"How's your hot chocolate?" I ask, taking a sip of the deliciously warm liquid.
"Good," he responds, nodding his head. We're both seated at his dinner table, he at the head of the table and me to his right. He holds the coffee mug in both hands and looks over the rim at me with the barest hint of a smile playing on his lips. "How's your, er, behind?" he asks, trying to bite down the smile.
I fix him with a warning look, which only widens his grin. This is the thanks I get for being a good friend and listener.
I took the news about Sergei fathering Singer's child a little hard. Literally. After Harm dropped that little bomb on me I felt it prudent to sit down. I just didn't look to see whether there was a chair under me.
Needless to say, there wasn't.
My bottom connected hard with the floor, and the rest of my body followed suit. The noise of the fall (I also somehow managed to drag Harm's phone and a half dozen file folders and papers in its way off the desk with me) and Harm's cry of alarm brought the admiral, Harriet, and Sturgis bustling back into Harm's office.
After Harm helped me to my feet I realized the chair I had been aiming for was actually a little further behind and to the right of me.
Then, after getting as much of the story of what happened as I was willing to part with and still maintain my vow of silence to Harm and what little was left of my dignity, the admiral dismissed both of us with a long-suffering look and accompanying sigh, with orders to leave JAG—post haste.
I shake my head in remembrance as I consider Harm's question. "Still a little sore," I admit. I'm certain by tomorrow there will be a large bruise smack on my left cheek.
"Wanb me to rub ib for you?" he asks innocently and I almost snort cocoa through my nose.
I turn my head to glare at him and he hides his smile behind his mug as he takes a sip and waits for my answer. I have half a mind to say yes just to see what he'll do—if anything just to see if he can break his current record for backpedaling out of a conversation—but since he's not feeling well, on top of the fact that his brother may be the father of Singer's love child, I decide to go easy on him.
"No, but thank you for the *generous* offer," I reply. "I'm glad to see that passing out or O.D.-ing on cold medicine didn't affect you in anyway," I add, recollecting his grudging admission on the ride home to his apartment that maybe he shouldn't have taken a couple Sudafed and a couple Contact in addition to the half gallon of Nyquil he said he drank early this morning in an attempt to find relief and sleep. Knowing this makes me even more thankful he made it to work without passing out at the wheel or causing an accident.
It also makes me want to club him over the head. He should know better, for pete's sake.
"Whab are frienbs for?" he returns with another grin, ignoring my jab. I just shake my head, deciding it's best for both parties involved to let this topic die out. The sound of his sneeze reverberating across the apartment brings me back to one of the reasons why we're here.
"I'd tell you to take something for your cold, but I understand you did. Several somethings."
He rolls his eyes and sniffs. "Look, the only reason Di 'passed out'—he makes quotations with his fingers—'is because Di habn't slept well since Tuesbay, so Di was tired, and Di dibn't have a good breakfast, and my head's all stobbed up from this stubid code, and Di tried tabing Nyquil last night, but it dibn't help, and it dibn't seem like the Subefed wabs doing anything, so Di took a cubble Contact, and then dits like they all kicked in at the same time."
"No, the reason you 'fainted like a schoolgirl,'"—I make quotations with my fingers, "as Tiner aptly put it, is because you're too stubborn to stay at home in bed, where you belong, when you're not feeling well."
"Mac, Di can take care ob myself."
"Oh, that's obvious. Tell me again why you 'passed out'?" How can the man be so stubborn?
"And besibes, if I habn't had come to work tobay I woulbn't hab found out thab my brother helbed spawn the spawn of Saban. Ugh," he groans, leaning back in his chair.
"Harm," I begin, only to be cut off by an oblivious Harm.
"I mean, a chilb wib Singer's genes ibs going to call me 'Uncle Harm.'"
That is a shuddering thought, and I do just that.
"Can you imagine a libble Singer running around wib our kibs?" He shakes his head in horror and takes a sip of his coffee.
Kibs?
Kids?
Kids! Our kids? Our kids? Kid-zzzyah? Plural? As in more than the one we agreed upon? Unless he's just assuming that I'll miraculously get pregnant with twins when our deal comes due. I wonder what goes on in that head of his. Whatever it is, I like it. Twins don't run in my family, though. Unless they run in his. Kids. I grin giddily at the thought.
"This ibn't funny, Mac."
I yank myself from my thoughts, and shake my head in agreement. No, of course not.
Kids.
Kidzzzzz.
Maybe a boy and a girl. That would be nice. If we did have twins, I mean. If we didn't, then I think I'd like our firstborn to be a little boy who looks like his father. Oh, who am I kidding? At my age—or the age I'll most likely be when (if) this happens—all I ask for is a healthy baby. That looks like his father.
"Are you listening to a worb dime saying?" a strong nasal voice cuts in.
"Of course."
"Oh, gob, what is the admiral going to say when he fines out about dis?"
I wonder just how many kids Harm envisions us having? Two? Well, at least that many for there to be kidzzzz. Three? Depending when we get going on this having a family together thing, I might be quite agreeable to that. Four? Well, I hope he knows I'm not just some baby-making ma—
A large hand waves in front of my face derailing my train of thoughts. I look up into Harm's slightly amused, slightly peeved, mostly watery, bloodshot and tired eyes.
"Um, sorry," I say blushing, hoping I haven't been daydreaming about domesticity with some goofy, lovey-dovey grin.
"Perhabs I should ask what you're thinking about?"
"Uh, I'm just wondering what you're going to do." Good answer. "So, um, what are you going to do?"
He sighs in contemplation. "Take ub drinking. Heabily."
"Harm, that's not a solution."
He sighs again, this time punctuating the gesture with a fit of coughing. "No, but ib would probably make me feel a whole lob bebber."
"No, it wouldn't. That would be a temporary fix at best and you know it, and it's not the way to deal with your problems. Believe me."
"Di know. You're right. Dime sorry."
"Frankly, you're assuming a lot of facts not in evidence, Harm," I say gently. "We don't know for sure if they slept together, much less if Sergei is the father."
He nods.
"Not to mention, we don't know what Singer will decide to do with regards to how she wants to raise the baby; whether she will stay here at JAG HQ; what part, if Sergei is the father, she wants him to play—much less you as the uncle. I hate to say it, Harm, but it is her choice whether or not she even wants you to have a role in her child's life."
I can tell this idea has not occurred to him. I hope he understands she may choose to do the same with Sergei and raise her child alone.
"As for a child with Singer's genes, if Sergei is the father, then half of those genes are his, too. And we both know Sergei's a pretty great person. He is half Rabb after all," I say with a smile. "So there's some hope." Harm smiles a little and takes my hand in his. It's warm from gripping his mug of hot chocolate, and slightly rough and calloused from use, and much larger than mine but I still maintain there is nothing more perfect than his hand holding mine.
"Right now, the ball's in Singer's court," I continue, enveloping his hand between both of mine. "The fact is we may never know who the father is because she may never tell, and that's her right." Harm opens his mouth to object, but I beat him to the punch.
"If the baby is Sergei's, I would hope she would do the responsible thing and tell him, but even then, it's her choice to do so. There's really nothing you can do, Harm," I conclude softly.
"Di just don't know whab possessed him to eben go out wib her. Di mean, whab does he see in her?"
"Maybe it's a Rabb thing," I muse.
"Whab do you mean?" he asks, frowning.
"Well," I begin, pausing to consider how I might phrase this delicately, "Bitchy blondes."
Both eyebrows leap to his hairline. "Darr you referring to Renee?" he asks. "Renee wabs nice. You just had to geb to know her."
"Hmm. Well, you have to admit her initial impression didn't make her too many friends. And, as I recall, you didn't seem to be all that big a fan of her either. In fact, I think I recall somebody going out of his way to avoid her at all costs."
"Well, di…"
"But yet, a few months down the line and you're in a committed relationship with her."
He shifts uncomfortably and picks up his spoon with his free hand.
"So obviously you saw something there that the rest of us—" I'm treading on thin ice here, so I better choose my words carefully—"that the rest of us couldn't see past our initial impression. Maybe Sergei—if what you believe is true—saw something in Loren that the rest of us have been unable to see."
He looks faintly sickened by the notion.
"Maybe," I venture further, "deep down, buried under all the cunning and ambition and ruthless drive, there's a side to Singer that some may actually find…appealing."
"Singer?!" he exclaims, staring at me as if I just sprouted fur and fangs.
"Okay, so it may be a bit of a stretch," I concede, receiving another look from Harm, who shakes his head and tightens his grip on my hand. "But, anything's possible," I point out.
He considers for a long moment.
"She sebuced hib."
***********
"Here, open up, I want to stick this in."
He looks up from unbuttoning his shirt (he's taking his sweet time getting to the good stuff) and I almost see the jaws clamp shut.
"Harm, I want to take your temperature."
He shakes his head no.
"Look, it's either orally or you know where, but I will take your temperature one way or the other. I'm just being nice by letting you choose, but if you don't want to…" I shrug, and quickly rip a dozen or so hairs off his arm.
"Ow!" Deftly I slip the thermometer in under his tongue.
"There. I knew you could be reasonable," I smile beatifically and pat his shoulder. He rubs the bright red spot on his arm.
"Quibe a beside manner you hab there, Nurse Hatchet."
"Thank you. Now, no talking for three minutes." I smile again and leave him to finish changing clothes. "And leave that in," I instruct, turning to see Harm quickly placing his hand back at his side.
I fix him with another warning look. "Don't make me come back in here to check on you." Make me, please make me. Give me good cause to. I haven't seen him in boxers in so long I hardly remember the image. Okay, so that's not completely true. I can pretty well conjure it up any time I allow my imagination to fixate on him, but…stop it! Just stop it! You are here to take care of your sick friend, Colonel. Not to take advantage of your sick friend.
Friend, I repeat. Oh, who are you kidding with that, too, MacKenzie? "You have two minutes and twenty-eight seconds, squid."
He nods and unbuckles his pants. I turn away and head to the living room before I compromise said friend.
Glancing around the apartment, I realize something is not in order. Hearing Harm approach behind me, I ask, "Where's your tree? And your Christmas decorations?"
I look at him questioningly, taking in his dark sweatpants and white T-shirt, and thermometer still amazingly where I left it in his mouth. He opens his mouth to reply--"Wait! Hold that thought," I interrupt, pulling the thermometer out of his mouth and turning it until I can see the mercury.
"100." I hold the thermometer aloft, as though it's crucial evidence. "You have a fever."
"So?" he returns, suppressing a cough and only half succeeding. "I habn't hab time to geb my tree up and ebrything. Dive felt like crap for the past few days." And unless there's a little bit of prodding, Harm is usually slow to get into the Christmas spirit. He's not quite a scrooge, but I know Christmas always reminds Harm of what he lost all those years ago in 1969 and the pain of subsequent Christmases, without knowing what happened and yet hoping for a Christmas miracle, before hope and expectation faded away to numbness.
Usually, around the beginning of December, if there's no girlfriend to do it, I start dropping hints and encouraging him to take up the festive spirit and get a tree and some lights and some popcorn and cocoa and we'll make a night of trimming the tree. I was quite happy to take up the tradition again last year after a several year reprieve.
He always grumbles about having to dig out bulbs and string up lights and put up a tree but I know he enjoys sharing the activity with me. It gives him a feeling of peace and…normalcy that the holiday rarely provides him.
"All the more reason for you to rest," I reply firmly, glancing around his living space and coming to a decision.
"Dime lible to hab nightmares, now," he mutters under his breath. "My brudder anb—"
"Where do you keep your Christmas decorations and such?" I interrupt before we get started down that road again.
"Storage roob. Anb there are a few new thinbs in a bag by my desk. Why?"
"Never mind that. You, Commander, are going to about face and haul your six into that bed, where you will not move for a period of no less than two hours. If you move from that bed, I'll be forced to get physical, sailor, and trust me, you won't like it. Now, good night, and pleasant dreams."
I place a kiss impulsively on his flushed cheek, removing the scowl of annoyance that surfaced at being summarily dismissed and ordered about. At his surprised look, I shrug and explain with an impish smile, "I told you I do a great Florence Nightengale impression."
"Hm," he murmurs with a slightly dazed look on his face. I can't tell if it's because he's so tired and sick, or the onslaught of the medication he took is still wreaking havoc on his system, or if it's because of such a simple thing like a kiss from me.
Oh, you're kidding yourself, MacKenzie.
But as he walks away, quietly humming a very nasal rendition of "Physical" I'm left wondering.
Just what is it that goes on in that mind of his?