"Yes, we wrapped it up rather quickly," Laura agreed with a smile. It was always nice to be praised by someone as competent as Murphy; it was nicer yet to know that a boring and tedious case had finally been closed.

"Did you guys have a good day?" Bernice greeted them, rising from her chair. She was unusually fresh and chipper for a late afternoon. A bottle of nail polish, an issue of Cosmopolitan, and a smile on her lips indicated a nice relaxing day spent at the office.

"Yes, Bernice," Laura answered, taking her hat off and putting her purse down. "The case is closed and we didn't even have to twist any arms. Is he in?"

Her last question was accompanied with a motion toward the office of the titular head of Remington Steele Investigations.

"Laura, it's almost six o'clock," Murphy pointed out. "This guy is never in that late."

"Actually," Bernice intervened. "The venerable Mr. Steele called in sick this morning. He asked me to cancel his luncheon at the Chamber of Commerce and told me not to wait up. He also asked to cancel whatever he had 'sh-eduled' for tomorrow, just to be safe."

The source of the receptionist's happiness lay not exactly in the fact that Remington Steele was sick but more in the fact that he had been absent from the office the entire day - with the great prospect of one more day without having to face that arrogant pain in the rear who found particular amusement in mercilessly baiting her.

"It's been one of those days! It calls for celebration!" Murphy practically beamed at the news, as Bernice wasn't the only one to constantly find herself at the receiving end of Mr. Steele's jokes. "Care to join me?"

"Yippee!" Bernice exclaimed, picking up her purse. "Let's go! Laura?"

Seeing an uncertain look in her eyes, Murphy prompted, "Come on, Laura! Let's go! The first round's on me."

"That's it!" Laura declared suddenly. "This time, he's not getting off that easily."

She angrily took her hat off the hat rack and put it on.

"Laura, what are you talking about?" Murphy asked, sensing that this night's company outing might lack one very important member.

"To blow the lid off whatever scam he is running this time," she said, steaming. Picking up her purse, she dug in for her keys.

"Scam? What makes you think he's up to something?"

"Remember the last time he called in sick? He pretended to be at his deathbed while running a scam with that smarmy friend of his that was also hitting on my mother?"

"Laura, I beg you, go easy on this guy," Murphy pleaded. "Who knows, maybe he's really sick this time, maybe he even needs to stay in a hospital for a week or two."

"Or an asylum," Bernice suggested.

"Really, you two," Laura said with a sigh, leaving the office.

"Are you sure you won't join us?" Murphy yelled as the doors closed behind her.

As she was about to stick the thin metal strip into the lock, the door opened and she came face-to-face with the man the trusting LA public identified as Remington Steele.

"Laura," he greeted her, oblivious to the tool in her hand. "What are you doing here?"

Instead of answering, she stormed past him into the apartment and went directly into the kitchen. He followed, dispassionately observing her actions while she took her time opening kitchen cabinets, looking behind the refrigerator, inspecting every inch of the pantry, peeking under the dining table, checking the bedroom closet, and giving the bathroom a close scrutiny. Finally, still in the bathroom, she turned around and, finding him leaning against the threshold, demanded, "OK, where is he?"

"Laura, are you looking for a man in my bedroom? What in the world gave you such an idea?"

"I am not looking for a man in your bedroom, I am looking for your partner in your apartment!"

"My partner?"

"Yes! In whatever scam you are running this time! Where is he?"

He waved his hands and said weakly, "Laura, why must you always assume my intentions are criminal?"

"Because that's exactly what they were the last time you called in sick."

"One really mustn't cry 'wolf' in your presence, Miss Holt," he commented dryly. "However, I assure you, this time I am sick."

"Now, listen, buster," Laura started saying, for further emphasis poking her finger into Mr. Steele's chest.

Through the thin fabric she could feel the unusual warmth of his skin. She put the palm of her hand to his forehead. He jerked his head, but that momentary touch and another look at his bleary, liquid eyes was enough.

"Boy," she said. "You really have a fever."

"That's what I've been trying to tell you all along," he said wearily.

"You must be in bed!"

"I was in bed until you came along," he pointed out.

"Well, in that case, go back!" she ordered. "You shouldn't wander around with a fever. Did you take some pills?"

She took his arm and pushed him in the direction of the bed. It was unmade and the covers were rumpled; he really had been in there before she had barged in.

Remington pulled his arm free and said with a lopsided grin, "Why, Laura, you wouldn't be trying to play at a doctor with me, would you?"

"Mr. Steele," she stated. "Must I remind you that you are a valuable asset to my Agency? In making sure you're healthy I'm just protecting my business investment."

"So, your order to go to bed was purely business, eh?"

"Exactly. Now, come on, get off your feet," she ordered again, straightening the comforter.

He weakly sat on the bed, fighting a sudden wave of nausea that washed over him, and said, "Oh my, here you are in my bedroom and I'm in no condition to make a pass at you."

"That's exactly why I'm in your bedroom," she retorted. However, his sudden paleness didn't escape her, so she dropped the business attitude and asked worriedly, "Did you take something for your fever?"

"Of course, I did! Stop fussing around, I'll be fine. All I need is just a little rest, so I hope you'll forgive me for not seeing you to the door."

Laura gave him a suspicious look and declared, "Whatever medicine you took, it looks like you need another dose. Get under the covers and I'll be right back."

She turned on her heel and went back into the bathroom. Remington obeyed with a feeling of an impending doom - it was obvious Laura was in one of her unstoppable moods, so it seemed that resigning to his fate would be easier than resisting it.

In the bathroom, Laura opened the medicine cabinet. The name didn't give it a justice; it looked more like a display of a swanky department store. She would have hard time identifying the purpose of all those bottles, vials, and tubes, but one thing was certain - none of the items had ever been in a pharmacy. Another thing was certain, too - the cabinet held nothing even remotely resembling a bottle of aspirin. She slid the mirrored door back in place and opened the vanity under the sink only to find the same picture there. Suddenly, she remembered that her Mr. Steele had avoided her repetitive questions, first irritating her and then trying to get rid of her just as she had spoken of medications.

She went back into the bedroom, stood by the bed and asked, looking him in the eyes, "You don't have any pills at home, do you?"

"I hate pills," he admitted. "All I need is some rest, really. I'll be fine."

"I'll be right back," Laura cut sharply, leaving the room.

It all had started in the morning with a slight fever and a headache, so he had decided to call in sick and spend a lazy day at home instead of attending that boring luncheon he had been invited to, or rather, had been scheduled to attend. However, before he had known it, his fever had escalated, his once slight headache had squeezed his head in a vice, and every single muscle in his body had ached. He had had always hated pills, but after several hours of severe headache and fever playing tricks on him, making him feel hot, cold, or giving him chills, he had decided that an aspirin or two wouldn't be such a bad idea. Unfortunately, he hadn't kept any medication at home and by the time he had made up his mind to go to the nearest chemist's, he had known he couldn't make it - merely standing upright had made him dizzy.

But no matter how ill he was, asking for help was worse, so he had simply decided to sleep it off and to starve his cold. It had worked well for him when he had been a kid. He'd always been hungry and healthy - even a minor cold could prove fatal when one lived on the streets.

Starving his cold seemed a wise choice since he couldn't eat much in his state, anyway, and while he had enough food in the refrigerator to prepare a nice dinner, there was nothing in there that his stomach could have tolerated. Around lunchtime, he had ruined the last eggs trying to make an omelet. He had gotten chills once again, his hands had been shaking, he couldn't stand straight, so he had turned the heat down, not wanting to burn the food. When he had found enough strength to get off the couch to check on his culinary venture, he had found a heavy, coagulated, inedible mass that currently formed a pitiful heap in a pan on the stove. The pan would probably be easier to throw away than to wash, but it didn't trouble him at the moment.

He moaned and rubbed his face, wishing none of it had ever happened. Before Laura had left, she had roamed the kitchen, checking his supplies. Surely she had seen that debacle, too, he thought wearily.

"Here you go," she said, lowering the tray on the bed by his side. "I made you some chicken soup."

"Chicken soup?"

"The instant kind - there wasn't time for anything else," she added, busily moving some bottles, boxes, and vials from the tray to the nightstand. This sudden burst of activity and slight blush on her cheeks made Remington wonder if time, indeed, was the only issue in making the real chicken soup. He mused if the ever-efficient Miss Holt could as efficiently operate in a kitchen, but was too weak to tease her.

"But first, you should take something for your fever," Laura pointed out, producing a thermometer. "Open your mouth."

Remington suspiciously surveyed the device and she added, "Don't worry, I washed it before the first use. I wanted to rub it with alcohol, but the closest thing I could find in your apartment seemed to be that bottle of Dom Perignon in your fridge."

"Laura, you cut me to the quick. There is also a bottle of an excellent cognac in my..." He wasn't fast enough to close his mouth and Laura stuck the thermometer in there, so he swallowed the rest of his tirade with a look of hurt pride and only glared when she admonished, "You shouldn't talk too much in your condition."

Digits "104" put Laura on full alert, turning her into a veritable mother hen. She handed him pills, water to wash them down, suspiciously watched him to make sure he took all the medicine, and finally, gave him a huge cup of hot chicken soup.

Out of custom, Remington protested a bit at this outburst of motherly activity, not ready to admit that it did feel nice to submit to her gentle care.

While he was slowly sipping the soup, Laura brought a jug and a clean glass from the kitchen.

"You need to drink plenty of fluids," she advised, once again rearranging the items on the nightstand so he could reach them easily. "Here is some water and more pills in case you need them. I also bought you some cough medicine, nasal drops, and some tissue."

"Cough medicine? Laura, it's just a fever, I'll be fine tomorrow!"

"No, you won't," she cut off his protests. "You definitely should stay home tomorrow. And regardless of whether you do or do not have other symptoms, having some medicine on your nightstand won't kill you. Tomorrow morning, I'll send Fred over to make sure you don't need anything else."

Too weak to argue and too well aware that Laura was right, he heaved a sigh and returned to his soup.

After the last drop was gone, he gave Laura the empty cup and leaned on the pillows, half-closing his eyes. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she pressed the palm of her hand to his forehead to check on his fever and he involuntarily moved toward this deliciously cold touch. Sensing it, she adjusted her hand to make it easier for him.

"Oh, Laura," he moaned. "You're truly an angel of mercy."

"Am I?"

"Oh, yes. Maybe some day, I'll be able to return the favor," he suggested, sparkles back in his eyes. "I'll fetch you pills, fluff your pillows, tuck you in... I'll even make you real chicken soup if you'd be kind enough to warn me ahead of time."

"Sounds good," she said with a wicked smile. "And I'll finally get to whine, complain, and repeat, 'Stop fussing around!'"

Her hand was already so warm that it had no cooling effect and she gently removed it from his forehead. He caught her arm as she was about to rise.

"I make a bad patient, don't I?" he stated with a lame smile.

"You can say that again," Laura said, gently smiling at him.

Still holding her arm, he admitted with difficulty, "I'm not used to being taken care of. I'm afraid, I don't take it well."

"And here I was going to tuck you in."

After a long pause, still not letting her arm go, he seriously asked, "Miss Holt, would you do me the honor of tucking me in?"

"Mr. Steele, I can't turn down the most unusual proposal ever," she assured him, hiding a smile. She arranged the comforter as he was slightly turning and tossing, making her job easier - or perhaps, just making sure she touched him again. Somehow, she didn't mind, though.

When the job was done, she straightened and gave him a long, apprehending look. She had never encountered that side of him; there was nothing showy or arrogant about the man that lay in front of her. At the moment, he looked more like a little boy, lost in a huge bed with ridiculously expensive silk sheets; a sick, hurt, vulnerable little boy with tousled hair, longing for attention he had been deprived of. Laura felt a pang of regret knowing the impression wouldn't last.

Sitting down beside him, she said softly, "One last prescription from Dr. Holt."

"Hmm?" he mumbled, opening one eye and giving her a suspicious look.

"Me and my lilting voice," she explained. "Go to sleep."

He curled up under the comforter as she ran her fingers through his hair, beginning to sing:

Over in Kilarney,
Many years ago
Me mother sang a song to me
In tones so soft and low.

Just a simple little ditty
In her good old Irish way
And I'd give the world if I could hear
That song of hers today.

Tomorrow morning, she'd stop by to see if he needed anything.

The End