Chapter 6: Improvement

Laura sat up and leaned over the rails separating them, looking for a safe place where she might drop a kiss on Remington's lips, finally settling on, more-or-less, the right corner of his mouth. For a man who'd spent the last twenty-four plus hours unconscious, he'd moved remarkably fast and she found a hand laying at the back of her neck, stilling her, while he carefully assessed her injuries.

"What?" she challenged, still smiling. "I have scrapes. I have bruises."

"In my experience, mere 'scrapes' don't require a surgeon's sutures, Laura," he noted with displeasure.

"In all fairness, I didn't expect to be seeing you so soon," she replied smoothly, "And I didn't see the point in worrying you unnecessarily."

"You mean you didn't wish an earful of what you so often dole out," he countered.

"That, too," she didn't deny the charge. She fingered his hair. "I'll be fine. More importantly, how are you feeling?" He shifted as though to try to sit up. He stiffened and his eyes nearly crossed as pain ricocheted through his body. "Don't move," she warned.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he panted.

A rap on the door sounded, before Claudia stepped into the room.

"Ah, Mr. Steele," the nurse greeted, a wide smile gracing her face, while she flicked on the overhead lights, leaving Remington blinking and Laura sucking in a sharp breath when the glare in the room made her head explode. "Dr. Townsend will be pleased to know you're back amongst us."

"I'm not quite sure I share that sentiment at the moment," he returned, in a strained voice. If this wasn't the worst beating he'd taken, it was in the top two. Since he'd moved, it seemed every injury was competing for his attention.

"We might have to adjust the dose of your morphine as we go," Claudia informed him, while withdrawing a syringe from the pocket of her tunic. "In the meantime, Dr. Townsend anticipated you might need a little boost when you woke." She injected the contents of the syringe into his IV port. "I'll just go tell Dr. Townsend you're awake. He'll be in shortly." Laura glanced at the clock on the wall: Three-forty-seven.

"He's here?" she asked with disbelief.

"Dr. Townsend takes his directives from the Earl of Claridge quite seriously," Claudia answered, in a tone suggesting that was common knowledge. "I'll just leave the light on and advise you might not wish to go back to sleep just yet. You'll only be awakened by the doctor." Remington lifted his hand to draw his hand through his hair, but immediately winced and let it drop back to the bed.

"The Earl of Claridge?" he asked, befuddled.

"The Earl of Claridge," Laura confirmed. "He and Daniel were here when I arrived. If you ask me, he's feeling more than a little guilty you were attacked at Haven House."

"He may well have good cause," he ruminated aloud. "Not to feel guilty, mind you, but to believe it connected with Haven House."

"Why do you say that?" she wondered, curiosity piqued.

"Because three of the four buggers were workers," he informed her. He had her full attention now.

"You know who they are?"

"Know might be too strong a word," he replied. "I couldn't tell you their names, but they worked on the main crew."

"Well, can you describe them?" He gave her an exasperated look.

"Laura, the only person I could describe with any type of accuracy right now is you." She leaned in for a closer look at his eyes, which were decidedly unfocused. The booster Claudia gave him at work, she guessed. She carefully stroked back the hair lying on his forehead.

"In the morning, then," she conceded. "But why? What purpose does trying to kill you serve?" He licked at his parched lips.

"Think I might have a glass of water?" he requested. She chewed on her bottom lip and glanced towards the door. She emphasized with him, she really did, but…

"I'm sorry," she told him regretfully, "But I think we'd better wait on Dr. Townsend to make sure it's alright." He cast her a look that suggested she'd betrayed him, and she suspected if he'd been able, he'd have crossed his arms in a full-fledged pout.

"There are a fair number of people who would like Haven House not to open at all," he answered her prior question, begrudgingly, "Certainly the blokes turning out the girls or using the boys to sell their drugs would see it as a potential threat to the amount of blunt in their pocket. Then there are those who believe Haven House is keeping crime in the neighborhood. If you're of the former group, my death serves as a warning and if you're of the latter, proof Haven House is trouble." He coughed a pair of times, then gasped as his body screamed its objections. It earned Laura another glower, to which she rolled her eyes in answer.

"It seems rather drastic measures, don't you think?"

A knock sounded on the door before he could answer and Dr. Townsend stepped into the room.

"Mr. Steele, glad to see you've joined us," he greeted jovially as he walked up to the bed and gave Remington's left hand a squeeze. "Arthur Townsend. I'd offer to shake, but I suspect you've discovered by now that could be very uncomfortable."

"Aye," Remington agreed. Laura's lips pursed and her brows lifted in amusement. He'd cut out his tongue before admitting as much to her… unless he hoped to elicit some tender ministrations from her.

"Let's have a look at you then," Townsend suggested, pulling his stethoscope from his pocket. "How are you feeling?" he inquired as he moved the stethoscope over Remington's chest.

"The phrase 'like I've been run over by a truck' comes to mind." Townsend laughed quietly.

"Understandable, although I might have to wonder if a truck would have been kinder." Remington began to chuckle then stopped abruptly with a wince.

"You might be right."

"If you'd take a deep breath for me… again…" Townsend instructed. "Do you know where you are?"

"An educated guess? A hospital ward somewhere in London," Remington replied.

"Good, good. A couple more breaths… deep ones if you don't mind." Grimacing, Remington did as asked. "You seem to recognize your name. And your wife?" A slight twitch of Remington's brow was all the surprise he showed at the moniker of 'wife.' He turned to her and gave her a flirtatious smile.

"As if I could ever forget her," he answered Townsend, his eyes remaining on Laura.

"Ha!" she retorted, then rubbed at a temple rethinking that exuberance, as her headache again reminded her it was preparing to roar if she pushed her luck. "Might I remind you it hasn't even been a year since you forgot me?"

"Your name, perhaps, but not what we were to each other, hmmm?"

"But I think you did lie to me, didn't you? I don't have to recall who I am to know what I am, Hmm? How I feel?"

She chose not to humor him with a response.

"You've had amnesia in the past, then?" Townsend inquired. When Remington remained silent, Laura looked at him and found his eyelids drooping. The last statement he'd made seemed to zap whatever energy he had left. Sliding her hand beneath his, avoiding IV lines and the finger braces, she held his hand in hers.

"Eight, maybe nine months ago, while on a trip to Ireland he took a serious blow to his head. The amnesia lasted a few days." Townsend's eyes flickered to her as he checked his patient's pulse.

"In the line of duty, again?" She shook her head.

"No, he was there on personal business. It was a matter of being in the wrong place at the right time, that's all." Townsend nodded his head slowly while reaching for the blood pressure cuff hanging off a nearby stand. Wrapping it around Remington's arm, he asked, casually, "Has he taken many blows to his head previously?" Her eyes narrowed on the physician.

"More than I'd like," she offered, guardedly. He hummed in answer, as he focused on checking Remington's blood pressure. "Pressure's a little lower than I'd like, although not to be unexpected given his blood loss and the medication he is being administered. All-in-all, I'd say we are out of the woods. Tomorrow morning, we'll prep him to move to a private room and I'd like to see him ambulatory by afternoon." He moved to the end to the end of the bed and began scribbling notes in his chart.

"Already?" she asked, surprised.

"It's been proven the quicker patients are back on their feet the speedier their recovery."

"I see," she acknowledged. "He's been asking for water."

"Once we move him and he's able to sit, that would be permissible. In the meantime, I'll have Claudia bring 'round a pitcher of ice chips." He hung the chart back on the end of the bed. "Now, might I suggest you get a bit more shut eye while you're able? He's sure to test your patience over the next pair of days, at least..." She looked down at the man sleeping beside her and laughed softly.

"Dr. Townsend, this man has been testing my patience for nearly four years," she shared, in a fond tone, then laugh wryly, "I can assure you, if I'm skilled in anything, it's in handling Remington Steele."

"We'll have a look at you in the morning," Townsend advised as he flicked off the lights. "Goodnight, Mrs. Steele."

"Goodnight, Doctor," she returned, as she lay back down and reached for Remington's hand through the rails.

"Closer," Remington mumbled in the dim light, startling her. Still, she scooted nearer. "Closer," he repeated. She scowled. Hadn't he been asleep just seconds ago? Well, if he thought she was going to give in to his every whim- "I've missed you next to me, Laura." She puffed out a breath. Well, what could she say to that?

Dropping out of bed to the floor, she tugged her bed away from his far enough to drop the rail, then climbing back up on the bed, dropped the rail to his bed as well. Another trip to the floor to move her bed back and lock the wheels, then once in bed, she shifted until she found the best – and safest – position: Lying on her side, her chin resting right above his shoulder and her head next to his.

"Happy?"she huffed.

"Not even close." The dejection in his voice tugged at her heartstrings. She brushed her lips like a whisper over his cheek.

"I've missed you, too." Was that purse of his lips mimicking a kiss… or was it a smirk of satisfaction?"

Damn it! If she didn't watch herself, he'd have her waiting on him hand and foot.

"Another ice chip?"

"I don't see why I can't have a cup of tea," Remington groused.

"Well, to start, you're flat on your back," Laura answered patiently while holding another ice chip near his lips.

"You could hold a straw for me, as well as you can that," he eyed the ice with disdain.

"Doctor's orders," she reminded, with a tight smile, shoving the piece of ice through his lips.

She'd awakened to find him glowering at the ceiling and he'd been as churlish as a bear since. Her head pounding, stomach growling and in desperate need of a shower, her patience was wearing thin.

"Mr. Steele," she elongated each syllable in warning. His lips puffed out and he adverted his eyes.

"You're dripping on me," he complained. "It's bad enough I have to wear this hideous excuse for a garment, let's not compound the travesty by getting it wet." She dropped the piece of ice into the cup and slammed the cup down on the little rolling table.

"That's it!" She bounded to her feet. "If you want to lay here and sulk, I can't stop you, but I don't have to subject myself to it any longer." She stalked out of the room.

If he'd been able to cross his arms to display his displeasure he would have. Instead, he settled for shooting daggers with his eyes at her departing back.

Laura ran into Mildred in the hallway, the woman carrying a tray with two coffees.

"Oh, hey, hon," she greeted Laura. "How's he doing?"

"Oh, he's in rare form," Laura clipped the response. Mildred laughed, warmly.

"The Chief's giving you a hard time, huh?" she commiserated. "Awww, honey, you should know by now men turn into children when they don't feel well. My ex-husband, Walter, the louse? He had to have 'his' blanket when he didn't feel good. For Bernard, it's his pillow and Vick's in a humidifier – and he's convinced it has to be Vick's or he'll lie there and die."

"Well, he's certainly gotten the childish part down," Laura grumbled, crossing her arms, drawing another laugh from the older woman.

"At least he's here to give you a hard time." She handed Laura one of the coffees. "I'll sit with him while you take a break. Drink your coffee, take a walk. By the time you get back, I'll have him whipped into shape."

"Good luck with that," Laura grumbled again.

"Come on. You know how he is for me. I can stick a thermometer in his mouth when all he's got is a broken leg, and he won't say a word," Mildred laughed. "Go on. We'll be fine." Laura's eyes traveled to Remington's door, then her shoulders slumped.

"I won't be far. I want to be here when Dr. Townsend comes in," she relented, reluctantly.

"Take your time, hon," Mildred advised with a pat on the younger woman's shoulder, then disappeared down the hall and into Remington's room.

Inside Remington's room, Mildred rushed to his side.

"Boss!" She bustled across the room and leaning down, hugged him and planted a firm kiss on his cheek. He sucked in a swift breath.

"Mildred, mind the tubes and the bruises, please," he told her crossly. Her eyes narrowed slightly, despite the wide smile still on her face. He knew what that particular look meant: She'd let him get away with that one, but not many more.

"How are you feeling?" A brow twitched slightly upwards.

"I imagine about how I look." He eyed her for a second, then landed a boyish smile and hopeful eyes on her. "I don't suppose I could trouble you for a cup of tea?"

"Awwwww, of course you can." She moved in to give his cheek a pinch but stopped herself when he shifted warily. Oops. "I'll be right back. Just the way you like it." She began moving towards the door then stopped and turned to face him. "You might want to take it easy on Miss Holt," she advised. "I gotta tell you, Chalmers' call scared the life out of her. It's taking everything she has to stay on her feet, but she didn't think twice about how she felt and got on the first flight out." With that, she turned and left the room, leaving him feeling like a bit of a heel.

But not enough to cancel that cup of tea. She returned shortly, then had to leave again to find a straw. Finally, she sat at his bedside, that desired cup of tea mere feet away as it cooled.

"In case I haven't said it, it's good to see you…" a corner of his mouth twitched upwards, ruefully "…although I'd have preferred our reunion be under different circumstances."

"Well, it ain't Portgual," Mildred retorted, then her voice softened, "But I'll take you anyway I can get you. You gave us a helluva scare."

"Mmm, myself as well, I must admit." She scrunched her face with disapproval and crossed her arms.

"So what have you gotten yourself mixed up in?" Her tone made it clear she wouldn't fall for any attempts to charm her. She was surprised when his faced twisted into an insulted pout.

"I don't think I like what you're implying, Mildred," he chastised. "Need I remind you I haven't 'gotten myself mixed up in' anything since the Cannes fiasco? Voluntarily, at least." She flicked a hand at him.

"Awwww, I didn't mean anything like that," she dismissed. "Why would someone do this to you?" He pursed his lips then relaxed his face.

"Near as Laura and I can figure, it must have something to do with Haven House," he informed her. He longingly eyed the Styrofoam cup on the rolling table. "My tea?" Turning, she noted steam was no longer rising from the cup.

"It should be cool enough," she observed, standing.

It took a bit of creativity, but she managed to ease the straw between his lips. He took a small sip, then finding it not too warm, sucked greedily upon the straw, quenching his still parched throat and relishing the drink's comforting familiarity.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" Laura demanded loudly. Feeling more than a little guilty for the way she'd stormed out, she'd returned to the room only to find this. He froze, only his eyes moving to slant across the room until they rested on her. Bloody hell. Hand caught in the cookie jar. Mildred looked back and forth between them, effectively - if inadvertently -moving the straw just out of his reach. She finally decided to level Remington with a glare.

"Boss?" He sighed heavily.

"Well, you can't blame a man for trying," he replied, then gave her a grin meant to elicit forgiveness.

"Mr. Steele is not to have anything other than ice chips until he is moved to a private room, doctor's orders," Laura emphasized the last.

"Oh, Boss…" Mildred drew out the words with infinite disappointment. His smile faded but he refused to apologize.

"It's absolutely barbaric, should you ask me, to deny an injured man his morning tea," he complained instead.

"Somehow I don't think that qualifies as cruel and unusual punishment," Laura retorted, dryly, while Mildred waggled a finger at him.

"I'm ashamed of you, Chief," she scolded, then walked towards the waste receptacle.

"Mildred, don't…" he began to protest then watched as the coveted cup of tea was dropped in. "Awww."

"What I tell you?" Mildred reminded Laura of their earlier conversation. "Children. All of them."

"I gather you're giving theses ladies a difficult time, Mr. Steele," Townsend remarked with good humor as he entered the room with the nurse from the morning prior following on his heels.

"I might argue it was the opposite way around," Remington replied, with a disgruntled look towards the women to whom he was referring. Mildred plopped her hands on her hips and Laura curled her nose at him in answer. Townsend chuckled then directed his attention to Laura.

"Mrs. Steele, I'd like to begin with you, if you don't mind," Townsend requested. Remington did a double take. What did the man mean begin with Laura?

"I'll just get out of your way," Mildred offered, already walking towards the door. "I'll be in the waiting room if you need anything."

"Thanks, Mildred," Laura called after her, then turned to point a finger at Remington. "I don't think I have to tell you that you owe Mildred an apology." A wobble of his head indicated his reluctant admission that he did.

"Mrs. Steele, if you'll just have a seat here," Townsend directed. Unseen by Remington, Laura scrunched up her face. The air in the room positively crackled with the air of Remington's very accurate suspicions. Purposefully, she positioned herself so she sat with her back to him.

"You're still a bit on the pale side for my liking," Townsend observed. "Did you manage to get any more sleep?"

"I did. Several hours, in fact," she confirmed.

"Good, good. Plenty of rest will be important in the days ahead, as we've discussed," the doctor reminded. "The nausea?" She lifted a hand to rub at her brow. Ouch! She switched hands and brow, all the while feeling Remington's eyes boring into her back.

Plenty of rest… nausea… He needed more to figure out what it was she'd been hiding from him.

"A little queasy, but a good deal of improvement over yesterday," she answered honestly, if reluctantly.

"Have you eaten yet?"

"I had a cup of coffee this morning," she offered in answer.

"Let's take it easy on the caffeine for now, shall we? It's contraindicated in your condition," he directed.

"Alright," she replied, drawing out the word. So, she'd be exchanging a concussive headache for a caffeine one. Wonderful. Whether the man behind her knew it or not, that caffeine might be all that stood between him and her hands around his neck, if he kept up his pouting and manipulations.

Remington's already parched mouth turned to sand. Plenty of rest… nausea… condition. He took him several attempts before he was actually able speak.

"I'd like for you to at least try to eat a bit of breakfast this morning," Townsend continued.

"Laura, are you—"

"Concussed?—" she offered.

"Pregnant?" he finished.

"Yes," she admitted. Then her brain stumbled, while his mind swam at the enormity of what she'd just confirmed.

"You're pregnant?" he repeated, stunned.

"Wait! What?!" Where had he come up with that little gem? "Noooo," she drew out the word, dumbfounded. "I'm not pregnant!" She said the last word with all the disgust she felt. Did he truly believe her so irresponsible – or worse, so calculating – that she'd risk pregnancy?

Townsend watched the interplay with a great deal of amusement.

"No need to sound so repulsed by the idea," Remington retorted, oddly insulted and irritated by her response. An attempt to cross his arms, left him sucking in a quick breath.

"I didn't exactly see you jumping up and down with joy at the idea," she shot back.

"Laura, I don't think I could jump up and down if the ghost of Humphrey Bogart walked through the door right now," he pointed out.

"You know what I mean," she rejoined. "Pregnant," she scoffed. "Some detective you are. I'm concussed. That's all." His lips thinned with a whole new reason to be irritated.

"That's all," he repeated, coolly.

"Yes, that's all," she answered in a tone suggesting the conversation was over.

"But it was just a few scrapes and bruises, I seem to recall," he indicted.

"I think we've already discussed how I downplayed the extent of my injuries and why," she reminded.

"I'll have to remember in the future that it's permissible to hide my injuries to avoid hearing you rasp endlessly in my ear—"

"If you're on another continent than I am at the time and don't wish to worry me when I can do nothing to help, feel free to do exactly that." Infuriated, he clamped his mouth shut, a muscle twitching in his jaw as he glared at her back.

Townsend chuckled quietly as it appeared the matter was closed.

"Now, as I was saying. Try to eat a bit of breakfast and to nap here-and-there throughout the day today. Any more dizzy spells?" She gave the question some thought.

"Not that I can recall."

"Good, good. Then let's have a look at you." He ran through the same series of tests as the day prior, while Remington watched, expression unchanged. "Still photophobic and your eyes are not tracking as fluidly as I'd like to see. Headache?"

"The same."

"Then let's stay on course," he recommended. "If you manage to eat today and the nausea stays at bay, we'll discontinue the Phenergan this afternoon."

"Alright," she agreed.

"Louisa, if you'll get Mrs. Steele her medication then have someone show her to Mr. Steele's room?" With a silent nod, Louisa left the room. The frown left Remington's face to be replaced with avid curiosity.

"You're moving him?" she questioned.

"Unless I find something during his exam of concern, which I don't anticipate given my examination last night, we'll follow the plan of action I presented you with yesterday, yes." She nodded her head in understanding. "We'll need an hour or so with him and then we'll bring him upstairs. In the meantime, I'll have Louisa order you up a breakfast tray."

"I can't stay?" she questioned with her first glance towards Remington since their tiff.

"I believe it would be better if you did not," Townsend recommended. The thought troubled her and here eyes moved between Remington and Townsend several times. Finally she stood and walked to Remington's bedside.

"I'll be waiting for you." Leaning down, she touched her lips to the corner of his mouth, carefully avoiding the bruised and split portions of his lips. Pain be damned, he lifted his right hand with its damaged fingers, and held it to the middle of her back, to keep her close.

"We're not finished discussing this," he warned.

"I didn't imagine we were," she sighed. "I'll see you soon."

As she prepared to depart, Louisa returned to the room and handed her the now familiar small paper cup of pills and a larger cup of water. Then with one, last glance at the man in the bed, squared her shoulders and left the room.

Doctor and nurse, or not, she never felt comfortable leaving his well-being in the hands in others.

She hated waiting even more.