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A/N: This is the first it was is hopefully to be at least a few chapters in a humor story concerning Sam and his care of little Master Parker. Thanks to all who helped with the ideas for this!

Green Peas and Sam

by RRP



It was a warm, sunny morning; full of promises for aspiring young swimmers and baseball players, whispers of a joyful afternoon in the neighborhood park, lemonade stands, and ice cream cones. It was barely nine in the morning when children bounded out of their houses and onto their lawns, or darted across the street to playmate’s houses to start having fun as soon as possible.

Sam Adams had already been forced to swerve at least twice to avoid hitting small, squealing streaks of children, as they flew across the street without looking for cars. His beat up but loved Grand Cherokee had fine-tuned breaks that saved him from many counts of manslaughter that morning.

Nevertheless, he breathed a sigh of relief as soon as he hit the highway, out of the residential area, and was safe from any minor mishaps (no pun intended). Instead, he had to deal with adult road rage. And that was something he could handle confidently. He maneuvered onto the right lane, and glanced at the rearview mirror for a final glimpse of the rows of houses and bouncing bodies of kids. He was simply grateful he wasn’t responsible for the care of any children.

Samuel Henry Adams had been blessed with good parents, and cursed by the fact that his father was an Revolutionary War fanatic, and that his mother had an abundant sense of humor. More simply known as Sam, he had gotten through school fairly well, and inherited his Grandfather’s calm outlook on life, along with his father’s love of guns.

Still a bachelor in his mid-thirties, with no intention of getting married, his job was one he was fairly happy with. Personal Sweeper to the Chairman’s daughter at a corporation known as The Centre, he led an interesting life. With no outer ties to the world, other than his parents whom he occasionally visited, he was able to dedicate almost all of his time and energy to the thoroughly demanding job of bodyguard mixed with assassin.

Quite simply, he was one of the best with a handgun at The Centre. Only few surpassed him in that territory, one of them being his boss. Slim and sexy, with legs that could kill, he worked directly for the one known in the smaller circles as Ice Queen. Her real name was Miss Parker, her first name known by few. And Sam had to admit, working for her did have it’s advantages.

But it also had it’s downfalls. Midnight calls to “come now or you die”, chasing a man he had never met all over the country, and odd jobs such as babysitting Debbie Broots. She wasn’t a bad kid, really. Deadly at checkers, and cute in a little girl type of way. But his mind was far from Debbie Broots at the moment.

Instead, he was puzzling over a call he had received slightly over half an hour ago, demanding he come to Miss Parker’s house immediately. It was her that was doing the demanding, or else he would have worried that something was wrong with her. He followed the road to her house almost without thinking about it, already knowing the trail well enough to navigate it effortlessly.

It wasn’t long before he was pulling into her driveway, making sure not to block her car; it was better to avoid possible mistakes than presume and make them. Sam knew that much from experience. He slid out of the battered Cherokee, and tucked the keys in his pocket. The air was crisp and fresh, a lazy type of summer weather, even here on the other side of town. The refined and sophisticated side of town, with all of the houses many, many yards apart and the landscaping all professionally done.

She had one hand on a hip, and an eyebrow raised rather high. Piercing blue eyes shot daggers at him, and he returned the gaze– while trying to appear submissive. It was better to let her think she was in control. Easier to stay alive.

“I need you to do something for me.” Miss Parker spoke after a minute. Sam nodded respectfully, and answered,

“Anything you want, Miss Parker.” She turned on a stiletto heel, and called into the house, the name that of her much younger half-brother, referred to about the Centre in hushed tones as “Young Master Parker”.

A little boy of about three toddled out, and wrapped his arms around her leg, hiding behind her while shooting an unsure look in Sam’s direction. She knelt down to speak to him, and said in a soft tone,

“James, this is Sam. He’s going to watch you today.” Sam started at hearing this, and was shaking his head no at her back. As soon as she turned to glance at him, however, his head started nodding compliantly. She stood, taking her brother’s hand, and looked at Sam. “I brought him home for the weekend, and was called in at the last minute. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Miss Parker gazed down at her little brother, who was looking back up at her, and she tousled his hair. Sam didn’t miss the disappointed look in her eyes, and felt a pang of pity– her afternoon had been ruined, and probably the little boy’s as well.

Her head snapped back up, the icy look taking over again, and she dropped the toddler’s hand. She nodded to Sam, and breezed past him, stalking down to her little Boxster in the driveway. Miss Parker sped off without another word, and left the tall, stocky Sweeper eyeing the cautious little toddler, and vice versa.

The child turned and fled back into the house, and Sam slowly followed. Once inside, he followed the trail of gleeful giggling back to the kitchen. Upon entered the room, he gasped out of pure horror, and just barely refrained from cursing in front of little James.

Smeared all over the walls of the kitchen was the child’s artistic self-expression– with gooey oatmeal. In less than twenty seconds, he had splattered it on the walls and begun to spread it around with his pudgy toddler fingers. Sam swooped down on him, and picked him up, giving the child barely a chance to yell in protest.

The oatmeal was all over his face and his hands, some of it even making it’s way to his elbows. His clothes were suddenly unacceptable, and Sam prayed he could find a change of outfit for the tyke. James was loudly squealing now, maddened at being torn away from his self-invented arts and crafts.

Sam grabbed a washcloth, and began wiping James off, starting with his face (which was growing redder by the minute) and then wiping down his arms and fingers. Meanwhile, his ears were starting to hurt from the volume of angry screams the little boy was letting out. Head thrown back, hands in tiny fists at his side and elbows locked, he was throwing an all out tantrum.

Running out of options and fearing for his ears, Sam looked around frantically for something to calm James down. Spotting a possible answer, he kept one hand on the boy’s knee to prevent him from falling off the counter, and reached across the kitchen with the other arm.

A brief second later, Sam pushed the stirring spoon half-full of sugar into James’ mouth, and the little boy stopped screaming almost instantly. He instead looked at the spoon in surprise, and hesitantly swallowed the sugar. A big grin spread across his face, and Sam sighed in relief.

“More?” James asked hopefully, his eyes wide. Sam shook his head in the negative, and James started frowning again.

“You don’t need more sugar.” Sam replied, looking around mournfully at the sticky, lumpy streaks on the walls and floors of the kitchen. “First, we have to clean this up.”

“I help.” James announced joyfully, wriggling on the counter. “I know where sissy keeps her soap.” Sam set him down and the little boy dashed off towards the bathroom, stepping in oatmeal and trailing it on the carpet along the way. Sam followed, while muttering,

“Oh boy...”









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