SHAMELESS ADVANTAGE
By: H. Lee, hlear8@yahoo.com

Spoilers: None

Rated: PG

Disclaimers: the usual

Summary: A late-night sick trip 



The air in Mac’s room is thin and cold. It’s so dark
by the door, I can’t see my hand in front of my face,
but I’m not afraid of making a wrong turn and ending
up in the hotel closet; the sleeping warmth of her
body and the deep, even rustle of her breath draw me
to her like a magnet. 



When I get to the bed, I can just make out her rumpled
hair and closed eyes. It takes all my resolve not to
crawl in and curl up around her. Instead, I kneel next
to the bed and hesitate a moment before making my
move. 



I’m not feeling as guilty as I should for intending to
wake her. We’ve just wrapped up a particularly
stressful case, and I know better than anyone that Mac
probably hasn’t slept with any semblance of regularity
for the past few nights. We have a small mountain of
paperwork to finish before our transport leaves
tomorrow evening, and I know she’ll wake up early to
run and to check in with someone at the office to make
sure headquarters can run smoothly for one more day
without its chief-of-staff. 



I know all of this, and yet I’m not as ambivalent
about rousing Sarah MacKenzie as a good partner should
be. Because, goddamnit, I am miserable. And cold. My
stomach aches, and I hurt. With the same remarkable
foresight I typically manage to exhibit, I, of course,
failed to pack any Tylenol or ibuprofen—not even an
aspirin, for chrissake. But I know my
perpetually-prepared Marine will have something I can
take. At this point, I’m ready to accept a Pamperin or
Midol, or whatever the hell it is women use to subvert
the nuisance of their monthly monsters. I just want
something to end the pain. 



I reach out to shake what I estimate to be her
shoulder and whisper her name with just the right
amount of whine injected into my tone. In the faint
blue light wafting through the blinds, I watch her
turn on her side toward me, her eyes shining up
through the dark. 



“Mmm, Harm?” she whispers in the sleepy, husky voice
that makes blood feel like hot caramel in my veins.
“What is it, sweetie?” 



Thank you, Jesus. 



I have just run my sick ass straight to MaternalMac. 



MaternalMac is a step beyond Mac the Protector and
even LovingMac. She comes out primarily among
children—AJ, Chloe, Dar-Lynn—but sometimes with Bud
and Harriet or, even more rarely, with me. MaternalMac
unmercifully spoils the people she loves, guards them
like a mother hen, and throws out genuine terms of
endearment as if they were water. Kids generally get
‘baby,’ or ‘angel,’ or ‘cutie.’ ‘Honey,’ ‘sweetheart,’
and all their variants and diminutives are reserved
for me. 



Unfortunately, Mac has to be either extremely
exhausted or worried, or both, to allow herself to
mother me, in part, I’m sure, because she knows I
wouldn’t normally appreciate it. But tonight I am
almost pathetically grateful that MaternalMac is
putting in an appearance, and if I have anything to
say about it, she’ll stick around for awhile. 



“Mac,” I moan again, though I’m sure I have her
attention. “I’m sick.” 



That fast, she’s propped herself up to a sitting
position and placed the back of her hand against my
forehead. “What’s the matter, Harm?” 



The liquid concern in her eyes prompts a pitiful frown
to my mouth. Mac’s all but boundless capacity to humor
me is exceeded only by a limitless empathy for those
she cares about; I take a moment from my agony to bask
in both. 



“I have a blinding headache, and my stomach hurts,” I
answer miserably. 



“You might be a little warm,” she notes with a worry
that is in itself a source of comfort. 



“I feel like an icicle.” I shudder, mostly for effect.




“You should be in bed,” she scolds softly, her hand
trailing from my forehead down my jaw. 



My pout deepens as I add to my list of complaints;
manly pride has been abandoned for the good of the
cause. “My bed is freezing.” 



I get what I hoped for. Her head shakes in
commiseration as she rolls from her bed and guides me
in in her place. 



The pillow is lumpy, but the sheets are warm, and God,
it smells good in here. The pounding in my skull
lessens by a fraction. 



Assuming my previous position in a squat beside the
bed, she reaches up to pull the covers over my chest.
“Do you think you’re going to throw up?” 



Pleased she sounds sympathetic rather than repulsed by
the idea, I shake my head. “It just hurts.” 



“Your neck doesn’t feel stiff, does it?” There’s alarm
in her voice now, and I figure she’s just jumped to
the conclusion that I’ve contracted spinal meningitis.




“No,” I reply, glad to disappoint her. “But my head is
killing me.” 



She doesn’t bother to ask if I’ve taken anything; she
realized long ago that I am the most hapless travel
planner on the planet. Silently, she stands up and
pads over to the bathroom. Even the light escaping
through the half-closed door is enough to make stars
of pain explode behind my eyes. A plastic click and
the rush of the faucet are all I hear before the room
is mercifully plunged into darkness again. 



Sight adjusting slowly to the change, I feel, rather
than see, her perch on the edge of the mattress near
my hip. Then a cool hand slides beneath my neck and
urges me up to a semi-reclining position that strains
my already-sore abdominal muscles. With a grimace, I
relax, prepared to flop back down on the unforgiving
pillow. Somehow, I’m not surprised when her arm
tightens, completely supporting me upright. 



“Open up,” she coaxes lightly. 



“Whatcha got?” I ask suspiciously first, half-ready to
reconsider my earlier willingness to accept Midol as a
form of medication now that the situation may actually
have arisen. 



“Tylenol. They’ll be better for your stomach than
ibuprofen. Come on.” 



The brush of her fingers on my bottom lip has them
parting automatically, and she’s pressed two gelcaps
against my tongue before I can decide whether I’m in
the mood to risk my life by trying to suck one of
those fingers into my mouth for a bit. 



Vaguely disappointed but relieved to finally have some
drugs in my system, I swallow the pills with water
from the glass she brought quickly to my mouth. 



“There you go, Sailor,” she says, lowering me gently
back to the pillow and checking my temperature again.
“You warming up at all?” 



“Yeah,” I answer with vulnerability that’s a touch
exaggerated. I haven’t quite gotten all the hovering I
want yet. 



Mac frowns thoughtfully for a minute, stroking my hair
as though unaware she’s doing it. “I wonder if that
restaurant didn’t put almond slivers in with your
green beans tonight . . .” The tone of her voice says
she’d like to do some damage to the chef herself if
that theory proved correct. 



Damn, this woman is good. Something like three years
ago, I mentioned in passing I have an allergy to
almonds and listed a few of the side effects. Ages
later, at 2:30 in the morning, she pulls the
information, unsolicited, out of that bottomless
receptacle she calls a brain. 



“Maybe,” I muse, turning into her touch. “I should’ve
thought to ask the waitress.” 



Her dark head shakes dismissively at that. “Harm, I’m
sure plenty of people are allergic to almonds. They
should’ve included it on the menu.” 



That’s another thing I love about MaternalMac; whether
I deserve it or not, she’s much less willing to put
blame on my shoulders for anything. 



With a final caress of her fingers down my cheek, she
readjusts the blanket and pats me lightly on the
chest. “Try to get some sleep, hon,” she advises as
she moves to get up. 



I make a fast grab for her hand, but I must be a
little delirious because I miss by inches and end up
palming a firm handful of her hip. My fingers gentle
and begin rubbing in tiny circles of their own
volition. The puppy dog pout returns in full force.
The fact that my partner is eighty percent helpless
against it is one of my most closely-guarded secret
weapons. I know she can see it; the woman has the
vision, if not the gastro-intestinal stamina, of an
aviator. “You’re leaving?” It comes out with the
perfect amount of fretful false-bravery. Christ, I am
pathetic. 



Her breath catches audibly when I subtly increase the
pressure of my fingers. “You think you’ll be all
right?” 



“What if my throat swells up and I stop breathing
during the night?” 



That clearly frightens her, and she bends over me
again in alarm. “Has that ever happened before?” 



In my life, I’ve had three allergic reactions to
almonds—two were rashes accompanied by migraines. The
third was like a mild 24-hour flu. “Well,” I hedge,
“no . . . but isn’t that what happens to people who
are allergic to peanuts?” 



Mac bites her lip uncertainly. “Maybe I should stay
for a while.” 



He shoots, he scores. As I try to remain humble in my
victory, reminding myself that, after all, I am in a
substantial amount of discomfort here, she climbs in
over the top of me and sits up with her back against
the headboard. After a brief rustling that does my
poor, beleaguered stomach more harm than good, her
legs are settled under the blanket, her bottom within
a foot of my ear, her right hand gently rubbing my
scalp. 



Involuntarily, I let out a groan of pleasure. 



“Feel better?” she asks in response. 



I attempt to beat the pillow from hell into submission
with my throbbing head before turning a gaze of
pleading adoration up at her. 



Her eyebrow arches, and I know: she’s onto me now, for
sure. ‘You’re incorrigible,’ her eyes laugh at me as
they roll heavenward. 



I agree wholeheartedly with a few bats of my
eyelashes. 



Biting back a smile, which I’m sure she thinks would
only encourage me, she appears to consider for a
moment. It’s no use. I know this battle is mine;
MaternalMac and I are on very good terms. 



She gives me a warning sort of look, during which we
both recognize that I am taking shameless advantage of
her and had better not try to make it a habit. Then
she nods almost imperceptibly. With a happy sigh, I
roll to my side and drop my head in her lap. Using
both hands now, she begins massaging my headache away
in earnest. I throw an arm over her knees and draw
them close, pulling the blanket down a ways so my face
rests on her warm flannel pants instead of starchy
motel linen. I can smell her soap and the laundry
detergent from her pajamas. I am tired and achy. I may
never have been so content. 



“’Night, Mac,” I murmur into her thigh. 



“Good night, honey,” she answers softly. “Feel better
in the morning.” 



God, I am one lucky bastard.