Agent 007
                             by Karen

     He raced through the flames to retrieve the small black box.  Fiery
timbers fell around him as smoke filled the air.  The pounding of his
heart filled the roar in his ears as he narrowly escaped falling through
the rotting boards. Finally he saw it, but it was in the grimy, pudgy
hands of the evil villain! He thought quickly, side-stepping the falling
debris, as he sneered, "All right, hand it over.  Justice will prevail, and
your end has come! Prepare to-to-*gasp*...haCHUH!" He dropped his
pistol with a clang as he cupped his hands over his mouth and nose. 
"Hatchoo! hitch-choo! hup-CHUH!"  The agent's body nearly bent double. 
The smoke began to fill his nostrils, and the tears glistened in his eyes:
"hatCHOO! I-ah..hatchoo! huhcch! achoo! CHOO!"

     "CUT! Listen, man, we can't finish this scene! We'd better give it a
rest for the day.  Everybody go home and be back here at 7 tomorrow!"
As people began to clear the stage, the chubby director shouted, "Hey,
Sneezy!  Try and control yourself, eh? We're wasting time here!" He
flung his hands up in disgust and despair as he walked off.  

     James Bond stepped down from the set, exhausted by his sneezing
fit, and became Michael Griston again.  This flu was really messing up the
shooting schedule, and he had to get over it fast.  He rode the bus home,
sneezing and sniffling as people moved away from him.  The cold
December air seemed to pierce his chest as it heaved laboriously. He
trudged up the dank stairs to his apartment and opened the door,
sneezing again from the bright light.

     "Gracious, honey, you sound terrible!"  Griston sighed; what a
comfort it was to come home to the sound of that sweet voice!  Lydia
rushed to the door with her eyes full of concern. Her man, her very own
Agent 007, stood coughing with a deep rumble in his chest.  Her slender
hands removed his damp coat and began to rub his back, gently. "Sit
down, I'll get you some tea." He obeyed gladly, collapsing on the couch
from fatigue.  Seconds later she was gliding back into the room, carrying
the steaming cup.  "Inhale some of the steam," she insisted.  He held the
cup under his nose for a while until the sneezing stopped and he could
breathe a little bit.  Fatigue overwhelmed him, and Lydia drew a
comforter over him as he drowsily drifted off to rest.

     His nose twitched. Then, uncontrollably, "huh-TCHOO!"  The
powerful sneeze jerked him awake, and he groaned.  Guilt invaded him
when he realized he had woken Lydia, asleep on the carpet without a
blanket.  He looked at the clock. 2:24 glared in red digits through the
darkness.  Lydia looked up: "How are you feeling, darling"  With effort,
Michael sat up. "Fine, honaaCHOO! hatchoo! huh-kssshhh!" He sneezed
into the tissue his wife handed him.  "I'm sorry I woke-haTCHOO!-you." 
"Don't worry about it," she said sleepily, as she handed him some fresh
tea.  He looked at her desperately, touched by her caring attitude. 
Michael opened him mouth to say something, but ended up coughing
instead.  It was a deep, rasping, spastic cough that worried Lydia
terribly. She rose to get him some medicine, and he began to sneeze
helplessly when she came back.  

     From the hallway, she watched him for a moment.  His shoulder
blades jumped everytime he sneezed, and his head bobbed forward.  As
his vulnerability was exposed, an almost absurd gush of pity came over
her.  "hatCHOO! hup-tCHOO! ha-ha-"  Lydia rushed in with a tissue. 
"HaaaatCHOO!" The tissue came too late, and he couldn't turn away in
time.  She felt the warm soft mist catch her on the face.  "Oh, sweetheart,
I'm sorry! I-hatCHSHH!"  Michael caught the sneeze in a tissue, muffling
it.  "Don't be; it's not your fault," she consoled.  He grabbed another
tissue.

     Lydia watched again in fascination.  His eyes closed gently as he
brought his right hand to his face.  His left hand lay restlessly on his
stomach.  As his nose wrinkled slightly, he cupped the tissue over his
nose and mouth.  Lydia heard a quick intake of breath as his head leaned
back-"ha-ha-CHSSH!"  His head jerked down as his left hand seemed to
contract with his stomach.  

     "God bless you!" Lydia exclaimed.  And she meant it.

     "Thanks, hon," he managed, before sneezing one last time into the
tissue. "hatCHSSSH!" His abdomen contracted before he finally collapsed
back into the couch, breathing harshly.  Lydia's soft lips kissed his
forehead, then his eyelids, then his red nose, then his mouth.  Michael
protested, trying to prevent his beloved wife from getting sick.  Lydia
couldn't help it; he never looked more beautiful to her than he did right
then.  Her brown hair tickled the tip of his nose.  "Lydia-ah-I'm going
to-ah-I'm gooaaaSHOO! hatchoo! hatCHOO! HATSCHOO!"  He sat up
suddenly and buried his nose in a tissue.  "hatCHOO! *gasp* hatCHOO!
*gasp*"  Each one fired off, exploded into his tissue.  It was
funny calling his sneezes 'explosions,' because they weren't harsh at all.
They were more like a musically phrased puff of ocean air, filled with a
'sshhh' sound.  He sat on the edge of the couch, unable to hold back the
sneezes.  His eyes were closed the whole time; right before his sneeze,
his eyebrows would lift and his chest heaved.  As the release came, his
eyebrows scrunched down and his head was forced to his chest.  The
pattern continued for a good ten minutes, and he was thoroughly
fatigued by his long paroxysm. "ha-huh-haaaaa-" Nothing.  He exhaled
one shuddering breath and fell against the pillow.  

     By morning, Michael felt as miserable as ever.  He stretched and
regretted it as the effort triggered a five-minute coughing fit.  Wiping
the tears from his puffy eyes, he heard a moan.  There was Lydia, half
asleep on the carpet, wearing only an oversized t-shirt and boxers.  Poor
girl, Michael though to himself, touched that she had endured the night
with him.  Lydia rubbed her eyes and squinted at the sun.  By reflex she
sneezed: "huh-hupschoo!"  

     Michael knelt beside her, with one arm around her.  He could feel
her tiny frame shivering.  "God bless you.  You've caught my cold,
haven't you?"  Lydia shook her head. "No, it's just the sun that makes
me sneeze.  I'm fine."  She managed a weak smile, but her smiled wavered
and she found herself sneezing uncontrollably.  "hupSHOO! hupschoo!
*gasp* hupshoo!"  She sneezed into a tissue.  Michael became genuinely
concerned.  This cold was about as much as he could bear, but Lydia was
so delicate-her beautiful compassion for others was often hindered by
her fragile health.  There could be complications, he thought.  Lydia
could never be sick, and it hurt him deeply to see her like this.  

     His thoughts flashed back guiltily to the last night, when he had
kept her up so late with his own miseries.  "Come on, darling, you need to
be in bed."

     Michael ignored his aching muscles and carried his wife to the
bedroom.  Her head rested against his shoulder.  "I love you, Agent 007,"
she whispered before resting again.  He laid her down gently on the
mattress, wrapped her in one of his sweaters, and pulled the quilt up to
her neck.  He went to the kitchen to make some soup, when he felt an
intense tickle deep within his chest.  Michael easily fought it down as he
bustled around the kitchen.  Screw the director, screw his cough, and
screw his tickling nose.  He had more important things to do now, he
thought, as he carried the steaming soup back to the bedroom.