Unforeseen Circumstances

(An AU Quasi-Sequel to "Who's Who")

Steed Discovers His Sex "A-Peel"

Emma Finds Herself In a Pickle

Emma Peel, "talented amateur" half of a very successful intelligence team, groaned as she opened her eyes.

This morning, like the last three, was starting off with a very tiresome bout of nausea. She reached automatically for the crackers she'd placed on her night table, chewing and swallowing one before attempting to sit up, much less stand. It helped, enough for her to be willing to raise her head from her pillow, and she stumbled out of the room and directly into the bath. The warm water of the shower also helped; by the time she was ready to dry her hair, she felt almost normal.

Almost, but not quite. The nausea, as she'd learned from unfortunate experience, could return at any moment, randomly throughout the day. It was a good thing she and John Steed, her handsome, urbane partner, were presently between cases; a week, she hoped, would be more than enough time to shake this flu.

Not for the first time since the symptoms manifested themselves, she wondered if it were something more sinister, some sort of insidious poison, then shook her head and smiled at her fancy. Not that it was such an impossibility; after all, both she and Steed had been targeted for poisoning and other forms of unpleasantness many times before. But she'd been checked out after each of their latest, small cases, and had been given an especially thorough going-over only two months ago, after she and Steed had been involuntarily subjected to experimental mind-swapping by enemy agents. Checked out and declared free of foreign substances by the best medical people and toxicologists the government had.

She'd seen her own doctor just yesterday, after the flu-like symptoms showed no sign of retreating on their own like good little germs. Dr. Lightfoot had examined her almost as thoroughly as the government people, clucking over the latest collections of bruises and abrasions she'd acquired during her last case, listened carefully as she detailed the symptoms, ordered some blood work, then offered the opinion that it was nothing more than a virus. "But stay at home and rest until we get the results back," he'd cautioned, and so she'd done. The results were due back later this afternoon; if it turned out to be something more sinister than the virus he predicted, she would deal with it then. Worrying would only add to her modest collection of gray hairs, and she was devoted to delaying that increase as long as possible.

Not that she allowed anyone to so much as suspect she had any gray in the first place; even Steed, who was usually so observant and knew her better than anyone besides her late husband, had never made one of his oblique comments in reference to such a thing. And she was positive he would, if he'd realized she was augmenting her natural hair color; it was just the sort of vanity he delighted in exposing, in a genteel manner, of course. She preferred to believe in his ignorance of the matter; if some day it turned out he was just being gallant, then so be it. Until then, Clairol "Sable Brown" was and would remain her secret vice.

She did as the doctor advised and spent the day at home, no matter how much inactivity chafed. She even canceled a luncheon date with Steed, although with a twinge of regret; his taste in restaurants was exquisite, she'd yet to be disappointed by any of his choices. But when she explained her delicate stomach, he immediately agreed it was best to wait until she could truly appreciate his newest find, some sort of Japanese bistro on the other side of London. She thanked him, told him she'd see him in a day or two when she was feeling better, and hung up the phone with a thoughtful look.

John Steed, her partner, was something of a mystery to her even after working together for almost two years. She knew many things about his taste in everything from champagne to women's fashions, she knew he had a military career at some point in his past and a vast and encompassing knowledge about a great many subjects, but she felt that she still didn't know the real John Steed.

She still didn't know, for example, exactly how he felt about her. Her own feelings were quite clear; she'd fallen in love with him practically the first time they met. Not just because he reminded her in many ways of her late husband; no, Steed had his own, unique appeal, an appeal that any woman would have to be blind and deaf to ignore.

That, of course, was part of the problem. He was both an impeccable gentleman and an unrepentant flirt with a glib tongue who could turn on the charm at the drop of an innuendo, as she'd both witnessed and been on the receiving end of since the first time they met. She gave as good as she got, or so she believed, sensing that he used his charm as a shield as well as a weapon. She could respect that; it was difficult to open yourself up to another person once you'd been wounded by life, and in him she sensed a kindred spirit, someone who'd been burned as much as she had, and thus faced life cautiously.

It hadn't stopped her from falling in love with him, her own protective shielding dropping the moment their eyes met, but she hadn't allowed him to see that. Instead, she traded charm for charm and quip for quip, bantering with him as easily as if they had just stepped out of an old Thin Man movie. But where Nick and Nora Charles had been married from the first scene of the first movie, she and Steed had never progressed beyond the level of flirtatious banter they'd established from the beginning, she in spite of her feelings and he—well, she wasn't quite sure why he stopped where he did. Professionalism was always a possibility, she was forced to admit; "don't get your honey where you get your money" was an appropriate Americanism that sprang to mind.

Whether that was it or not, Steed had never so much as hinted he might want to take the next, obvious step and bring their relationship to a more intimate level. He treated her with deference and respect as a partner, he was effusive with the charm much the way he was with all women, but he'd never once indicated a serious desire to pursue their relationship beyond the boundaries they'd initially established.

She'd left it that way, out of respect for what she believed to be his wishes. If he wanted to keep her at arms length, if all he felt for her was the respect and friendship that were the only emotions she was truly certain of, then she would do the same for him. She owed him that much, ten times over, not only for the countless times they'd saved each others lives and sanity, but because of who he was. She didn't think it was worth the risk of spoiling what they already had for the uncertainty of what they might be able to have—especially if such a desire existed only on her part. It could prove...awkward.

Emma idly fished a dill pickle out of the jar on the table, spearing it with her fork and taking a thoughtful bite. Sometimes she wondered if it might not be better to take the bull by the horns, so to speak, to just tell him how she felt and let him tell her how he felt, rather than continuing to second guess him. If only there were some way, if only something were to happen that would allow her to tell him with a minimum risk to their current relationship...

The telephone rang. She swallowed the last bite of pickle—strange, she didn't remember eating the rest of it—then picked up the phone, half-expecting to hear Steed's voice. "Hullo?"

"Mrs. Peel?"

We're needed, she finished the phrase, but not aloud, since the voice was that of her doctor's receptionist, Angel Loveless. "Yes, Angel, this is Mrs. Peel," she replied, swallowing her disappointment. "Have the results of my blood work come back?"

"Yes, Mrs. Peel, and the doctor would like to see you as soon as possible. Today, if you can manage it."

She blinked in surprise. "Is there something wrong?" Drat, not poison, she wasn't up to any unpleasant surprises so soon after her body had literally been hijacked by an enemy agent. Had "Lola" left some sort of time bomb ticking after she'd had her consciousness exchanged for that of Emma Peel and then returned to her own body, one that Mother's team of experts had been unable to detect? Unlikely, since she and "Basil, Baby" had opted to try and keep the status quo they'd artificially created by keeping the bodies they'd usurped, but anything was possible in the tricky world of international espionage.

Angel hesitated before replying. "Nothing's wrong, exactly," she said, then rushed on with: "It's not poison or terminal illness or anything of that nature, I can assure you."

Mrs. Peel felt an eyebrow raise at Angel's words, and not just because the other woman seemed to be reading her mind. Normally Angel was the definition of "clinical detachment," the perfect receptionist. Something had certainly rattled her, or she wouldn't have babbled even that much over the telephone. "Then what exactly is it?"

"Please, Mrs. Peel, if you could just come into the office today, Dr. Lightfoot will be able to explain it all to you. You know I can't give out test results over the phone," she added virtuously, as if trying to make up for her earlier indiscretion.

To Emma's ears, she still sounded nervous. It was a combination of instinct and knowledge; Angel had been Dr. Lightfoot's receptionist for the same length of time Emma had been his patient, exactly three years. Long enough for her to sense when there was something off. But if it wasn't poison or illness, what options were left? "All right," she said slowly. "I'll come round in about an hour, if that suits."

"Perfectly," Angel replied, sounding relieved. "I'll let the doctor know to expect you."

Emma popped another pickle into her mouth as she replaced the receiver on the cradle. "'Curiouser and Curiouser, said Alice.'" She shrugged and started clearing the table. May as well get it over with; whatever it was, she was better off knowing as soon as possible, so she could start to think about ways to deal with...whatever it was Angel wasn't comfortable telling her over the telephone.

She would just have to wait and see. According to Angel, an hour wouldn't kill her.

oOo

Dr. Lightfoot's office was cheerful and cluttered, accurately reflecting the personality of the man himself. She never felt uncomfortable there, no matter what kind of examination needed performing, no matter what procedure he might recommend or how much blood he had his nurse take. Even pelvic exams were made tolerable by his unfeigned sympathy and cheerful nature.

That cheerful nature, however, was noticeably absent today. As soon as she walked in, Angel hit the intercom button and announced her presence, barely giving Emma enough time to take off her coat. She listened attentively as Dr. Lightfoot responded, and gestured Emma toward the doctor's private office. She smiled mechanically as Emma passed her desk, then ducked her head down and busied herself with some papers that appeared to have been grabbed at random.

It was all very puzzling, not to mention annoying. What in heaven's name was going on? Emma stepped carefully into Dr. Lightfoot's office, half-expecting to find him held at gunpoint, the telephone call nothing more than a ruse to get her here. She wished she'd phoned Steed and told him where she was going, then dismissed the thought as irrelevant. She hadn't done so, therefore it was a moot point and she needed to concentrate her energy on finding out exactly what was going on.

Dr. Lightfoot rose from behind his desk, reaching around to usher her solicitously to the chair opposite his before closing the door. His patient unobtrusively glanced over her shoulder as he did so, doing a quick recee to make sure the room was empty of anyone else. It was, that was one worry relieved, but she was still figuratively in the dark.

Dr. Lightfoot sat back down and looked at her with a guarded expression. Then he spoke, foregoing the usual pleasantries. "Mrs. Peel, have your...personal circumstances...changed recently?"

"In what way?" she countered. Dr. Lightfoot knew a great deal about her, medically speaking, and he knew some things about her personal life as well, such as the fact that she was widowed and had money of her own. He was even the one human being who knew for certain that she colored her hair. He also knew she had an unusual lifestyle since he'd been thoroughly checked out by Steed's superiors before they agreed she could continue to use him once her association with Steed had begun, but what among those facts was the cause of concern she could not be certain. Not without more details.

He fidgeted nervously with the papers on his desk, much as Angel had done a moment earlier, but his eyes remained fixed on hers. "I know you are a widow, and I apologize for the personal nature of the question, but have you become...involved...with anyone?"

Emma frowned. Dr. Lightfoot belonged to the old school, where doctors treated their female patients as if they were made of glass and might shatter at the least provocation. He was modern in every other way except that one area, or else she would never have gone to him, but the question still startled her. She considered it a challenge to bring him into the modern age, but hadn't thought she'd been so successful that he would perform what he surely saw as a breach of medical etiquette by asking her such a question. "Involved? In what way?" She thought about it for a moment. "Do you mean...intimately?" Disbelief colored her voice as she politely waited for him to respond in the negative.

He didn't. "Yes," he replied, looking highly uncomfortable. "Intimately."

She concealed her surprise, or hoped she did. "No, doctor," she replied truthfully. "I am not."

"Are you sure?" he pressed, and she felt her eyebrow raising as she gave him an inquisitive look. He immediately backed down. "Of course you are, how could you not be." He hesitated as if needing to brace himself for the next question. "Have you, were you—dash it all," he interrupted himself irritably, "there's no delicate way to put this. Have you been recently...violated?"

Both eyebrows were pressing themselves against the top of her forehead, and she leaned forward in her chair, carefully placing her chin on her hand before responding. "Now tell me, Dr. Lightfoot. What would make you ask a question like that?"

oOo

John Steed whistled cheerily as he brought his antique car to a stop outside the building housing his flat. Still whistling, he took the steps two at a time and smiled to himself. It had been a marvelous day, even if Emma had been forced to cancel their luncheon because of some pesky flu she'd picked up.

Emma. He smiled again, pausing in the act of unlocking his door. He never called her that to her face, only to himself, following the old-fashioned formality of calling her "Mrs. Peel" from the moment they met. It suited her, and him, for many reasons. That habit, she'd confessed, was one of the first things that had alerted her to the fact that his body had been suborned for the use of another, even if the vague unease "Basil's" use of her Christian name had awakened hadn't been enough to spare her the same fate at the hands of Basil's partner, Lola. Steed shuddered delicately. Being trapped in someone else's body had been an enlightening experience, true, and he always tried to treat unexpected circumstances as learning opportunities, but he had no desire to repeat the process. Especially with someone with such obvious bad taste in not only clothing but women. The thought of Emma Peel cracking gum and popping off fellow agents as casually as she might swat a fly was almost as bad.

Of one thing, he was absolutely certain: she would never, ever crack gum.

With a shake of his head, he opened the door and stepped inside. As if summoned by his thoughts, he found Emma sitting in the chair by the window. Brooding.

That was the only word for it. He automatically flicked his gaze around the room, making sure she wasn't here under duress, because her expression certainly didn't bode well. But there didn't seem to be anyone else in the flat, nor did he suddenly find himself unconscious from a cosh to the head. Someone could still be there, but not where he could see them.

"It's all right, Steed, there's no one holding a gun on me," she said as he hesitated by the door. "You can stop trying to case the place without moving anything but your eyes."

"Well, that's a relief," he replied, his voice jovial but cautious as he allowed the door to close behind him. His radar was still up, there was definitely something wrong, but he couldn't put his finger on what. "Why the long face?" Then, in mock horror: "Heavens! Am I out of champagne?"

She gave a wan attempt at a smile, but it faded quickly. Her eyes, he noticed, were haunted. "Mrs. Peel?" He dropped the jovial charade. "Are we needed?"

The smile reappeared, briefly, then vanished once again. "Indeed, Steed. We are needed...to talk."

"Oh my, sounds important." Steed took the seat opposite hers, studying her from beneath half-lidded eyes. He was right; something was wrong. But what? Only one way to find out. "What do we need to talk about?"

"Lola and Basil." He arched an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue. "Apparently there were some aspects of their relationship they continued while wearing our bodies."

"They were certainly...chummy...with one another, if that's what you mean," Steed agreed cautiously, remembering the disconcerting sight of "himself" kissing "Emma" from a third person perspective. Not that he hadn't had thoughts of his own along those lines—minus the third-person perspective—but since she always kept him at arm's length even on the rare, purely social occasion they shared, always held herself in reserve no matter how overt their banter became, he'd seen no reason to try pursuing anything with her. It would only put a strain on their relationship, which she seemed content to keep as it was. Regrettable, but understandable.

"Very chummy," she replied. "More than even we suspected."

"Are you implying there was more to it than just a few stolen kisses to go along with the stolen bodies? That between popping off our agents they were..." His voice trailed off as he realized exactly where this was going. No wonder she seemed so uncomfortable. "Mrs. Peel, are you telling me Lola and Basil Baby were naughty with our bodies?"

"Extremely." Her voice was wry, and finally her eyes met his. "Naughty and careless." She waited for him to come to the obvious conclusion.

For possibly the first time in his career, the unflappable John Steed found himself at a loss for words. He gaped at her, his lips moving as if to speak, but nothing came out. Emma rose to her feet and handed him a glass, already filled with a generous portion of his best brandy. She'd had a feeling he might need something like this once she told him her news.

Steed gulped the brandy down as if it were the antidote to a poison he'd just been fed, then wordlessly held out the empty glass. Emma refilled it and watched as he gulped down the second glassful, closed his eyes as if savoring the taste, then placed the small glass on the table next to him with his eyes still closed. He remained that way for another moment, then straightened himself, opened his eyes, and gazed at her. "You're pregnant?"

She nodded. "And before you try to find a delicate way to ask, no, there are no other candidates, I haven't been raped, and there hasn't been a mistake. The only conclusion I can come to, based on the circumstances as well as the timing, is that Lola and Basil used our bodies for recreational purposes without adequate protection. And now we are forced to reap the consequences. Any suggestions would be welcome as well as helpful," she added with some of her usual dry wit.

Steed nodded. "Of course." He took a deep breath. So much for maintaining the status quo as far as their relationship went. What he was about to do now, what he was about to suggest, would forever alter that status quo, as much as Lola and Basil had inadvertently done two months ago. Once he said what he had to say, there would be no turning back. He stood up, pushed his chair out of the way, and dropped to one knee. "Emma Peel, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"

She stood up so quickly he didn't have time to get out of the way, and therefore went tumbling onto his backside as she glared down at him. "Steed, this is no time for juvenile humor! We have a very important decision to make regarding this baby!" She looked on the verge of tears, a state he didn't ever recall observing her in, no matter what the circumstances.

He scrambled to his feet, reaching out to take her hand in his and gazing into her eyes. "I wasn't joking, Emma. Emma," he repeated, feeling immense satisfaction at finally saying her name to her face. "Emma Peel, I have been in love with you from the first time you karate chopped an opponent into submission, from the first time you did the same to me when I deserved it. From the first time you called me 'Steed' and shook your head in wry amusement at some borderline inappropriate remark I'd made or deed I'd just performed. I've loved you since I met you, and I love you now and I daresay I'll love you well into the future."

Her lip was trembling, but she ignored that as she gave him a very suspicious look. "You're not just saying that because of my delicate condition?" She had to know, had to be very sure, because these feelings he was describing were exactly what she'd wanted to hear him say, and thus suspect by virtue of their very perfection. "I don't need pity, Steed, I can raise a child or opt not to do so on my own, you know very well that I can take care of myself. So be very careful when you answer me, because I demand honesty."

"I love you, Emma Peel, and have never thought of pitying you, no matter how adverse the circumstances. I know how well you can take care of yourself, I've seen you in action enough," he replied. "I know how independent you are, and I am not making an offer out of a desire to protect you from the poor opinion of a society that believes you should be well-mannered enough to keep your improprieties hidden away from the scrutiny of the day to day world. I am asking you to marry me because I love you, because I want to be with you, and the thought of being the father of your child quite intoxicates me. For the first time, I find myself in the unique position of feeling a spot of gratitude to Lola and Basil for their temporary theft of our bodies. Otherwise, I might never have found the courage to tell you any of this." He stopped, as surprised by the eloquence of his impassioned speech as Emma was. He waited for her reaction.

She nodded, thoughtfully, as if weighing his words, then brought her face to his and kissed him. Slowly, thoroughly, and with a great deal of passion. When they pulled apart, eons later, Steed was surprised to find that his arms were wrapped around her as if he would never let her go. And he wouldn't, not if he had anything to say about it. The fact that her arms were entwined around his neck seemed to surprise her as well, and they broke apart somewhat awkwardly, breathing heavily and staring at each other.

Emma was the first to speak. "I believe you," she said, although he already knew it. The kiss had spoken volumes. "I could simply kick myself for not saying something to you before. I've been in love with you since the first time I heard a voice on the phone saying, 'Mrs. Peel, we're needed,' since the first time I saw you use your hat as a weapon and your wit as a shield. From the moment we started working together until this day, I've loved you, and been afraid to say anything for fear of ruining what we already had by pining after what I didn't think you were interested in. And for being given this opportunity, I, too, can feel a modicum of gratitude to Lola and Basil."

She held two fingers very close together in illustration. Before she could continue, however, Steed moved in to press his lips against her own, his arms reaching to embrace her. And she knew this was exactly where she belonged. Any residual pining after her late husband faded in that instant, any futile hope she harbored that he might someday turn up alive and well was laid irrevocably to rest. Steed was her future, Steed and this child.

"But only a modicum," she continued breathlessly, when he finally let her go, as if he'd never interrupted her with a kiss whose passion was only surpassed by the first one they'd shared seconds earlier. "This child may have been a wonderful catalyst for our relationship, but we have to deal with the reality—not to mention the morality—of the situation. Not as far as legitimacy goes," she clarified as she saw his expression. "Only in the sense of fairness. Is it fair of us to try and bring up a child, with the lives we lead? Do you truly comprehend how those lives will change once this child is born, how much they will change in the next seven months before it is born? We could be doing nothing more than bringing a hostage into the world, one whose life will be forever challenged by kidnapping attempts and blackmail."

"Ah, but is it fair of us to assume so negative a future? Are we now fortune tellers, asking passerby to cross our palms with silver?" Steed countered. "I realize the likelihood of such a prospect is very high, but what right do we have to say the risks are too great to give this child a sporting chance at meeting them head on?" He shook his head. "No, my dear Emma, you and I both know that there is only one option. And I am perfectly willing to take advantage of that option and bully you into matrimony."

"Hmm." She shook her head. "I don't know about that, Steed—John," she corrected herself. "I shall have to get used to calling you John, at least occasionally."

"I'll answer to both," he replied comfortably before pulling her down to sit in the circle of his embrace on the sofa. "What else have we to hash out? Living quarters?" He glanced around the room, somewhat regretfully. As if saying good-bye. "Where shall we..."

"Someplace new," Emma broke in emphatically. She'd obviously given this some serious thought, no matter what outcome she'd anticipated from her startling announcement. "We'll let both flats go, neither one is suitable for raising a family." At Steed's raised eyebrow, she added, "If we're going to do this, Steed, we're going to do it all the way."

"Letting the obvious double entendre go, Emma, all I can say is that I'm shocked that you'd even think we were capable of doing things by half-measures," Steed replied virtuously. "Anything else?"

"Your next partner." Another raised eyebrow. "I shall be out of commission for a while, and I want to make certain you find someone to work with who knows what they're doing. I don't want to end up a widow twice over because somebody wasn't watching your back well enough," Emma added with a slight catch in her voice.

He didn't miss it, but then, he didn't miss much, she already knew that about him. Steed squeezed her hand reassuringly. "Not to worry, this time I shan't rely only on my own instincts. I'll have a fellow professional assigned to me while you are temporarily unavailable, how's that? There are several promising young candidates, I'll even let you help me pick one out if you like."

"I wouldn't miss it for the world." She paused as a thought struck her. "I shall be terribly jealous if the new partner is young, female, and attractive, and I'm certain to be stricken by raging hormones which shall bring the jealously to full irrationality, you do know that."

He assumed a martyred expression. "I am fully prepared to deal with the consequences."

Emma's expression became suspicious and she pulled away to study him. "You already have someone in mind, don't you?" He nodded. "Young, female, attractive?" He nodded again. "Someone you're confident will watch your back and keep you alive?" Another nod. She settled back into his arms. "Good. As long as she keeps you alive, I won't begrudge her the rest. Besides," she added with a wicked chuckle, "No one will believe it's you if you show up without a beautiful woman at your side. They'll simply think I've been replaced."

"And believe me when I tell you, no one could replace you," Steed replied firmly. "Not as my partner and never in my heart." He patted her stomach delicately. "Well, perhaps one person..."

Her delighted laughter filled the room, and his heart. John Steed was content. No matter what trials and tribulations awaited them, they would face them together. He wasn't exaggerating when he said she was irreplaceable; she was truly his equal, they shared so much already, he was looking forward to whatever the future held for them.

For all three of them. And so was Emma, he could tell. He couldn't wait to introduce her to Tara King, the young woman Mother had waxed so enthusiastically about at their last staff meeting. The shining star of the academy, a great future, lots of promise, and a real looker to boot. The last criteria held much less appeal than it might once have, and Mother would certainly have to be informed as to why, but things would work out.

He and Emma would finally be together.