circuiting the pleasant sexual tension which had been building between them.

"Everything okay?" he asked quietly, taking the phone from her outstretched hand when he returned, the chilling sobriety of the moment instantly apparent.

"Not sure. Jules said my uncle called and wanted me to contact him yet tonight." Patty paused. "Do you mind if I use your phone to call him, before it gets any later?"

"Mi teléfono es su teléfono," he said and handed the phone back to her. Stoker wasn't sure why, but he didn't have a good feeling about this phone call. He leaned against the doorjamb and waited for her to dial, for the phone to ring, for someone of importance to answer.

=+++=/====+/====+

"Hilda? Hey, it's Patty Mack. I got a message to call Uncle Tommy. … Sure. … Uncle Tommy? What's up? … No, I'm at a friend's place. … His name's Mike." She turned to Mike, eyes wide. "M-michael? My uncle wants – ." She held out the receiver to him, unable to finish her sentence.

"This is Mike."

"You're the fireman Patty's been seeing, aren't you?" The lack of preamble alerted him to the gravity of the situation.

"Yes, sir." Mike slid the notepad toward him in case he needed it, aware of Patty's eyes on him. It sure felt different now, to have her watch him so intently.

"I'm sorry to put you in this position but, to be honest, I'm glad to have a fellow firefighter on scene so to speak. There's been – Patty's dad has been in an accident." Stoker sensed that professionally reassuring mask slip over his face.

"MVA or … ?"

"No, nothing like that. He was at a fire service convention in Boston and had a chance to participate in a live burn exercise. It's been quite a while since – well, it's been a while, so he was looking forward to it. Anyway, one of the boots screwed up and apparently Henry stepped in to help. Got clobbered by an unstable partition for his trouble."

"And the extent of …?" Mike let his voice trail off, hoping the man would not make him say 'injuries' in front of – .

"Not life-threatening, thank God, but it ain't Mickey Mouse, either. He sustained first and second degree burns, probably not even five percent. Some cracked ribs, perhaps a mild concussion, and what the doc who called me described as a 'helluva shiner'."

"Any complications?" He continued to stand by the table, resisting the urge to turn from her or speak in a lowered voice because he knew it would alarm her more. Brevity was his only refuge.

"None so far, but I'm sure the docs will be keeping him for the better part of a week. Henry's not a good patient."

"Will there be a need for transport?" Stoker was glad Patty's Uncle Tommy seemed to understand his clipped questions without difficulty.

"Actually, I'm at the airport now. I'll catch the red-eye out to Logan in just a little over an hour. I should have a better idea by morning what's going on, and how Henry's doing. I'll be staying at the Cobble Lane Inn. Here's the number if Patty wants to reach me." He rattled off a string of numbers.

"Got it. What about … notification?" He hoped Patty hadn't caught that tiny hesitation.

"I'll tell her." He sighed. "It's just not the kinda thing – if Patty were my own daughter, I wouldn't want her to be alone when she heard I'd been injured. She's not as tough as she likes to pretend. Will you be able to keep an eye on her tonight, son?"

"Yes, sir, for as long as I'm needed. Just a minute and I'll put her on." Mike pulled his chair over to sit beside her. "Your uncle wants to talk to you now." Patty took the phone reluctantly, then drew a deep breath and released it. Mike felt her hand trembling under his own.

"Tell me," she said abruptly into the phone.

=+++=/+====/++===

Mike finished the last of the dishes and looked at the clock. It was nearly eleven. He paused outside the bedroom door for a moment, hearing even breathing, and then dialed the number for the station.

"Station 51, Fireman Watson." Derek Watson sounded too chipper for this time of night but Stoker was glad he'd gotten the engineer directly.

"Watty, it's Stoker."

"Everything okay, man?"

"Yeah. But I may be late in the morning."

"Date going that well, Stokesy?" the other man teased.

"A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell," Mike replied automatically, prompting a laugh. "Actually, she got some bad news from home and – ."

"And she needed a shoulder to cry on, right? And you volunteered again?"

"Something like that, yeah. So, we good for the morning?"

"Sure thing, man. Give me a call if it's going to be more than a couple of hours, alright?"

"Ten-four. Thanks, Watty."

Mike hung up the phone and stifled a yawn. Time to get settled on the couch, he thought. He peeked into his bedroom, noting Patty had shifted positions , snuggling into the afghan more, and seemed to be sleeping, and grabbed a somewhat worn pair of cut-off sweats from the straight-backed chair by the door. After changing out of his dress slacks and shirt, he pulled out a blue blanket and spare pillow from the closet, and dimmed the lights. Within ten minutes, he too was asleep.

=+++=/+====/+++==

Bleary-eyed and thick-headed from crying, Patty exhaled slowly at the end of the darkened hall, uncertain of how to proceed. She didn't think her quick trip to the bathroom had alerted him but getting past Mike and out the door without waking him would be as difficult as slipping past Cerberus, especially in the dark. Not that Mike's apartment is the Underworld or Mike a three-headed hellhound, she thought, aware synapses were firing in her brain pretty randomly at this point. I just need to go home without any more fuss. She sighed and flattened her palm against her forehead. The Tylenol had yet to make a dent in the way she felt. Soon, please, make it stop soon.

"Patty?" Mike's quiet voice came from the darkness ahead and she tensed. "Do you need something?" She could hear the rustle of fabric as he sat up and turned on the light. "Come here, hon," he invited. In the mirror she didn't realize was there, he watched her wince at being discovered. Back when he'd had a roommate given to 'entertaining' the ladies, being able to check the living room and the hallway when he came in the front door had been a matter of survival; now the mirror by the entryway was a sometimes useful decorating quirk.

Tonight was one of those times. He watched as, like an actress about to step from the wings and onto the stage, she smoothed her hair, inhaled deeply, and began to glide down the hallway, pulling a calm expression on like a shirt as she did.

"Hey," she said stepping into the living room. Patty colored slightly to find him sitting bare-chested in a nest of blankets on the couch. "I'm sorry to have been such a bother tonight, Mike," she continued, declining the seat he offered with the wave of his hand. "I'll be out of your hair in five minutes, less with coffee," she said, trying to make a joke of it. Coffee or no, she planned to be gone in two minutes if she could just find her shoes. There they are.

Mike ran his fingers through his hair, frowned, and then did it again more vigorously, rubbing his scalp lightly but thoroughly mussing his hair in the process. He looked at his empty hands, shrugged, and smiled, trying to put her at ease. She smiled brightly at his attempt at humor, although the smile didn't reach her red-rimmed eyes. "Are you saying I'm not in your hair?"

"Pretty much," Stoker responded genially, finger-combing his hair back into place with one hand and reaching for the shirt he'd left draped over the back of the couch with the other. "Look, it's late and I'm sure you're tired. Why don't you just stay? I promise to fix you coffee and breakfast in the morning. I make good coffee, you know." He pulled his dress shirt back on, leaving it unbuttoned.

"Whatcha gonna do if I wanna leave instead? Lock me up?" Patty smiled charmingly, playing the comedienne to disguise how awful she felt, with less success than she imagined. Hold it together, Patty, just a little longer.

"Nah, I wouldn't do that. I might hide your car keys though if you're not fit to drive." The tightness around her eyes clued him in to the tension headache she was battling. "Friends don't let friends drive drowsy or drunk." Or distraught, he added to himself.

"Hmm. Maybe a cab then? If I can get my purse?" Her eyes darted around the room for her purse. Don't start crying again.

"It's on the table," he replied soberly, puzzled now by her insistence on the issue of leaving. Mike pushed himself off the couch and walked toward the kitchen. "Patty? What's going on?" He leaned against the wall, watching as she sat at the table and put her shoes on.

"Nothing. Just need to get home." She looked up briefly. "As you said, it's late and I'm tired."

"All the more reason to stay."

"Thanks for the offer, really, but I'd feel better just going on back to my apartment." All at once, the acetaminophen kicked in and the teeth in her scalp retracted a few millimeters, making it possible for her to produce a more genuine smile. Stoker eyed it, and her, skeptically.

"Will you call me when you get home, just so I know you made it safely?" he asked finally.

"Sure." Shoes fastened, car keys in hand, Patty stood. "I had a good time tonight, Mike. Sorry I spoiled the end of it with, well, everything."

"Not a problem," he replied. "It wasn't your fault." Stoker unlocked and opened the door for her, stepping outside after her. "I'll watch to make sure you get to your car," he explained, leaning over the railing. "Call me when you get home, okay?"

"Sure," she said and carefully descended the stairs to the parking lot, giving him a wave as she got into her car.

=+++=/+====/++++=

A familiar but annoying buzz seemed to cause the axe to stop spinning in midair. He let the handle slide across his palm until he grasped the familiar implement just below the head, then walked into the kitchen to turn off the timer, double-checking the clock as he did. It had been an hour, which was too long. Even in heavy traffic the journey to Patty's would not have taken more than thirty-five minutes. He knew that; he'd timed it. Now, at night, it should have been a breeze.

Walking back into the half-lit living room, Stoker considered his options, twirling the fire axe slowly in his other hand. Calling would be the easiest. But phone calls in the middle of the night rarely bring good news and with her dad in the hospital, she'll think the worst. Assuming everything was fine, that she'd merely been too tired or forgetful to call, would also be easy. Driving to her apartment in the middle of the night, just to check on her, well, that would be an overreaction certainly. Make him look like a fool, an overprotective, chauvinistic fool. Especially if she's fine.

On the flip side was his sense of honor pricking him awake every few minutes until he heard from her.

Overreacting it is then, he thought, standing his axe back in the corner. Stoker pulled on his t-shirt, slipped his keys off the hook by the door and headed out on his fool's errand.

Mike stopped at the bottom of the stairs, relieved. Stubborn, but not stupid. He approached her car, crouched down beside it and rapped on the window, startling her out of sleep. Patty rolled down her window reluctantly when she recognized him. "I'm sorry, miss, but this is a No Napping Zone. You'll have to come with me," he deadpanned.

=+++=/+====/+++++

Ten minutes later, negotiations were progressing at the table.

"What if I wanna bedtime story?" She tried to affect a little girl voice and Mike allowed his smile to show.

"Then I'll read you a bedtime story." He nodded to the bottom shelf of the bookcase where a collection of children's books waited. His nieces and nephews all had their own favorites so she would have plenty to choose from. Stoker's own favorites from childhood were also available.

"And if I wanna teddy bear?" Patty dropped back into her normal voice.

"Then I'll loan you a teddy bear." Mike pointed to the large wicker basket beside the bookcase, a basket overflowing with soft plush toys of various sizes, including several teddy bears. "Anything else you need for a good night's sleep?" he asked, eyebrow raised. She shook her head. "Then pick out a story and a teddy bear, missy, and we'll get you tucked in."

=+++=/+====/=++++

"Why am I not surprised you have this book?" she said, holding up a somewhat tattered Golden Book with cartoonish fire trucks on the front of it. "When I was little, my mom would read me this story whenever Daddy was on duty. I always liked it because it involved fire trucks and firemen." She was kneeling in front of the bookcase, picking out a book and a bear. Patty had already changed into the gray sweatpants and dark blue t-shirt Mike had loaned her for the night, and quick-braided her hair back.

"That's right; your dad was a fireman." Given what had happened earlier, Stoker winced internally at the idiocy of the statement. Brilliant, Stoker, brilliant; that's why he's in a Boston hospital.

"Yup, my uncle, too. Sometimes, if I couldn't sleep, my aunt would take me down to the station and he'd read me the story, making all of the appropriate noises. I'd fall asleep there at the station and wake up in my own bed the next morning, the smell of smoke and fire from Uncle Tommy's turnouts still on my pajamas."

"Well, my turnouts are at the station, so hopefully a smoky smell isn't required for a good night's sleep."

"As long as you do the fire engine noises, I think we'll be okay."

"Ten-four, Patty Mack. Fire engine noises coming right up."

=+++=/+====/==+++

"'… and all the firemen returned safely to the station, tired but happy to have put out the fire. The End.'" Mike finished the story and closed the book, laying it on his lap.

He looked down at the woman resting on the bed beside him. Everything about her right now made him want to protect her. A teddy bear – a somewhat scraggly specimen in gray and white fur with mournful brown eyes – was tucked under her arm with childlike innocence. His dark blue shirt seemed to swallow Patty up, stripping away more years. He suspected she wasn't fully asleep yet but her eyes were closed, limbs relaxed, mind and body finally yielding to the day's stresses. Mike waited a few more minutes, counting her breaths, then eased himself off the bed, hoping he wouldn't disturb her.

"Good night, hon," he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss on her forehead. "Sleep well."

=+++=/+====/===++

Just before three a.m., a small sound woke him, little more than the click-hum which preceded the tones sounding at the station. Stoker hovered on the edge of consciousness for a few minutes, waiting for the sound to repeat itself. When it didn't, he rolled onto his stomach and grabbed the pillow more tightly, sliding back toward sleep.

A new sound, full-bodied and intense, stopped that slide abruptly: "Daddy don't go daddy I'm sorry daddy don't go I'm sorry don't be mad at me daddy don't leave me." Mike ran down the hall to his bedroom. Moonlight spilled in through the window now, bleaching the scene to black and gray and cool white. Patty was crying out in her sleep, wrapped in a nightmare.

"Patty, Patty, honey, wake up now," Mike pleaded, gently shaking her to wake her without scaring her. Her eyes flew open, sought and found Mike. "Easy, hon, it's Mike."

"Mike?" she said, voice rough.

"Yeah, Mike. You were having a nightmare. You're safe now," he murmured. As he held her to his bare chest and stroked her hair, Stoker could feel her heart pounding through the thin cotton t-shirt he'd loaned her to sleep in, the ragged breaths being forced into and out of her lungs, the trembling in her body.

Slowly, the tremors eased and Patty murmured something into his chest, her voice vibrating against his skin. "Hmmm?" he inquired, loosening his hold on her so he could see her face.

"I said, 'I guess I did need the smoky smell too'," she repeated, looking up at him with a wry expression, drawing a chuckle from him. Still smiling, Mike tucked another wayward strand of hair back behind her ear.

=+++=/+====/====+

When she woke at about nine, Mike was gone from the apartment. He'd left a note on her purse.

Patty –

HQ called about 0430; the C-shift engineer was
struck by a car at a fire scene and they needed
me to come in early to replace him. No real word
on how Watty's doing yet. Since you were finally
sleeping peacefully again, I decided not to wake you.
Feel free to use the phone and check on your dad.
You're welcome to stay as long as you'd like, just
lock up when you leave. I left fixings for breakfast
in the fridge; help yourself to whatever looks good.
See you next week for coffee as usual?

Yours,

Mike

PS – Call the station if you need anything. If I'm
not there, any of the guys can help. 555-3651.

=+++=/+====/=====

When Mike returned the next morning, he found a note from Patty propped up on the table.

Mike –

Instead of coffee next week, would you be interested
in coming to the organizational meeting at the Peds
Burn Center? We could really use your help. (Not a
big deal if you can't make it.) Daddy's doing some
better as of this morning but it looks like I might be
staying with him for a while when he gets back to L.A.
Someone has to sit on him so he'll let himself heal!
I had a wonderful time at the concert with you.
And, in case I haven't mentioned it enough already,
I really appreciate you looking out for me last night;
some guys would have fled at the first sign of a weepy
female without a backward glance. Talk to you soon,
specialist.

Cheers,

Patty

PS – I hope your friend is doing alright.

=+++=/=+++=


Okay, so there really wasn't much k-i-s-s-i-n-g herein but don't blame me; the characters do what they do whether I want them to or not. I am marking this collection of sketches as complete but do not despair! The story of Mike and Patty will continue. In fact, I intend for this year's NaNoWriMo effort to be centered on Mike and the McConnikees. (NaNoWriMo = National Novel Writing Month)

I do this for fun, not profit; the characters are not mine (with the exception of Patty McConnikee and Henry McConnikee) but the mistakes (without exception) are.