It was about 3 A.M. when Jean-Luc heard the distinct sound of a small child being violently sick.

His sleep-induced haze, however, said "Leave it. It's not real."

So he left it.

In the morning, he woke up a little late, looked at his alarm clock, and swore.

_Late._

He pulled on a suit rather carelessly and ran down the stairs, still adjusting his tie around his neck.

_Hate ties. Might as well hang me as make me wear one._

He was so distracted he didn't notice how pale Remy was.

Jean-Luc DID notice that Remy picked at his breakfast. He never picked at his breakfast.

"Y'okay?"

"Fine," Remy said, and choked down another bite of toast. _Uuggghhhh. Butter._ His stomach turned over hard, so hard he had to bite his lip to keep from making noise about it.

Jean-Luc didn't notice. He bolted his own toast, hugged Remy, and fairly flew out the door, muttering "latelatelate. . ."

He'd just parked when it entered his mind that Remy'd been awfully warm this morning. This concept, for some reason, bothered him very much, and he had the sudden urge to call the school and find out if Remy was all right.

He didn't, though, because when he looked at his watch it told him "GET TO THE MEETING!"

So he did, and hardly gave Remy's fever (WAS it afever?) a second thought.

The meeting was boring. Obviously. It was over, so he left without getting the free donuts and drove home.

The phone rang as he came in the door, so her answered it. "H'lo, you've reached the LeBeau residence. How may I help ya?"

"Dis is Sister Emanuelle, from Holy Sepulchre school. Y' need t' come pick up y' son, Mr. LeBeau."

"Why?"

"Well, de first clue dat a child needs t' go home's probably been missed when he vomits in th' hall."

Jean-Luc bit his lip. So Remy HAD had a fever this morning. And -- he only dimly remembered this -- the Sound at 3 hadn't been a dream.

"I'll come get him," he said guiltily.

So he got in his car again without even taking the Evil Tie off and cursed himself the whole way down to Remy's school and all the way down the hall and all the way to the nurse's office.

Remy was in a chair in the plain white room, looking VERY pale and shiny. Jean-Luc looked closer. A fine sheen of sweat covered his son's face.

"D'ya have t' throw up again?"

Remy nodded almost imperceptibly, and Jean-Luc grabbed for the the nearest trash can.

_Whew,_ he thought. _Just in time._

Aloud, he said, "Finished?"

Remy nodded again, so Jean-Luc gingerly returned the wastebasket to its original position.

"Ready t' go?"

Remy gave him a pained look.

This, Jean-Luc gathered, definitely meant yes. So they went home in the car. Jean-Luc, seeing Remy drag his feet, picked him up, backpack, homework, lunchbox, and all.

Remy curled up to him and closed his eyes.

Jean-Luc KNEW Remy was NOT asleep. Not by a long shot. Remy did NOT fall asleep that quickly.

. . .Of course, Remy'd never had the flu. Not when he'd been with the Guild, at least.

This was one time Jean-Luc wished FERVENTLY that he was Remy's birth father.

"If y' need t' throw up again, LET ME KNOW," he admonished sternly.

His only answer was a feeble nod, so he buckled Remy into the front seat and tossed his backpack, jacket, and lunchbox into the back seat.

He got in the driver's side and turned the key, not bothering to buckle his own seatbelt. _The first thing you need t' do,_ he told himself, _Is make sure Remy does NOT throw up in the car. That means: Get.Home. Fast._

So he did.

But not without mishap. About a mile from home, Remy raised his head and croaked, "I gotta t'row up."

Jean-Luc pulled to the side of the road and reached over to open the door -- a bit late.

He swore, which made Remy cry and Jean-Luc feel VERY guilty.

"It's all right," he said, stroking Remy's soft hair.

Remy gulped. "'m sorry, Papa."

"I said, it's all right. Don' worry 'bout it. I'll get it cleaned up. Why don' you move t' the back seat? Might be more comfortable."

"Okay." And he moved slowly to the back seat and slowly pushed his books out of the way and slowly lay down.

"Don' f'get y' seat belt."

He slowly put on his seat belt. "Ready."

They got home with no further problems, but the King of Thieves did NOT want to go in the door. . .well, Jean-Luc noted to himself that he would rather just go STRAIGHT to the car and clean it out than face Tante Mattie right now.

But Remy needed sleep, and a bath.

And new clothes.

So he went in and took Remy upstairs and into the bathroom. "Can y' take a bath by y'self?"

Remy nodded, and Jean-Luc left. (It seemed to Jean-Luc that Remy was doing an AWFUL lot of nodding.) He gulped. Down the stairs. Into the kitchen. Find the crackers. Wait for Tante Mattie to kick his ass all over town. Yup. Seemed simple enough.

He still winced when Tante Mattie flew through the kitchen door.

"I can' b'lieve you jus' let that chile go t' school, you stupid idjit, you insensitive fool!"

Jean-Luc sighed. "I didn' notice, I was busy, I. . ."

"You STILL stupid. I can' B'LIEVE you didn' notice, how DARE you call yo'se'f his father!?"

"Look, I'm gettin' crackers right now, I gotta go get his pajamas."

"Well, then, go on, GET!" She smacked him across the backside with a broom. "Shoo!"

He grabbed a bottle of 7-up from the refrigerator and shooed.

Remy, by some miracle of nature, had finished bathing by the time Jean-Luc prodded some pajamas under the door for him.

He opened the door and stood there awkwardly in the sweatpants and t-shirt.

Jean-Luc shepherded him toward his room and into bed.

"Sleep," Jean-Luc commanded.

And Remy did.'

He even SNORED, something WEIRD for Remy.

Jean-Luc thought maybe Remy needed decongestant, because he sounded VERY stuffed up. And VERY miserable.

This thought made Jean-Luc miserable too (miserably guilty, at least). He went to his own bedroom and changed into a t-shirt and jeans, then wandered downstairs to find crackers, soup, and other things that were good for sick people.

He was just scrutinizing a gallon jug of orange juice when he heard Remy get up, so he dropped the juice and flew up the stairs with a little glass to put the 7-up in. (Yes, he'd forgotten the glass earlier.) He rocketed into the bathroom and skidded to a stop. His son was on his knees in front of the Throne. He nearly TOSSED the glass onto the vanity and dropped to his knees, guilt-stricken. Again.

Jean-Luc, finally, plopped into a chair at 4:37 A.M.

He'd forgotten just how tiring a child with the stomach flu could be. He'd also guilt-tripped himself into oblivion.

Tante Mattie'd been right of course. It HAD been insensitive not to notice, even if Remy WAS reserved. And, of course, it went this way all week. Jean-Luc felt guilty, tried to get soup and crackers into Remy.

Remy, MOST uncooperative, lost the soup and crackers almost before he could swallow them. Jean-Luc felt guilty some more and tried to give Remy 7-up. Remy lost that too. Jean-Luc felt still MORE guilty.

It was a VICIOUS cycle.

Finally, Tante Mattie, convinced after a week filled with disturbed sleep that Jean-Luc was doing something VERY wrong DESPITE all his experience, took over. (Of course, to Jean-Luc's GREAT chagrin, Remy recovered within a two days. He, of course, attriubuted this to the bug just wearing off. It HAD been a WEEK.)

And then. . .to Jean-Luc's even GREATER chagrin. .

.but he didn't want to think about that right now.

"Merci, Remy," he said, taking the bowl of soup from his perfectly healthy eight-year-old son.

He almost gagged on what he felt to be draconian poetic justice, in the form of a stray noodle.