The Lieutenant was giving her the eye, she could feel it.

But she
waited for him to actually call her... mostly because she wasn't
finished
with her article on cuticle softening, but also because no one,
not even
Benton, who had left Chicago for the frozen wilds of Canada
where she
guessed he belonged, called her Miss Vecchio. It made her feel
a little
like a librarian, but in a good way. Like she had some respect.

"Uh...
miss? Could you tell me when Lieutenant Welsh will be back?" 

Frannie
peeked over the tops of her reading glasses into the bluest eyes
she'd
ever seen... outside of Fraser's. 

A big guy, burly even, was leaning
toward her. He had a goatee and a
baby girl, maybe three or four, balanced
on his hip. 

"Oh. Hey. What was it you needed? Did you need anything?
Coffee? 'Cause
I can get you a coffee." Tugging off her glasses, she
shoved her chair
back and rested her hands on one of the stacks on her
desk, setting her
hands close together so her upper arms would kind of
help her bustline
keep it together and make a better impression. 

The big
guy looked confused... or maybe he was disappointed. 

"Would you prefer a
cappuccino?" She offered instead. "It wouldn't take--"

He joggled the
baby slightly, and it blinked at Frannie with big soft
eyes. The tiny
hands were busily twisting strands of fine, rabbit brown
hair into snarls
that looked like they'd need to be snipped out with
scissors later on. 

"I was just looking for Lieutenant--"

"Oh, Harding? He's around here,"
she glanced around the office and waved
vaguely. "...somewhere. I could
help you look for him. Do you want a
tour? I could show you around. I *am*
the civilian aid, you know." She
pointed to the patch on her periwinkle
cropped tee. "If you're a civilian
in need of aid, and it's obvious you
are, a civilian I mean, because
most cops don't go around carrying babies,
how old is she? But anyway,
if you need anything, anything at all, you've
come to the right place."

"Uh, thanks. But maybe I'll just--"

"Lincoln?"

"Dad. I was just asking..." 

"Miss Vecchio, I'd like you meet my son,
Lincoln," and Harding Welsh
held a hand out to indicate his son, as if
Frannie'd just won the guy
on a game show. 

Lincoln rolled his eyes
slightly, and held out his own hand, the one
that wasn't carrying his kid.


"Just Len is fine." Frannie found his grip warm and firm. 

Welsh looked
patiently exasperated, as only he could, and continued.

"...and my grand
daughter, Mary Ann." 

"Hey, Mary Ann," she murmured, and took the tot's
little hand in her
first two fingers. The child smiled at her for a moment
before hiding
her face against her father's gray sweatshirt. "Like the
song, huh?"

"Yeah. Like the song." 

With Lincoln and Harding shoulder to
shoulder, it was easy to see the
resemblance. Len had kind of sleepy eyes,
like his father. Same broad
shoulders, husky, barrel chested and tall.
Taller than Frase, even. 

And such blue eyes. 

"So, you heard from
Maureen?" 

The Lieutenant, as he tended to do when he didn't need
something from
her directly, dropped Frannie from his attention and
brought it to focus
on his son. 

"She said she wants to trade me
Christmas this year, so she can have
Mary Ann for an extra two weeks this
summer. She and Greg are going to
Maui or something." 

"Harding, you
never told me you had a son," she interrupted. 

Those shrewd, tired eyes
squinted at her. 

"Ah, but it seems to me that I *did* tell you to wear
something with
sleeves." He paused significantly. "And a middle?" 

"Oh...
Lieutenant, " she said fondly. She leaned toward Len with a conspiratorial
nod towards Welsh. "He's such a kidder. Always kidding me." 

"Miss
Vecchio, don't you have filing to do? And why, pray tell, does
Huey have
frothed milk on his mustache? I thought we'd discussed the
cappuccino
machine." 

"Oh, yes, cappuccino. Right this way," and she took Len's
wrist and tugged
him towards the break room. 

END