The sound of the alarm jarred him out of a restless sleep for the third time that night, and he banged his hand against the head of the bed in an effort to turn it off. He groaned, finally managing to stop the noise. "Taylor?" he muttered thickly.

There was no reply, and he reached out for her shoulder through the tangle of blankets. He found the pillow next to his, but there was no one using it. He rolled over, squinting at the empty space beside him in consternation. At least she wasn't concussed.

He had to pry the blankets loose before he could lever himself upright, shifting his legs carefully over the side of the bed. A second glance at the alarm clock revealed the time, but five in the morning here was probably closer to noon in the year they'd come from. An ice pack slid out from under the sheets, impacting against the floor with a soft slosh, and he watched it dispassionately.

This was not going to be a good morning. He wasn't even out of bed, and any number of things had already gone wrong. One, he was stuck three years in the past with very few resources and fewer people he could trust with the information. Two, he had been brought here by some unknown evil that could be hunting him at this very moment. Three, he was in the company of a woman who had repeatedly threatened to solve problems such as his by shooting the afflicted.

Problem three, he decided frankly, was as much a bonus as a drawback.

He settled his feet on the floor and pressed experimentally against the rug. His ankle twinged, more in anticipation than actual discomfort, and he slid further forward, putting a little more weight on it. Still nothing. Being a Ranger had its advantages.

He pushed himself to his feet, bracing himself against the head of the bed and keeping most of his weight on his uninjured ankle. His vision greyed alarmingly, but he ignored it and waited for the rush to subside. Very, very carefully, he took one limping step toward the door. His ankle cooperated, and he continued slowly across the room.

He could hear noise in the kitchen, and he wasn't sure whether that should worry him or not. Taylor was notoriously destructive when it came to appliances in general, and kitchen appliances in particular. Leave it to someone who could fly the most advanced technology available to foul up a dishwasher, blender, and gas stove all in one day.

He limped down the short hallway to the kitchen, ready to favor his stiff ankle as long as it needed just so it wouldn't start hurting again. He was greeted in the doorway by one of the strangest sights he'd ever seen: Taylor, barefoot and... cooking. Had he woken up in some alternate reality? How long could he stay?

"Did the--" He cleared his throat and tried again, noting that she didn't even turn. "Did I sleep through the apocalypse?"

"You could have," she said over her shoulder. "Your headset was talking all night long."

"You could've turned it off," he muttered. He had gotten so used to hearing it that he didn't even notice it anymore.

She didn't deign to answer that, and he debated calling her on the cooking thing. The odds of her actually making something edible seemed low, so he probably wasn't risking very much. "Since when do you know how to cook?" he inquired, leaning against the doorframe and admiring the view.

She still didn't look at him, but she did point at the pancake mix on the counter beside her. "They come in a box, Eric. It's not rocket science."

It might as well have been when they lived together. Not once had she ever offered to make breakfast, and after the dishwasher-blender-stove incident he had forbidden her to try. Apparently the old rules didn't apply anymore. There was good and bad in everything, it seemed.

She flipped the stove off abruptly, and he raised an eyebrow as she slid three pancakes off of the pan and transferred them to an already-occupied plate. When she turned away from the stove, he could see a second plate sitting on the counter beside the box. From here, the pancakes on it looked perfectly innocent, even... appealing.

Taylor set her plate on the table, dropped a knife and fork next to it, and went back to the refrigerator. "I still can't believe you didn't have real maple syrup," she muttered, after careful consideration of the content. She finally pulled out the butter and what she referred to as "fake" maple syrup and took it over to the table with her.

Correctly deducing that the second place setting was his responsibility, he made his way slowly over to the stove. "I can't afford real maple syrup at the rate you go through it," he remarked, poking the pancakes gingerly. Even close up, they did look like actual pancakes.

"You make more than I do!" Taylor's silverware clinked against her plate behind him, and he paused to retrieve a fork for himself.

"Not this year I don't," he informed her. He pulled the stool out of the corner and joined her at the table, choosing to ignore the fact that she was sitting in his chair. He hadn't realized how much this place had changed until he found himself three years back in time.

Taylor didn't acknowledge his presence at the table in any way. She hadn't exactly rationed the "fake" maple syrup, either, so he could only roll his eyes when she commented, "You don't have to live off of Aunt Jemima and Uncle Ben."

"That's funny, coming from Ms. Marie Callander."

She tossed her head, the end of her braid flipping across her back. Her hair was wet, he realized suddenly. She must have taken a shower before he got up. There had been a time when she had let her hair dry loose instead of pulling it back immediately--what had happened to that?

"At least I get good frozen dinners," Taylor said haughtily.

"There's nothing wrong with Uncle Ben dinners," he retorted. The response was automatic, mostly to cover his surprise that her pancake effort had produced decent results. Was she holding out on him, or had she been taking lessons?

"Every Uncle Ben's product is the same," she was telling him. She had already put a good dent in her pancakes, presumably unslowed by the lack of real toppings. "Rice, rice, and more rice."

"White rice is a staple in many Asian countries." She really had been holding out on him. This was an actual breakfast, and eventually he was going to have to thank her for it. If she didn't run him into the ground with her stupid frozen dinner prejudices first.

"This is America," Taylor snapped, paying no attention when he got up and headed over to the refrigerator. She must be compensating for her newfound culinary ability by criticizing everything he said. "We eat meat and potatoes in this country."

He poured two glasses, even though he knew she hated grapefruit juice. Little did his counterpart in this time know that he would soon be buying three different juices and two kinds of milk. "Americans eat crap and you know it. You're complaining about it every time I turn around."

"Because most of them are too stingy to buy real food," she retorted.

He closed the refrigerator and carried the glasses back to the table, setting hers down in front of her before sitting down. "And the rest of them are too lazy to learn how to cook," he returned. "Get over it."

She gave his pancakes a pointed look. "Does it look like I'm over it?" Then she held up the bottle of Aunt Jemima and demanded, "Where's my maple syrup?"

That was almost a joke, but he was careful not to smile. Looking over at the place where the calendar would have been, were it three years from now, he told her, "Give me a year and a half. You'll have maple syrup and orange juice on top of it."

"But no margarine," she grumbled, keeping her gaze focused intently on her plate.

He dropped his fork and sat back on his stool, staring at her. "Woman, I bought skim milk for you! The least you can do is learn to spread real butter!"

"I would if you'd leave it out like a normal person!" she shot back. "Who puts butter in the refrigerator?"

"Anyone who wants to keep it for more than two days! Butter is not a condiment, and the sooner you stop trying to make it margarine the better!"

"Margarine is an improvement over butter, that's why it was created!"

"Anything you have to 'create' is not real food! How can you loathe Aunt Jemima and then turn around and spread synthetic butter on your pancakes?"

"Margarine is an improvement," she repeated stubbornly. "Aunt Jemima is a cheap imitation. There's a difference."

"Defend skim milk," he challenged.

"Milk without the fat! There's nothing bad about that!"

"Because there's nothing in it! It's white water!"

The phone rang. He looked over at it in total noncomprehension, his brain sluggish to identify the meaning behind the sound. Someone was calling him. In the past. At... five-twenty in the morning. Who would have that kind of death wish?

"You don't have an answering machine," Taylor reminded him.

"Too bad for them." He went back to his pancakes, and the phone just kept ringing.

Finally, Taylor got up and he paused, glaring after her. "Don't you dare," he warned.

She had her hand over the phone when it stopped ringing. Would she really have done it? Stupid question, he realized. Of course she would have. This was Taylor, after all. She returned to the table without a word, and he thought she looked a little disappointed. Maybe he should pull the plug on the phone while they were here.

Hopefully, that wouldn't be much longer. They were going to have to get back to the future site of the SGH, do some internal investigation, and try not to get banged up again in the process. He shot a sideways look at her, wondering if she'd bite his head off for asking how she felt this morning.

She finished her grapefruit juice with a grimace and set the empty glass on her plate, getting up again to put her dishes in the sink. "I'm going to get dressed," she said over her shoulder, not even bothering to catch his eye. The unspoken message was clear: she cooked, he was cleaning.

It wasn't just the dishes he was cleaning, either. When he finished his own breakfast, which he grudgingly conceded was very good, straight from the box or not, he cast a critical eye over the kitchen. He hadn't kept the neatest place even before he met Taylor, but neither of them had cared about covering their tracks yesterday. There were still glasses on the floor and a cushion beside them, the aspirin bottle out on the counter, and of course now he was short a couple of eggs and some pancake mix.

The last thing he would care about on returning from the hospital and his stay at the Collins' was the kitchen's disarray. And the first thing he would do would be to throw out everything that could have spoiled, so he probably didn't need to worry about the food. As long as they picked up what they had left out and replaced the dishes, his counterpart in 2001 probably wouldn't notice anything amiss.

Who was he kidding? As long as he picked up what they had left out. Taylor had clearly absolved herself of all responsibility for the state of the house, and he wouldn't be surprised if he found her curled up on the bed reading by the time he finished the dishes. She was forever stealing his books--in memory of the time he had first asked her out, she said when she was in a good mood, or in revenge for that time when she wasn't.

He finished the dishes, including the glasses on the floor, and Taylor still hadn't reappeared. Definitely reading. He put the aspirin away, replaced the pancake mix, which she had inexplicably left out even after putting the milk and eggs back--reading the instructions? Taylor? Doubtful.

By the time he had returned the stool to its usual place and put the cushion back where it belonged, his ankle was loosening up and starting to ache at the same time. He hoped it was a passing pain, or at the very least something that wasn't going to worsen substantially before the end of the day. There were, too, the disadvantages of being a Ranger: the constant back and forth between the accelerated healing process and the ridiculous amounts of abuse they heaped on their bodies.

He was going to take a shower. Whatever Taylor was doing, it obviously wasn't critical. And his own personal ability to cope would be vastly increased by a close encounter with large amounts of hot water. It might even help his ankle... and besides, Taylor had gotten one.

What this actually meant was lost on him until he had closed the bathroom door behind him, and suddenly all he could smell was Taylor. How did she do that? She was using his soap, his shampoo, his clothes and apparently his towel, too. He didn't know what to think about that--she had never, ever used his towel before, and she knew perfectly well where the extras were kept.

He pulled a dry one out of the closet behind the door, and his eye fell on something dropped carelessly beside the sink. That was new. He stood there staring for a long moment, trying to figure out what it meant. Since when did she take those off, even to shower?

She was sitting at the kitchen table when he emerged from the bathroom some time later, towel over his shoulders and the dog tags dangling from his fingers. He jingled them as he walked up behind her, and she lifted her head at the sound. "Forget something?" he inquired pointedly.

She looked over her shoulder, narrowing her eyes at him. "No," she retorted, reaching out to grab them from his hand. "I just didn't expect you to spend half an hour in the bathroom, that's all."

"Weak, Earhardt. Very weak."

She ignored him, letting her book fall closed as she hung them around her neck again. "I didn't make the bed," she told him, flipping her braid over top of the chain. "But I put the ice packs back in the freezer and folded up my sweats--do you want to wash them or just put them away?"

"There isn't time." He was perversely happy about that and determined not to let it show. "You probably put the ice packs away wrong," he added, turning to pull the freezer door open.

"No, I didn't." He could hear the eye roll in her voice alone. "They're flat and stacked sideways in the bottom left corner of the door. I still don't know how you lived with plastic ice packs all those years."

They were, too. She had put them back just the way he would have, before she bought him cloth hot/cold packs one year for his birthday. Absolutely essential to the Ranger way of life, she had told him. It hadn't been long before he agreed, and he had certainly missed them last night.

"What about the shades?" he asked, closing the freezer door. "Closet? Clothes? You didn't leave any more jewelry lying around, did you?"

"They're not jewelry and yes, I left a charm bracelet under your pillow that says 'Taylor slept here'," she retorted. "I also left my phone number in lipstick on your wall."

He really tried not to smirk, but he couldn't help it. "That would have saved some time," he muttered.

He heard her breath of amusement before she caught herself. He would have said something else, if a knock on the door hadn't made both of them freeze. She twisted in her chair and for a moment they just looked at each other. Finally, she got to her feet, and the motion brought him back to his senses.

She wasn't heading for the bedroom. She was heading for the door.

"Do not answer that," he said, putting as much steel into his voice as he could. "It's not funny, Taylor."

"You're not wearing anything," she pointed out. "Sweats and a towel isn't going to cut it if there's someone important out there."

"And having a strange woman answer the door will be that much better," he retorted. "Get out of the kitchen."

She shrugged, but he thought he heard her murmur "spoilsport" as she aborted her course toward the door and ducked into the hallway instead. He went to the door, glanced outside, and almost sighed in relief. It was only Alice. The kid had to get up ridiculously early just to catch the bus, but such was the price for living where they did. If he thought her mom would allow it, he'd offer to drop her off on his way to work.

He slid the deadbolt back and opened the door, mustering a smile for her wide-eyed expression. "Morning, Alice," he said, running a hand over his hair to smooth it down. "What can I do for you?"

"We ran out of eggs," she said solemnly. "We had enough, but then Mom got two bad ones in a row, and she wants to know if we can borrow one from you."

"Sure you can," he agreed, wondering if he dared to invite her in while he got them for her. Was Taylor listening? Would she know enough to stay out of sight? Or maybe the real question was, would she care enough?

He heard the refrigerator open behind him, and he had his answer. He was going to kill that woman. Sadly, before he had time to implement his new plan, Taylor had come up behind him and shouldered him out of the way at the door. "Here you go," she said sweetly, handing Alice an egg as though there was nothing out of the ordinary.

Alice regarded her with some suspicion. "You're the woman who came over to get Eric's key yesterday afternoon," she declared. She didn't sound like she thought this was a point in Taylor's favor.

"That's right," Taylor agreed politely.

Alice was frowning at her now. "You didn't bring it back," she said accusingly.

He tried to hide a smile. Good girl, Alice. He knew he liked her for a reason.

"I'm sorry," Taylor said, sounding a little taken aback. "Here, let me go get it for you."

"That's okay." Alice reached out and took the egg from her, but she didn't look appeased. "If Eric wants you to have his spare key, you'd better keep it. You can't just come up on our porch every time you need to get into his house."

He would have liked to watch her give Taylor the cold shoulder a little longer, but he had to clear up that misconception before she said something to his counterpart. "Alice, Taylor is just a friend. I'll put my key back when we leave, okay?"

Alice shrugged, clearly disbelieving. "If you say so." Her tone said exactly the opposite. "Thanks for the egg."

She turned and skipped down the steps, not waiting for him to respond. He stepped back, closing the door carefully before turning his glare on Taylor. "Are you out of your mind? What's the first thing she's going to say when she sees me next! 'Oh, Eric, how's your friend?'"

Taylor paid no attention to him. "I'd forgotten what a brat she used to be," she said under her breath, staring at the closed door.

"She was only rude because you gave her a reason to be," he fumed. "There's no way she's going to forget you were here now!"

"Oh, please." Taylor finally seemed to realize he was upset. "What are you going to think when she tells you what happened? That your future self showed up here with an ex-fiancee you haven't met yet, or that the neighbor's kid is crazy?"

"Alice isn't crazy," he growled. "And if I tell her she's nuts it's going to be your fault. It's no wonder she didn't like you when I introduced you to her."

"Because she'd already met me," Taylor realized. "Well, that's just strange." After a pause, she added, "Do you remember what you thought when she told you about me the first time?"

"What are you talking about?" he demanded.

"Later this week," she said impatiently. "Or whenever you get back from the Collins' place, and Alice tells you that you were here with a 'friend'. What will you think?"

He was worried that he might understand that if he thought about it long enough, and half-afraid that he already did. "I don't know," he grumbled at last. "I don't remember whether she said anything or not. I had other things to worry about."

"It probably wasn't important, then." Taylor seemed willing as usual to dismiss his concern. "You should go get dressed. We need to get back to that building and figure out what's going on in there."

It would have been easier to argue if there had been anything in that that he could argue with. He settled for turning away with a glower and tossing over his shoulder, "Call us a cab. I'll be ready by the time it gets here."

She muttered something he didn't catch. Just to see what she'd say, he called, "And pick up the bathroom while you're at it!"

"Do it yourself!" she shouted back.