Two

North Yungas Road, Bolivia

"Captain Doggett!"

John turned around in the middle of the dusty road at the sound of his name, called out to him by a young boy. His dark brown hair was long and curly, sitting around his shoulders. He was no more than twelve, and he was out of breath by the time he caught up to John and stared up at him with wide, brown eyes. John's clear, blue eyes stared back down, his light brown hair recently cut short and greying at the edges. His face was tanned and lined from age and sun exposure, though his wide straw hat shaded him from the worst of the day's rays.

"What's up?" he asked casually, offering the boy a smile.

"Problem at Harry's farm," he puffed. "Harry asked me to come get you."

"What now?" John groaned, following the boy as he turned and began leading onwards, walking beside John instead of running ahead. John cast his eye out towards the overcast, mountainous view. They were high up the side of the mountains but the boy had caught up to John on the incline leaving their colony. He had not planned on ascending much further, but he had been looking forward to some thinking time sitting on the edge of the fifteen hundred feet drop-off on what had once been known as the world's most dangerous road.

Now he lived there. Fantastic.

"So what's happenin' at Harry's?" John asked as they took the steep decline steadily, their thin sandals scraping against the rough, loose rocks and dirt.

"More theft," the boy replied. "Told me to come get you, said you told him you were headed up here? What for? You don't wanna leave the colony. You can't. You're the Captain."

"No, I was just taking a break," John assured him with a smile. He thought it was funny everyone called him 'Captain Doggett'. It sent Monica into hysterics every time she heard it. She told him it made him sound like a cartoon character. But he still thought it was better than being called Sheriff. He told most people to call him John or Doggett, but humans still had a way of revering rank, so Captain Doggett it often was.

"Oh good," the boy sighed. "Cos it'd fall to Hell without you here."

John smiled at the sentiment, though it was far from true. By the time he, Monica, Nicky, Skinner, Sarah and Gibson had arrived the colony had been in full swing. John and Skinner had been enlisted as 'police' though definitions of roles were often blurred in a colony trying to re-establish itself as a working town. John did more than just police. After the death of the pervious Captain, he had been promoted by election, and now he found himself the go-to man.

It left him slightly uncomfortable. John had always been comfortable in roles of authority, he had loved his time in the New York Police Department, in the Army and at the FBI, but he had never been in the position of dolling out orders to people who looked up to him. Suddenly the team was looking to him for guidance.

Stuffed if he knew what he was doing.

The colony was nothing like John had expected. After a year wandering in the desert and surviving on rations looted from passing towns, he had expected more of the same; shanty tents along dirty creeks and dry landscapes. They were images he had grown up with from third world countries struggling for survival. He had been preparing himself and Monica for the potential reality of malaria and cholera and other diseases that could plague them and their young son, but though Nicholas had suffered with colds and ear infections, he had so far remained healthy. John could not have been more thankful, and he prayed every night for their fortune to continue.

They lived in relative comfort considering the circumstances. Their colony was a small one, with just eight hundred men and women, and another two hundred children. Residents were mostly South Americans who had survived the bloody supersoldier attacks because they had lived close to the mountainous area which held a large enough deposit of magnetite to keep them safe. Though that had not stopped the military from dropping bombs and killing most, if not all, of the previous twenty thousand strong population.

John had found little evidence of who had been responsible for the bombings, but if the humans in charge of the population knew about the magnetite in the area and did not want a large number of humans to survive there, he was pretty sure his own former country had been responsible for the slaughter.

Locals had hidden in the Amazon jungles and then returned, and the colony had been created. There were others there, though. Quite a few 'survivors' from the North had been brought in, mostly from Mexico which was where John and his friends had been processed. Tourists had been in the area, and not all residents were South American. Some were British, and a lot of the tourists were young Americans and Europeans. They had all grouped together according to their races, something John was trying to gently discourage. None of that mattered anymore, after all. They were only one thousand in number. That was frightening.

Around the perimeter of the town, supersoldiers patrolled, but they were far away. Nobody left the confines of the colony. The furthest they could go involved taking the road John and the boy were carefully descending. It was safe for walking and had been spared by the bombs, but John could not imagine having driven on it.

It did not take them long to return to the town, built into the green hillside. John was sweating and cringing at the exertion. So much for a slow break, he wondered. He was in his late forties but it had taken a while to get used to the elevation. He was fit from walking, and thanks to an improvement in his diet since colonising he felt very healthy, but he was no longer twenty, and the air was always muggy despite their high altitude.

The farm was outside what was left of the city. The residents lived within the ruins of the city, and it meant there was always work to be done, in cultivating their crops and cleaning up their buildings. It had been interesting for John to be involved in organising all the work to be done. Culturally differences existed between the expectations of contribution by gender, and there were language barriers. A lot of people did speak English, though many were not fluent, and many spoke a variant of the Spanish his wife had been taught growing up in Mexico. It had taken Monica a while to brush up, and even she was not yet fluent in what had been the local Spanish dialect, but she helped where she could.

John had picked up the basics with her help, and he used it where he had to, but he really was not very good. He had a heavy, unshakable New York accent, and whenever he tried to speak Spanish people laughed at him. It was a friendly not a taunting laugh, and it helped the locals warm to him because he was trying, and they had elected him after all, but it was not very helpful when it came to talking about serious issues of policing.

Serious issues, he pondered, like the latest 'disastrous' crime to affect the colony, which he discovered upon stalking through the lines of mature trees to find Harry and his staff arguing: theft. His new job was a far cry from patrolling the streets of New York, that was for sure.

"John!" Harry exclaimed excitedly when he saw him. Harry's farm was actually Harry's orchard, and had always been Harry's orchard. John knew the short, brown-skinned, sixty year old man was Aymaran and he spoke Aymara, but luckily his dealings with the markets and tourists over the years had taught him English very well. He was one of the more powerful locals left in the colony, and had hidden in the nearby mountains when the bombs came. He had no remaining family, and his fruit orchard had survived because of the colonists. Not far from his orchard were other successful continuing farms which produced various vegetables and coffee.

Everybody was required to work except new mothers. If men and women weren't working outside they were indoors teaching the children or preparing food. People could do whatever they wanted. John ensured there were no roles defined by gender, but the prevalence of the local culture in the colony meant that most of the women chose to work domestically. Some of the whites who had survived as locals or tourists had mixed it up a bit; one of the male tourists had been a Canadian teacher and the other a British doctor. The doctor's girlfriend was an engineer. John knew the locals thought they were strange, but they needed all the help they could get, so everybody's talents were appreciated and used the best way they could be.

"What's the problem Harry?" he asked, stretching his hand out for Harry to shake in a customary, respectful greeting. Harry complied but started rattling off an explanation in his own language before catching John's unmoved, narrow blue eyes. He stopped, took a deep breath, and pointed his finger at the singled out local man who was standing apart from the rest of the group, all gathered around to take part in the commotion.

"He put fruit down his pants!" Harry exclaimed. "They saw him eating it."

"True?" John asked, turning to the local. John knew everybody's faces and thought the young man's name was Adan. He was married to a woman called Ana. They were in their late twenties with two young children. He raised his eyebrows expectantly. He knew Adan understood English just as well as Harry, and he expected an answer.

"I didn't put any down my pants," he replied. "I just ate some. I was hungry man!"

"We're all hungry," John replied. "But we got limited resources here cos we can't get to the outer farms that used to bring everything in, and this place is surrounded by coca, so every time you take a piece o' fruit for yourself without putting it in the collection it's less food for the community to share. Do I have to frisk you Adan?"

"Frisk?" he asked cautiously. John patted himself down, touching his sweaty, long-sleeved cotton shirt and long, brown pants. Adan shook his head, reaching into his pockets and pulling them out, revealing nothing but a handkerchief.

"I know you're probably used to snacking as you go, but if Harry tells you not to, then you can't. Otherwise you might find yourself reassigned to town duties, okay?"

"Yeah, okay." John sighed, shaking his head as he leant forward to shake Adan's hand. After then going through the 'now say sorry to your boss' routine he was becoming increasingly familiar with, John left the group and returned to his home.

There was a climb from the farm to what was left of the town, but at five thousand feet elevation a few extra metres did not tend to matter. He waved to and greeted as many people as he could as he walked down the main street and headed straight for his 'office', a tiny house which had survived the bombings. John was happy to see his friend sitting on top of the front desk, slapping the heels of his sandals into one of the desk's legs. His bald head was downturned towards the book in his lap, his glasses dusty but unbroken.

"What are you readin'?" he asked. Walter Skinner looked up. Formerly John's boss at the FBI, Skinner was now a deputy, and he was in charge of overseeing construction. It was a big job but Skinner was a natural leader, and with the help of Julie, the European civil engineer, roofs and walls were being repaired much faster than John had expected. When they had first arrived at the colony, almost no reconstruction work had been carried out. Now at least people were somewhat organised and the shelters more reliable.

"Brushing up on my geography," Skinner answered, tilting the book downwards to reveal the atlas to John. They smiled at each other. "Thought you were taking off?" Skinner asked.

"I got called back. Some numb-nuts at Harry's is eating off the orchard, which is totally against Harry's new harvesting policy. The guy's really trying to do his best, but it's taking a while for everyone to catch on. Thought I'd just head home. Anything I should know from your end?"

"Uh, let's see. Broken up three arguments here in the street since you left. The next Church service has been scheduled for tomorrow. I've allowed Xilona and Nathan out to the coca to collect some more and I've been sitting here trying to decide whether its use here is worth cracking down on or not."

John nodded. They'd had the discussion several times, amongst themselves and with the other locals who had leadership roles within the colony. The leaves of the coca crops could be manufactured into cocaine, and the crop was prevalent in the area because it had always turned much higher profits than the fruit or coffee plants brought in to try to minimise its cultivation. Because of its illicit uses and their knowledge of the effects of cocaine in the old cities, John and Skinner were both predisposed to wanting nothing to do with the plant.

But traditionally it had uses, as they were still learning. Chewing on the leaves did not actually produce psychoactive effects. It was used to treat altitude sickness and as a stimulant it acted as an anaesthetic for a wide range of aches and pains. It numbed the mouth. It was a popular tea. It was in fact so ingrained in the local culture that John knew it would be impossible to remove it entirely, and a part of him respected its medicinal uses. Luckily, Doctor Xilona Maria de Castra knew what she was doing. Because the crops were further from the town, John had managed to restrict access. Nobody was stopped from going there, but the locals were all afraid of the supersoldiers and of the bombs coming back. None of them really wanted to go to the crop, and even though John and others knew it was close enough to still be safe, a little suspicion amongst the locals was not necessarily a bad thing.

"I think we'll just have to live with it," John told Skinner. "Besides, I reckon it's what they gave Sarah when she got sick coming here, with the altitude." Skinner hummed, nodding thoughtfully. "Well it's time for my Siesta, I'm beat-"

"Don't you have a language class tonight?" Skinner asked. "Cos I do."

"Yeah, I'll be there. Mon will make sure I'm there. And I gotta take Nicky off her hands for a little while anyway. She wasn't looking so crash hot this morning."

"I haven't seen her today," Skinner mumbled. "Stella was telling me she bowed out of kitchen but I never got a chance to look in on them. You seen Gibson?"

"Yeah on my way in. He's bringing wood in. For such a little dude he's pretty strong."

"Konrad and Sarah want to know if they can repair the school's fence," Skinner added.

"And they want my permission because?" John asked, laughing. "Do we care?"

"I told them it was okay. They wanted me to clear it with you though, so in case they ask. So I'll see you at dinner?"

"Yeah. Let's hope we can both stay off duty long enough to actually eat tonight."

"Just tell Ricky he's in charge," Skinner suggested. "He's been working hard today though. I had a lot of translation issues."

"I'll bet," John teased. "Thanks Skinner. You don't mind hanging around here until dinner?"

"No, go check on your wife and kid," Skinner assured him casually, smiling. "If something disastrous happens I'll send someone for you. El Presidente gotta rest."

"Don't call me that," John laughed.

"Just as long as El Presidente remembers he has to write a speech for Church tomorrow."

"Ah crap, again?" he groaned. "You know, I'm glad they like me and listen to our ideas and stuff, but I swear they all want these updates at the end of mass just so they can roll off their seats laughin' at our accents."

"Puts a smile on their face for a week," Skinner taunted dryly. "Better you than me."

John chuckled, rolling his eyes and committing the task to memory, before leaving the building and wandering back down the street. The afternoon sun was hot and the sky above him had grown more overcast. If they were very unlucky, it would rain. The weather had been the most inhibiting factor of their construction efforts. Roofs were still torn open and the dirt turned quickly to mud and clay. None of the rain so far had been heavy or for long periods, but John knew that the wet season would approach eventually, and so to all of them, getting the construction finished was a big priority.

His own home was still only partially finished. He did not want to be seen as the leader who took care of his own selfish needs before those of others. He, Monica, Nicholas and Gibson all lived in the undamaged half of the two storey, red brick house. It was close to the centre of town without being amidst the taller buildings and hotels. Many people resided in the blocks of units and hotels that were safe enough to live in, and John was grateful they had been given a house with some privacy and distance, even if half of it was boarded up.

"I'm back!" he shouted, not sure who, if anybody, would be home. But he heard his son calling out from the upstairs bedroom area and knew Monica would also not be far. He grinned, jogging up the steps. At the top of the stairs was a crude but sanded wooden barrier they put up to prevent any accidental falls when Nicky wandered out of their sights.

Over the top of the barrier, John saw a mop of brown curly hair. Little white hands curled over the edge and a forehead appeared, then a pair of large, round brown eyes.

"Hey Nicholas," John greeted, hurrying the last few steps and peering over the barrier. Nicky lowered himself back onto his feet, his palms pressed against the wood for balance. John had tested it several times, and there was no way Nicky could push it forward. His head tilted back against his shoulders as he looked all the way up at John with a wide grin. John didn't wait for the arms to go up before reaching down to scoop up his son, who they thought was one and a half. Monica had tried to keep track at first, but they had lost their way and given up. As long as he developed over time they were happy, and he could walk and say a few words; as far as being happy went they were ecstatic.

"Dada," he greeted, giggling when John planted a noisy kiss on his plump cheek. Nicky had John's pixie ears and it looked as though he would have the same strong chin and jaw, but he had Monica's olive skin and brown hair and eyes. Nicky's brown eyes even had the same wise look that Monica gave him all the time. Nicky looked almost nothing like John's first son, who had been murdered at the age of seven many years ago when John had been first married and in the NYPD. Luke had been blonde with blue eyes, just as John had been as a child, and Barbara had been blonde and blue-eyed also.

Nicky was less serious than Luke, more chatty, even at such a tender age, and he was not a happy morning baby. It took him a while to wake up. He was definitely a lot like his mother, though John did not mind. In many ways the differences between Nicky and Luke helped John deal with the fact that he had a son again, and that opportunity was one he thought had been lost for good when Luke had died. It seemed less like replacing Luke, and John found he was as awed by his second son as he had been by his first. He was even more protective and tender, a product of Luke's loss and the current circumstances in which they survived.

Monica felt the same way. Their son was everything to them, and such a powerful source of hope and strength. He was not sure they would have made it through the desert months as well as they did if Nicky had not kept them going.

"Ah, I thought it must have been you," Monica teased softly from the doorway to their bedroom. "The way he ran out of there." John smiled as he stepped over the barrier with Nicky cuddled against his side.

"Mon," he greeted, pecking her briefly on the lips and then standing back to quickly look her over. She was dressed in a singlet and loose cotton ankle-length pants, but she did not have as much colour in her face as he was used to. "Air a bit thin for you today?" he asked.

"Yeah," she sighed, leaning against the frame and resting a hand over her stomach. "I think I've picked something up. I'm not keeping anything down. I had to bow out of kitchen duties; I don't want to pass it around. The last thing you need to deal with is an epidemic." John chuckled. "I thought I'd keep Nicky home from playgroup too, just in case."

"Looks like we might get some rain."

"I know, the buckets are ready," she promised with a gentle smile. "Seen Gibson today?"

"Just before, briefly, but he was busy. Did you see Sarah?"

"No, I didn't leave the house." John frowned at her, worried. "I just don't want to pass this onto anyone, least of all Sarah. She had such a hard time with the altitude already. If Walter's been busy all day I'd say she's been at the school anyway."

"Taken anything?" he asked. She shook her head, smirking.

"You know I hate that coca, it tastes disgusting and it's practically cocaine. I've kept some water down though, which is something. Are you heading into town for dinner?"

"Yeah, and I'm gonna have to make an appearance at language class but if you're sick I might not stay."

"You should stay, you need the practice," she urged. "I've just been sleeping and playing with Nicky. We'll be right. I'm not on my deathbed John. I think I must have swallowed some bad water, that's all."

"All right. Has bub had a bath today?"

"No," she replied. "I was going to but I wasn't up to it. I might have a cold shower later."

"Not a problem. If you watch him while I get it ready, I'll do it now before it gets dark, then I'll come back and we should have enough time to get scrubbed up before I have to head back into town. You want me to bring you any food?"

"I'm good with what we've got here," she assured him. "Lost my appetite." He nodded, leaning forward to peck her pale cheek and returning their son to her arms.

"I'll take care of the water," he promised gently, urging her back into the bedroom before hurrying downstairs to inspect their water tanks. The mains were still connected but there was no hot water, nothing to power any sort of electric heating or lighting. Because nobody was sure how the climate would be affected by the environmental changes in the north, when John arrived a water plan had already been put in place by the previous captain. They would conserve everything they could in the first year until they could measure their rainfall and then they would make decisions about usage. It was not as though a million people needed daily showers anymore, after all.

That year had passed before John had arrived, and restrictions had since been lifted. Showers were allowed but pressure was low. Rainfall had been just below average in the first year, and there was plenty of water nearby with waterfalls and rapids not too long a walk away. But there was still no hot water, so if they showered it was bitterly cold, and Nicky hated it. They had a little bath, so instead of the shower they filled the bath with water boiled on the gas stove and waited for it to cool. It took time to prepare and involved lots of trips up and down the stairs. John could understand why Monica would not have had the energy. They boiled all their drinking water and were not allowed to swallow in the shower.

Once the upstairs bath was comfortably warm John wandered into the main bedroom. Monica was under the covers curled up on her side, and Nicky was sitting next to her playing with his toy telephone they had found. He was babbling into it and Monica was mumbling as though she was on the other end.

"Hello!" Nicky exclaimed into the receiver. "Hello mommy!" John grinned, reaching over Nicky's shoulder to press the hang-up button. He made a long beeping sound and Nicky looked up at him with a curious frown. John enjoyed the telephone toy, and he knew Monica liked it too. It was a part of their past that Nicky would probably never experience for himself. That was sad, but they were happy to teach him what it had been. They wanted him to know what their world had been like.

"Bath time buddy," he urged, grabbing his son around the waist and pulling him up, zooming him around and listening to him laugh as he walked them both into the bathroom. They had set a little table up in the corner beside the narrow sink that had a lot of Nicky's things on it, and Nicky sat on the cushion there comfortably, tugging his top up his stomach and chatting about water. "Yeah, that's right," John laughed. He was halfway through undressing his son when Monica rushed in, leaned over the sink and threw up. It sounded painful and John cringed as she gagged, reaching for the tap to rinse her mouth under a pitiful stream of water.

"So much for keeping the water down," she groaned when a tense silence fell over the room. John wanted to reach out and touch her back but he could not turn his attention from his son who had recently discovered his ability to wander and who had no real concept of the difference between sitting on the floor and sitting on a table a metre off the ground.

Monica sank to her knees on the tiles, breathing heavily. She reached behind her and wrapped a hand around John's bare ankle, rubbing softly for her own comfort, aware he couldn't touch her himself.

"Feeling better?" he asked hopefully. She shook her head and he sighed. It was extremely unusual for Monica to admit she was unwell. She had gotten through the entire journey as one of the healthiest members of their group. At first, John, Gibson and Mulder had watched over her health like a hawk and fed her double rations, and then Scully had joined them and monitored her even more. With a young son, she-

John's thoughts stopped mid-sentence when it dawned on him 'why' Monica had been the healthiest person in their group. In addition to being the healthiest, for a long time she had also been the sickest and the reasons why were identical.

"Uh, Mon," he drawled, not sure how to broach the idea, not sure if he wanted to know the answer or if she had even considered it. "Did this just come on today?"

"Yeah," she mumbled, moving away from the sink to sit back against the bath. She smiled at him weakly, reaching for her boy. John quickly finished undressing Nicky and handed him down. "Are you going to get in as well?" Monica asked, carefully seating Nicky in the lukewarm water and reaching for a washcloth.

"I was gonna get in after," John replied. "Unless you wanna wash my back too darlin'."

"I don't think you want me to. I might infect you," she groaned. "Either that or I'd fall asleep against you. But this little one doesn't take so long huh?" she teased more brightly, gently splashing Nicky and giggling as he splashed her back. John sat on the edge of the bath and watched them happily. He let his hand massage Monica's closest shoulder but she did not feel tense. Her arms making sure Nicky did not fall back in the bath were strong, but the rest of her looked very weak, and with his free hand he scratched his head, unable to help his thoughts returning to the possible causes of her symptoms.

They had been so incredibly careful, but before she had gotten pregnant with Nicky she had only thrown up in front of him once, after eating something questionable on a stakeout for an X File that had never eventuated. It had never eventuated because he had been so distracted and worried by her hurling into the gutter he had missed the suspect evading them, never to return. He had driven Monica home, walked her in, watched her collapse onto her bed and listened to her tell him she was 'fine', that it was just food poisoning and that the sausage stand on the corner was obviously not as good as he thought it was.

He chuckled and she looked up at him, her smile wide. John knew she was happy they had a home, and happy they could do normal things with their son like give him a bath, and he knew she thought that was why he had laughed.

John shrugged innocently, not wanting her to be aware of his thoughts too soon. After all, he could be on the wrong track. Maybe she was just sick. People did get sick in the colony. The environment was tropical and the conditions perfect for all sorts of bacteria. The two doctors in the colony did a fantastic job of working with what was available to them, but all sorts of injuries and illnesses had the potential to affect them.

Those first few months leading up to the invasion and then afterwards, in the basement and the first month in the desert, had been awful for all involved, particularly Monica. Seeing and hearing her throw up again had brought back all the memories of those months in cramped and crowded conditions, and it left an annoying niggle of déjà vu in his stomach. But surely if it were the case she would know, and would tell him. She genuinely thought she was sick.

John knew that part of the rush on construction and the need to get their farming organised was due to their expanding population. The only people allowed in via the processing centres had to be of child rearing age and capability. Mulder and Scully would have been turned away because Scully couldn't have children, so John and Monica had been forced to say goodbye to them. Apparently they had gone to Antarctica, but John really could not be sure, and a part of him didn't quite believe it.

As a result of the processing centre's rules for survivors of the north who ventured south, and as a result of the situation and the truth that John and Skinner had spread upon their arrival, a waning population was not a concern. John knew he had not been in the colony for very long, and already ten babies had been born. Every time there were a lot of smiling faces and lots of chatter. He knew twenty other women were pregnant. It was his job to know as much about the town as he could, and he could not escape people telling him. Everyone was keen to brag.

But he and Monica had been careful, although being careful in the jungles of South America was not as foolproof as being careful in the old cities. They had not been using any contraception, but Monica had always known her body so well, and she was open to communicating about it. He remembered when Nicky was born in Mulder and Scully's home in Virginia, and how different the experience had been to Luke's birth. No epidural, for one thing, but Monica had approached the whole situation with a completely different attitude to his first wife. She certainly understood herself, so he had always trusted her. He knew she would never 'trick' him, the thought barely entered his mind, so either he was overreacting and jumping to conclusions or she had been as blindsided as him.

"Dada, come in!" Nicky exclaimed, cupping water into his little hand and throwing his arm upwards, splashing John square in the chest. Monica laughed loudly as John was shaken by his thoughts. He leant over the bath, bracing himself on the edge, until his face was very close to his son's. His expression was serious but gentle, and Nicky did not look away. He stared up at John with wide, amused brown eyes and a look in them that told John exactly how mischievous his little boy was going to be. Mischievous, and as stubborn as his mama.

"Boo." Nicky giggled. He used his hands to push John's face away and they laughed.

"Aw, you've been rejected," Monica teased, resting the back of her wet hand against her forehead and cheeks, cooling herself with the water there. It did not go unnoticed by John.

"Are you runnin' hot or cold?" he asked cautiously.

"Hot," she replied. "But I'm okay. A cold shower should do it."

"Why don't you get ready for it and I'll get Nicky dried off, and then I'll watch you? I don't want you to fall or something."

"John I won't pass out," she assured him with a grin, but he knew her well enough to spot the flitter of doubt that she quickly hid.

"Have you been dizzy today?" he asked. She rolled her eyes but nodded reluctantly. "Then I'm not going anywhere til you're back in bed." He got down on his knees beside her to take over Nicky's bath and watched as she slowly pushed herself to her feet, holding onto the bath and then the wall for balance before silently returning to their bedroom.

He turned back to Nicky, who had been splashing the water around happily, content to listen to his parents talking. He was used to being the centre of attention, but from the moment of his birth he had been surrounded by adults and a lot of adult conversation. Sometimes he was content listening, and John was grateful for that. He'd had his hard days, with ear infections and some colic, but overall he had been a content little baby. Hopefully he would be a content little toddler, but John knew their luck would have to run out eventually, and he had a feeling Nicky was going to make them work for the next few years at least.

John finished washing Nicky and then picked him up to dry and dress him. Monica returned to the bathroom with a fresh towel and no clothes, and headed for the shower, turning the cold water on and stepping under the low pressure. John looked on and she did not slide the shower door shut. It let him know she was having some troubles; if she fell she wanted to be able to fall out of the shower onto the floor and not through the thin glass. John didn't mind, and he did not plan on going very far. If she fell, he was going to catch her. Or try.

He announced he was taking Nicky to his room and settled him in the playpen before hurrying back to the bathroom. It was a tossup between the cool, shallow bath or the cold, trickling shower, and he chose the latter as he undressed, stepping cautiously in behind his wife and shutting the door. She didn't turn around but she knew he was there, and she stepped forward so he could get wet as well.

John flinched when the cold water hit his skin, the icy temperature sending a shiver down his spine and causing goosebumps to rise on his skin. Monica's body in front of him radiated sickly heat and as one arm slid around her stomach the other lifted to touch her forehead.

"Mon, you're definitely not well darlin'," he told her. She chuckled, leaning her head back against his shoulder and relaxing in his arms. "Is anyone else sick we know?"

"We know everyone John," she reminded him with a soft chuckle. "But as for people I spend a lot of time with, no, nobody else. Yet. I think I drank some bad water this morning."

"You're not pregnant, are you?" he asked against her ear. He could not put it off any longer. Even if his idea was insane, he needed to know what she thought. Monica stiffened in his arms and as he watched her he could feel her thinking. The annoying niggle of déjà vu in his stomach became a tug of longing which surprised him as her failure to answer hung in the air.

"Oh shit," she whispered finally. "Maybe. What made you ask?"

"You haven't been this sick since Nicky," he replied. "It's not like you, and you don't have any abdominal cramps like you would if you'd drunk some bad water." He resisted the urge to lower his hand to her abdomen. She turned to face him, the water trickling against the back of her head. She narrowed her brown eyes and they darkened as she thought seriously, her fingers around his neck stroking in a gentle, pondering rhythm. Her eyes lifted to meet his after several minutes and John's eyes widened as hers got even narrower. "We can give it a few days, and see if you feel better before we start looking into it," he offered. She nodded.

"John, would you be upset?" she asked softly, her very narrow eyes widening with worry. He smiled, shaking his head and pulling her to him for a tight hug. She shivered as he scooped some cold water into his palm and rubbed it over her hot lower back. "Thanks for the suggestion, Captain," she mumbled, content against his shoulder. John chuckled, happy. He had a tiny feeling she thought he could be right, and he was suddenly excited, and very proud.