Ideas of the Pygmies

I Think I Would Be Happier About This Being Done If I Was Sleeping Like I Should Be

2010-01-08T11:09:13Z

Part Fifteen: The Measure of Everything's Worth
Word Count: 4,314
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I can't own anything. The pygmies and debt collectors own me. Well, I created Jitterbug, and I like her. She's mine, and I'm keeping her.
Summary: The Cylons believe that God has a plan. There are others who believe the Gods have a plan. And prophecy never lies, right?
Pairings: Lee/Kara
Author's Note: I go through periods of absolutely hating this story. I think it's because I've had it unfinished for so long, out on the web. If I'd only listened to that voice telling me not to post until it was done, things would be a lot better. Of course, I'd still be getting flack about Jitterbug as an OC and decisions I made regarding characters that are apparently controversial... Well, stirring up trouble was never my intention with this fic. I was going to tell a story, and somewhere along the way, that got twisted. Not intentionally, and not really by me, or at least not by me alone, but I think that not posting my BSG fics would have been better for my mental state in the overall long run. When this story is done, I'll finally break free of all ties to the BSG fandom, and maybe after a break, I'll actually like it again and come back. But I've learned my lesson, and I won't ever post another unfinished BSG fic.

If I ever post another BSG fic at all...

The Measure of Everything's Worth

“Do you trust her?”

Bill looked over at Roslin. He knew what she was asking, but he didn't know exactly how to answer. It was far more complicated than she expected. Or maybe it was that complication that she was asking about. Nothing was ever simple, not any more. Decisions made that would have meant nothing a few months ago were now life and death. Meals were easy once. Food was never given much thought other than to eat. But now, when food was scarce, when they started to worry that they would run out, it was on everyone's mind.

He would not mind going back to when things were simple. To when his mistakes only impacted his family, to when his biggest screw ups did not get people killed. The first Cylon war had not been like this. They had fought for their lives, but never had they been as close to annihilation as they were now. They survived by the day, the hour, the minute.

Things had changed when Lee disappeared, even more when he came back, and now it was hard to say where any of them stood. The past few months seemed like a nightmare that they all shared, one they all desperately hoped to wake up from. They were not going to wake up, the dream was not going to end. But it seemed to grow weirder as it went on.

“Do I trust Shaw to get the confession we need? Yes. Do I trust her beyond that? No.” Adama shook his head, looking around the room without any purpose. “Do I know where that will lead us? No. We'll have an admiral dead, her second-in-command a murderer, and where do we go from there?”

“Well... for one thing, when you have two battlestars, you're an admiral,” Roslin began, a smile of wry amusement on her face. He looked at her with a bit of surprise. His own advancement wasn't really something he'd thought about. He'd been a commander for so long, figured he'd end up dying as one after a pathetic retirement. No, he had not really thought this day would come. “I've got Billy working on the logistics, and maybe I should have waited to tell you, but you brought it up.”

“I'm flattered.” Bill smiled at her. “Though I know I'm the only one you've got to give it to.”

“Military succession is clear, after all, but I know there is no one else I would choose to give the position to,” Roslin agreed. “That said, there is another concern. Pegasus. With Cain dead, Fisk a murderer, who do we put in charge of her now?”

“I have a few ideas on that, but we may be getting ahead of ourselves here. We have to make sure we get Fisk as a murderer before we start replacing him. We can't let it seem like a coup. It will be hard enough integrating Pegasus' crew with our own without them believing that we have eliminated their commanding officers.”

“Which leads me back to my original question,” Roslin said, smiling again. “Do you trust her?”

“I believe Shaw will get the job done. By all reports, she was somewhat...close to Cain. A protege, shaped and molded by Cain. She wants justice or revenge. It doesn't matter. She won't stop until she gets what she wants from Fisk,” Bill told her, and the president nodded.

The intercom buzzed, and Roslin reached over to answer it. “Madam President, Commander Adama, there's a... situation on Galactica.”

“What kind of situation?” Roslin demanded, and Bill looked at her. She shrugged. Galactica was his ship, but this was her office.

“I think it's best not to say over the wireless, ma'am. Will you and Commander Adama please come to Galactica?”

“We'll be there,” Bill answered, wondering what the hell had happened on his ship.

That much blood on the ground, she should be dead. Should be, but wasn't. Why she wasn't didn't make sense. Well, it did once Lee showed up and got close to her, but the fact that she'd lasted long enough to for him to get here, that was almost impossible to believe. Helo thought he was holding her, watching her die, and that was not something he could handle. Not now, not after Sharon and the baby died. He had already lost too much, and even though Jitterbug wasn't exactly... his, he needed her.

She was Lee's guide. If anyone needed her, it was Lee Adama. Kara Thrace, too, though she wouldn't admit it. Because Egeria knew the prophecy, knew what it said, what it meant, and the prophecy was for the Avatars. It didn't matter to someone like Helo. He wasn't the Avatar. He wasn't anything special.

He was Jitterbug's ECO. Had been pretty much since he got back from Caprica. No one else wanted to work with her because of her religious beliefs. He hadn't ever cared about that. It wasn't like she spent their time in the Raptor preaching at him. She explained her beliefs when asked, and Helo made the mistake of asking more than once. Yeah, she talked about the will of the gods and things that other people didn't talk about, didn't think of in the same way, but he'd actually become fond of her. She got under his skin, and they were sort of friends before that day he'd kissed her and frakked with all the lines.

He wasn't in love with her, but there was something there, something that was all he had left. He couldn't count on Kara for much of anything, not with what was going on with her and Lee. Lee was... maybe a friend, now, but even so, he had his hands full. Those two were too busy being Avatars to really see what was going on with him. He could—did—blame them. He had to, but it was all so frakked up in his head. He didn't care about how angry or messed up it was that they had powers.

It only mattered that Lee used that damn power to save Jitterbug. Now.

“This would be easier if you weren't in my way,” Lee muttered, and Helo gave him a look. He shrugged, accepting that Helo wasn't backing off. He couldn't. He hadn't been there when Sharon died, hadn't been able to say goodbye. It wasn't the same to say it to a lifeless body. Especially not when most people said she wasn't alive in the first place.

“You don't look good,” Helo said, and Lee nodded. It was draining him, healing her. But she was so far gone that she should already be dead, and it wasn't the first time that Apollo had done this, either. He shouldn't be able to do this. And it wasn't really right that Lee could save Jitterbug and not Sharon.

Then again, would his healing ability even have worked on Sharon? She was a Cylon...

“And you look like your head's going to explode,” Lee said. “If you're trying to figure out how this works, you're probably better off not knowing.”

Helo shot him another look and ran his hand over Egeria's face. She was so damn still. “Are you going to be able to save her?”

“You'll kill me if I don't,” Lee joked weakly. “Where is Cottle? Shouldn't he be here by now?”

“If you can't fix it, it's not like there's anything that he can do, now is there?” Helo demanded, and then he felt Egeria move, ever so slightly, under his hand. “Hey, Jitterbug, you still with us?”

She moaned, and Lee lifted his hand. The wound was still there, but the bleeding had finally stopped, and it might have been smaller. It was hard to tell. All Karl had really seen before was the blood. She was alive. This meant that she was going to live, didn't it? It frakking had to. There was no other option.

“You sure you need me?” Cottle asked from the doorway.

Lee nodded, looking paler and weaker than he had a few minutes ago. Helo reluctantly moved away from Jitterbug so that Cottle could get close to her. Standing off to the side, he felt helpless again, his hands covered in blood. Lost, so damn lost.

“Stop,” Jitterbug's voice was barely audible, extremely weak. Whatever this was, it had her pretty good. He had to believe she was going to live, and Apollo was doing his best. “Just... stop.”

“Frak that,” Helo and Lee said at the same time.

“I am not worth the Avatar's life,” Jitterbug insisted weakly. “Stop now. Let me go. It is my fate.”

“And that means you're choosing to die. That doesn't work for me. It's not okay with me,” Lee told her, shaking his head as he refused to move away. He was tired, drained, and he knew that he should, but she was wrong. She couldn't die. What the hell was he supposed to do if she died? She was the guide, the one with the book. She understood that thing. He didn't. It didn't matter if he had some freaky god powers if he didn't know what to do with them. He couldn't keep healing random people and helping Kara destroy Cylon fleets. It had to end somewhere, and the prophecy was the key to that, wasn't it? He needed answers, and she was the one that had them.

“You have... done enough,” Jitterbug said, trying again to push him away. “Helo, please, get him off me before the idiot kills himself.”

“Damn, you spend too much time with Starbuck,” Helo muttered as he pulled Lee back. Lee frowned at him. If he didn't feel this weak, he would have done something about it, but he couldn't hardly move. He sat against the wall as Cottle moved in to tend to the wound. It was an odd one. She had dropped her gun after firing at her attacker, who was across the room, holding onto her precious book. How had she gotten hurt? Who did that to her?

“What happened?” Lee asked, shaking a little, trying to get his bearings again.

Helo jerked his head away from Cottle's work and started looking around the room. He'd been holding down pressure on Jitterbug's wound and yelling at her not to die until Lee got there, and now was probably the first time he really stopped to look at anything else. He went around and stopped. “Holy frak. That's Baltar. Jitterbug... you... Did Baltar do this to you?”

“The circumstances of my injury are not entirely clear to me,” she said quietly, and Lee struggled to get to his feet. He wasn't sure he'd heard right. Baltar was dead? He had tried to kill Jitterbug, and he was now dead. But... why? What the frak had happened? What had made this... Damn it, if this was the prophecy, then he really didn't want to know. “I do remember shooting him. I did that. I am not ashamed of that, either.”

Helo bent down and checked the body. “He's definitely dead.”

“He's the vice-president of the colonies,” Lee said with disgust. He knew why Roslin had made the decision to join up with Baltar, but he personally had never liked the man. It was hard to know that Kara had slept with that frakker on Colonial Day. Still, he shouldn't want the man dead just because of that. He was more than willing to believe the man had attacked Jitterbug. He just didn't know why. “He attacked you. Tried to kill you. That's what happened. We need to know why.”

“You sound pretty sure of that,” Cottle said, looking up at Lee as he leaned against the desk, breathing hard. He was exhausted. “Something you're not saying?”

Jitterbug moaned, trying to escape from Cottle's ministrations. “He means to assure my safety by establishing that I did, in fact, act in self-defense and did not murder the vice-president.”

Lee looked at her. “You're not a murderer. Not you.”

“I told you, I do not remember exactly what happened,” she said. She looked up at Cottle. “I believe Captain Adama has already done everything that is necessary. I am not in danger. I will not be dying any time soon. Now leave me alone. I will be fine.”

“You should be dead.”

“Do you think I am unaware of that? I am not ignorant of my state,” Jitterbug muttered. “You should have left by now, Captain. You know that I am still draining you. If you truly wish to save me, go, now. I will take my time in the brig while Baltar's death is being investigated and finish recuperating.”

“I'll see her there,” Cottle said. He shook his head as he helped Jitterbug to her feet, almost carrying her as she tried to walk out. Lee watched them for a moment before he picked up the book. She wanted him to have this, wanted him to read it, and he didn't want to know what was in it.

“She's going to live,” Lee told Helo, and the other man didn't really seem to hear him. There was too much pain, pain that should have—maybe could have—been avoided. Lee was a part of that, just another one of his many frak ups, and though he knew that for the greater good, a situation of the many outweighing the few. It was another numbers game. Sharon had died—and it wasn't entirely his fault because he didn't actually know how bad it was or if his healing would have worked on her—and many other lives had been saved by what he and Kara had done.

He looked down at the book again. He'd read enough of it before to know that he didn't get it.

“Now you have the book,” Helo said, and Lee nodded unhappily.

“Just because I have the book doesn't mean I understand it or know what I'm doing. I'm doing something wrong, I know that. I've been messed up, screwed up since the day we lost the colonies if not before, and it doesn't matter that I got super powers because I'm just as much of a frak up only people don't want to see it because I've got powers.”

“Yeah. You are. What's your point?”

“Point is, I have no idea what to do now.”

“Read that out to me again,” Kara ordered, and Lee sighed, trying to shut the book. She forced it back open. “Look, you're not getting away with this crap. You almost killed yourself. Again. And for Jitterbug. I don't care if she's your—our—frakking guide. You almost got yourself killed for her, and I'm still pissed at you for it. So read the damn passage again before I hurt you.”

“It wasn't that bad. I just... I brought her back from the edge, that's all. She'll still need time to recover, and she's in the brig since Anders is under house arrest in the infirmary,” Lee said, and Kara shot him another dirty look. He rolled his eyes. “Fine. The book says... the miracle will be undone and the past revealed. Lies and deceit will pour forth like a river. Happy now?”

“Damn,” Kara muttered. “No matter how many times you read it, it doesn't make sense. I mean, I listen, I do, but I just don't frakking get it. What the frak does that mean? What could it mean?”

“Which is why I need Jitterbug alive. I don't get this any more than you do.”

“Well, why not go get her? Why not run down to the brig and ask her?” Kara demanded. “Is it too much that she explains this crap? She's the guide.”

“Who also almost died earlier, and we're not really sure how,” Lee told her. He shook his head. “Cottle told me after he got her settled that he hadn't ever seen a wound like that before. It looked like it came from the inside, but that's not possible. And if it is... Then she didn't actually kill Baltar in self-defense, and things are going to get really ugly, really fast.”

“I am not defending Jitterbug. You know I don't like her, but what the frak are you talking about? It's not bad enough that someone kills Cain, but now we've got Baltar dead, and Jitterbug says she did it. She probably did us a favor, taking care of that sleaze, but what the frak is going on around here? It's like the whole world has gone frakking nuts.”

“I kind of think it has,” he said with a shrug. “You and I have powers. Freaking god in a mortal body powers. There's a big frakking book full of prophecy supposedly about us. We're at the center of this madness.”

“So nice to have a front row seat to the freak show, right?” Kara shook her head. She didn't like this. She didn't like where it was going. They were heading down a road that neither of them wanted to travel. Was it the right road or the wrong one? Did it even freaking matter? There was no way to change it.

Or maybe there was. All that mumbo jumbo that Jitterbug had said the other day... She had said there was a choice even if there was no choice, which made no frakking sense. Damn it, they needed her to explain this shit to them, and there was no point in either of them trying to figure this out on their own.

“Face it, Lee, this whole book is full of crap. Even if it's true, and I'm not saying it is, we don't understand it. It doesn't do us any good. Either she tells us what it says or we burn the damn thing because it's a frakking waste of our time.”

“Give her a couple of hours, Kara. She did almost die,” Lee said, yawning. She looked at him.

“Oh, yeah, you want Jitterbug to get some rest,” Kara muttered with a laugh. She took the book from Lee and hid it under Adama's desk before dragging him over to the bunk. She pushed him down and crawled in with him, closing her eyes as she ran her fingers along his arm. He muttered something that she didn't hear before his breathing evened out, and she knew he was asleep.

“This just gets worse,” Roslin said as she stared down at the body of Gaius Baltar. The scientist and vice-president was dead. Personally, she'd never entirely liked the man. She remembered how she'd felt when she'd learned of the accusations against him, how she'd been willing to believe it. Supposedly, that had been faked, but she still had her doubts about the man. His death seemed to make those concerns valid. He had been in possession of the prophecy of Alastrina and had almost killed Jitterbug. That was not the work of an innocent man.

“I can't say I'm surprised,” Adama said, shaking his head. “Some of that behavior was hard to explain as the eccentricities of a so-called genius. It was damn suspicious, and I never liked having the fleet's fate in his hands. Not to mention the failure of that Cylon detector of his.”

“True or not, it poses a problem. Two deaths, people in power... Even with Fisk's confession, it will look like someone is reorganizing the power structure of this fleet on purpose. People have been eliminated. People who are a threat to you, to me, to your son and Ms. Thrace,” Laura went on. She shook her head. “I am becoming paranoid, but I don't know what else to think. It seems like a conspiracy. It might be in our favor for now, but it could turn on us later, do far more damage that way.”

“It seems to me that we have questions to ask, and we're asking the wrong person,” Adama said, leaving the infirmary. She followed him out, knowing that they were heading to the brig to speak to Jitterbug. She was the key to knowing what had happened, the only living witness, and if the conspiracy was a part of the prophecy, then she would know, wouldn't she?

“You think that Jitterbug's prophecy had anything to do with Cain and Fisk or just Baltar?”

“I don't believe in prophecies. Still, she knows things, and she'll have answers that we need. We need to know that Baltar attacked her. If she didn't act in self-defense...” Adama shrugged. “I don't know the woman, but it seems out of character for her. She felt threatened, I'm sure, but whether that threat was to her or to the prophecy she values so highly, I'm not sure.”

Laura nodded as they entered the brig. Jitterbug was lying on the cot, her eyes closed, her clothes still covered in blood. Helo was with her. “You should have changed.”

“If you wish to sit, the cot can be shared, Helo,” she told him wearily. “Though I doubt there is room for four on it.”

He looked over at Laura and Adama. She could see anger in his eyes, and she held up her hand. “We have just come to speak to Lieutenant Trip about what happened.”

Helo nodded, but he took the seat Jitterbug offered him, letting his lap be her pillow and making it clear he had no intention of leaving. Laura looked over at Bill. There might have been amusement in the man's eyes, but it didn't linger. “You shot Baltar.”

“Yes. I do not deny that,” Jitterbug agreed. “He died at my hand, though I am surprised that I did not miss. My hands were not steady, nor was my vision.”

“Did he attack you?”

“I am not sure. I remember seeing him with the book, telling him to give it to me, and then I realized I was bleeding. At any rate, what I have done cannot be undone, and I will not excuse my actions with what may well be a lie.”

“Why would Baltar take the book?” Laura asked. So few knew of it or cared what it said. Why would Baltar be interested in it?

“The rumors of the prophecy are not yet at their peak, and I could not say how he learned of its existence or of its hiding place, but I am certain he took it because he is working with the Cylons,” Jitterbug answered, closing her eyes.

“You have proof of that?”

“Of course not. All I have is what happened—his theft of the book—and the knowledge of what it said about him. This was coming. I did not think so at first, but then so much of the prophecy becomes clearer in hindsight,” she said, and there was exhaustion in her voice.

“What does the prophecy say about Baltar?” Laura wondered. “How do you know it is about Baltar?”

“The miracle will be undone and the past revealed. Lies and deceit will pour forth like a river,” Jitterbug quoted. “Baltar's miracle—his Cylon detector. It never worked. His past, the fact that he collaborated with the Cylons, the proof exists. I don't know where. That is not... The lies and deceit, all that Baltar has done in the past few months is a lie. Remember, please, that the reason the Cylons were able to destroy the Colonies was not surprise. That was an advantage, but a minor one. The true advantage was in their ability to disable whole fleets. Using Baltar's own program to do it. He was a part of that.”

“That passage hardly gives you Baltar,” Roslin said, though she wasn't really defending the man. She just needed proof. Not hunches, but proof. It mattered, now more than ever.

“The passage before it does. The man, led by lust, blinded by ego and his own brilliance, sees only the body and not the cunning of the mind. His gift to the people is a betrayal. What was efficient is corrupt, what is hope is false, and the continued trust only compounds the betrayal,” Jitterbug went on. “There is more, a part about... about how if the blood had been given, the vision would have appeared to the one fated to die, but I cannot remember all the specifics, and I do not have the book at present.”

“The vision would have appeared to the one fated to die,” Laura repeated. “Was that you?”

Jitterbug laughed. “You are the dying leader of Pythia's prophecy, are you not?”

Dum Dee Dum Dum Dum... Okay, I Stop Humming Now...

2010-01-07T05:24:44Z

Heal the Whole
Chapter Five
Word Count: 3,377
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I can't own anything. The pygmies and debt collectors own me.
Summary: There are remedies in nature for many ailments, more than most people imagine.
Spoilers: Um, none. This is very, very AU. :P
Author's Note: Title comes from a saying used by an essential oil expert, "Heal the whole, not the part."

I really hate when I have part of something written/typed and then I go and look it over, hate it, and attempt to redo it. Writer's block can be just as bad then as having nothing at all. And then... I still get the nagging feeling that it isn't fixed...

True Family

“Is he going to live?”

“Yes. He's a very strong man,” Christina said, looking down at her husband, her hand on her stomach. She did not believe it could be any worse, not after all this. But Tom was unconscious, had been for days, and the entire time, his brother—Lord Marcus—had remained at his side. The loyalty was impressive but damning. It made his words true. Tom was Lord Thomas, the fourth son of the last king, the brother—the heir of the current king. She had not spoken to his lordship much since they brought Tom back. She had focused on his care, trying to deny what she'd heard. “It's true, then. He is your brother?”

“He is. He said that he was not, but I know he is. Why does he not know me? He is my brother. My brother would not abandon everything he is. Thomas was always the most dutiful, responsible one among all of us. He carried a heavy burden, but no one could convince him to give it up. He was... He is special. Very special.”

“When I first found him, he was close to death,” Christina explained, taking a seat wearily. “He was out, just like now, for days, and when he woke, he had no knowledge of who he was.”

“I never... When they told me he was dead, I was recovering from the attack on myself and my men. I did not—could not believe it. For months, I did not. More and more time passed, and I started to believe. If he was alive, he would have come back. That was who he was. When I finally accepted it... I was devastated. He was like my father.”

“Your father?” She looked at him. He was a good deal younger than Tom.

“The king was the man who caused my birth, yes, but he was hardly the one who took care of me as I grew. That was Thomas. He watched over me and Julian. He was the one who taught us to ride, to read... He would have taught us much more if we had let him,” Marcus shrugged. He looked down at Tom with a smile. “I chose to follow William instead. I went into the army, just like everyone else.”

Christina shook her head. “He spoke of a brother who hurt him.”

“He did?” Marcus shook his head. “I should not say anything. Even after all this time, I should not speak of it for the shame it brings. He was telling the truth. It was our brother. The eldest. William. He was the heir, and he always acted like it. He saw us as...playthings. He would have hurt us all, but Thomas kept me and Julian from the worst. You look as though you do not believe me. Ask Thomas, when he wakes. He can tell you. It is true. We were subjects of the king and the first-born as anyone else was. We could no more go against William than a peasant. It would have been treason. Thomas would have left and lived in France, but he stayed. For me. For us.”

“He is the fourth son, right? He was born after Robert, yes?” Christina had done the math in her head several times in the last few days. A noble was bad enough, the king's brother worse, but the heir? “Currently, that makes him... the heir, does it not?”

“I suppose it would, but that does not matter. He does not want it.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Thomas has always valued freedom, truth, and solitude,” Marcus stretched a little and went to the window Tom had insisted on putting in. “He has never cared for the politics or intrigue of the state. It was never the life he wanted, only the life he had to have because of who his father was, who his mother was. He is a fair man, well-liked, but he was never a king.”

Christina nodded, closing her eyes. She truly liked Lord Marcus and enjoyed his company. He was a lot like Tom. Not surprisingly, really, when he said that Tom was the one who raised him, taught him. “Was he married? Before they tried to kill him?”

Marcus laughed. “Married? Thomas? That used to make us all laugh. Thomas was always too busy, his head in the clouds, to find a wife. Our father threatened to arrange something, but Thomas held him off with promises of what his uncle would do if he did. After William was assassinated, it was no longer safe. It did not truly matter. Thomas loved his studies more than any woman, and he was only the fourth born. He still had time to find a wife.”

She shook her head. Camille started crying from the other room. Christina rose and went to get her from the crib. She carried her back into the bedroom with her, checking on Tom and Marcus again. The lord was still watching over his slumbering brother. Camille saw Tom and struggled to get out of Christina's hold. “Papa.”

Marcus looked up at her. “Papa?”

She sighed. “Not really. I was a widow when I found Tom. The village elders demanded that we be married to keep our relations...honorable, though there was no need for it. He was injured. I was taking care of him. Nothing more.”

“Nothing more?” Marcus shook his head. “You said that you had a husband. That you have a child. You were lying to me?”

“No. But it seems to me that I no longer have a husband anymore.” Christina let Camille down on the bed, and she curled up next to Tom happily. “I have to ask you, please, not to harm my children.”

“My god, what has my brother told you about us? What do you think we will do?”

“You speak impractically. You came here to search for a sorceress, a witch to aid you in battle. You cannot have one—cannot want one for a sister-in-law.”

“I never said I did not.”

“Now you lie,” she said, shaking her head again. “You cannot tell me that the color of my skin is nothing. It cannot be nothing, not in this place, this country, not when he's a damn prince. He might love me, but the public will not care for me. They will not trust me, nor would they trust him after seeing him with me. He cannot be the heir to the throne and have me for a wife.”

“You worry for nothing. He will not leave you,” Marcus told her with a confidence she wanted to believe and could not understand. Royals must be used to getting their own way, without ever facing the consequences. “He would not do that. It is not who he is.”

“And you can just accept my child... Me for the son of a king?” she scoffed at that. “It is not true. Excuse me.”

“You're awake. Good.” Christina's voice came to him as he felt the first stirrings of awareness. He was coming back, but he was not entirely sure he wanted to. It hurt. A lot. He did not remember it being this bad for a long time. “How are you feeling?”

“Terrible. Very bad. I do not... I have never known such pain,” he admitted, turning over uncomfortably. He could not hardly move, since the bed was taken up by Camille. He sighed. Normally, he did not mind when their daughter climbed into bed with them, but right now, his head hurt too much to deal with her right now. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Couple days. Your brother was afraid you were going to die.”

“Not my brother. That is not possible.”

“You spoke French while you were sleeping. None of us knew what it was, but he did. Marcus said it was French, that you spoke it as a child to your mother, that you tried to teach him it, but it never really stayed in his mind,” she began. She shook her head. “You are a noble. You said that yourself. Why can you not accept it?”

“He cannot be my brother. I cannot be the son of a king.” He grimaced. “I do not know. How can I not know him? He is supposed to be my brother. I should remember my brother.”

“You did remember one of your brothers. William. That's the one that hurt you. Your eldest brother, the first born. He believed it was his right. Marcus told me about it. He said you used to protect him and another brother from William.”

“But I cannot be Lord Thomas. I cannot say that I am because that would mean... It means... Even though Thomas was the fourth son, he is now the next in line for the throne. He cannot have what I have. He cannot have you for wife, Camille and the baby for children... Lord Thomas does not get to have the things that I have, the things that I want.”

Christina sighed. She reached out to touch his face. “You are Lord Thomas, so Lord Thomas has the things you want. Whether or not he can keep them remains to be seen.”

“Are you saying that you will leave me?”

“If it becomes necessary, yes. But that is not what concerns me or most of the village right now. Lord Marcus made no secret of the fact that you are his brother, and they do believe that you, Lord Thomas, can stop the war with France. That is what everyone is worried about.”

“Can we discuss me saving the country after the pain in my head subsides?” he grumbled, getting to his feet. He needed something. The pain was intense. Excruciating.

“Of course we can,” she said as she helped him into the kitchen. “Your brother finally went to get some rest. He sent most of his army down south, but a few men remain here. They never did find the man behind the attacks on your brothers, the murders. There are still men who want both of you dead out there, free. It is not safe.”

“I was really hoping not to be stuck with a bunch of men following my every damn move,” Tom muttered and sat down at the table. “Oh... That. That was not...”

“That was one of Lord Thomas' memories, right?” she asked as she handed him a tea. “Did you know your brother takes tea the same way you do? Must be something else you taught him.”

“Are you doing all this to annoy me?” he demanded. “Calling Marcus my brother? Telling me that we have things in common. That I taught him this or that... That I am someone I... Someone I do not really remember being but should not be?”

“How can you say that you should not be who you are?”

Tom turned with a frown. This man was also familiar, but he could not place him. “Who... are you?”

“Bad enough you do not recognize me, Thomas, but to not recognize Silas? In that you raised me, he did the same for you. He was Father's adviser and friend. He raised you. He was with you when you were attacked, until now, we thought he was the only one who survived,” Marcus said as he came in the room. “I do beg your pardon, but I could not stay away.”

“Well, your brother is awake, as you can see, though I cannot say he is...sociable.”

“I am capable of speaking for myself,” Tom reminded them irritably. He rose and started to pace, ignoring the lingering pain in his agitation. “I do not want to explain this again. No, I do not remember either of you. Not at all. I have some flashes of other things, enough to tell me that I probably am the man you say I am, but I will not deny that I would rather not be that man. There is a freedom in this life that I did not have before, and my heart is undeniably here, with my family. Yet, I also cannot deny that Lord Thomas has an advantage that no one else does and is the best chance for peace.”

“Of course—” Marcus began, but Tom quickly interrupted him.

“I was not finished. I am uncertain who to trust at present. I do not remember you, either of you. And how is it that you survived, Silas, when no one else did?” Tom held up a hand before the man could answer. “What I mean to say, quite simply, is that for the sake of peace, I am willing to go to France. I am not willing to do anything else, and should anyone ask it of me, I will deny everything. My name, my lands, my title. Also, if I do this, I want assurances that no harm will come to my family while I am gone. I will not go without your word, which admittedly means little, but I can think of nothing else to demand.”

“You have my word, Thomas,” Marcus said with a frown. “Though it grieves me to hear such distrust from a man who cared for me as his own.”

“You forget. I do not remember you. Therefore, I do not know you."

“I do not like the idea of leaving you behind,” Tom admitted quietly, and Christina wrapped her arms around him from the back, holding tight onto him. She let her eyes close for a moment. All the arguments, the fear and awkwardness melted away when she held onto him. She could forget it all for a moment.

“Your brother intends to remain with me. He will ensure my safety,” she reminded him, and Tom shook his head.

“I do not trust him.”

“Why not?” Christina was curious. She had pretty good instincts when it came to people, and she liked Marcus. Mark, she had taken to calling him, as she called Tom by a shortened version of his name, and he was amused by it. Everything he did acted in accord with what he said, and she truly had no reason to doubt him, not from what she had seen and learned.

“You are a strangely trusting woman,” Tom said as he turned around, pulling her into his arms. She leaned back against his chest and closed her eyes again. “After all you have been through—”

“After what I have been through, I have learned who to trust and who not to trust. It is why I trusted you from the moment that I met you. I trusted you when I should not, repeatedly. It has caused me some heartache, but do you think either of us truly regret what has happened? No, we do not. Not for anything,” she told him as his lips grazed her neck. She sighed deeply. She did not want him to go, despite what had happened between them, despite knowing that peace hung in the balance.

“I am not saying I regret it,” Tom stroked her cheek gently. “I am just saying... I do not remember how I got injured. Someone tried to kill me. That has never really been denied, but it never really... impacted our lives before. It was not someone here, in the village. This place has been a safe haven for both of us. The thing is... Too many people know I am alive already. The danger grows with each person who learns creates further danger for me. The assassin believed he succeeded in killing me. But if he learns that he did not do so... That puts me at risk. Sooner or later, that assassin will try again. He wants—needs—me dead for his plans to work. I am not sure if that increases the risk to you and the children or not. It probably does.”

“Probably?”

He sighed, shaking his head. “What I mean is, I do not know if this risk is because of who I am or as leverage against me. I doubt that the assassin would worry about my succession, but the truth is that my son would be the next in line if I died, not Marcus. So, any child of mine would be a threat. Still, due to the unfortunate prejudice, the color of your skin could discredit any claims to the throne. So, the child might not be at risk. Then again, if you look at it as another way to ensure my cooperation... The assassin could use you and the children to get to me. I do not want to leave you behind.”

She wrapped her hand in his and put it against her stomach. “You know I am strong enough, capable enough, of protecting myself and my children. Your brother is here. The town would not let anything happen to us. Even if Morrissey cannot stand me, he would never let something happen to any of us. You know that.”

“It does not matter who is here. I will not be,” Tom whispered. “If anything happens, and I do not know that will, but if it does, it will be because I am not here. Even if all that would change would be that I was dead as well, all I could ever think was that it was my fault for leaving.”

“I know,” she said, for she would feel the same if it were her going and not him. “But you know that you cannot stay. A war with France is just as likely to kill me and the children as the assassin. You have to go. I cannot go with you. I would. I would drag Camille if I thought it would help. But I know it would not.”

“Lord Thomas—I—always went to France alone before William died. One person, one relative, that was an intervention. More would have been... an insult,” he finished and moved away as he thought out loud. “It was never really about war, not for my uncle. True, he resented the fact that his favorite sister married a foreign king and moved to his country and court, but what angered him was not her decision but my father's. He deemed travel unsafe for my mother even before the pregnancy that ended in her death. He kept her at his side because he loved her, and he was not wrong for wanting her there, but my uncle never saw her again after the marriage. Of course that caused problems. When she died, he wanted to have me live with him as a part of her lived on in me, but he could not have that, either. My father would not permit it. And my uncle knew of William's behavior. He did not like it, and my father's laxness further angered him. My visits were not just to prevent war, but to allow him to see me as he could not my mother.”

“I thought you said you did not remember being Lord Thomas.”

“I do. And I do not,” Tom said quietly. “I still think there is a part of me resisting that knowledge. But I know enough to go to my uncle.”

“Then stop worrying about me and go.”

So I Was Thinking About Fanfic...

2010-01-06T03:11:30Z

And tv shows in general...

See, I realized that I hit a point with almost every show, no matter how much I love it, where I throw out "canon" and insist on living in a world where something wasn't done. Some decision wasn't made, some character didn't change in a bizarre and inexplicable way or, worse, die. So, as I was trying to sleep the other night, I discovered that there isn't much point in watching tv.

Don't get me wrong. I like a lot of shows. I love a lot of shows. I also hate some shows.

But I have to wonder about fanfic then. Would I really feel the need to have so many stories if I could find a show that I didn't feel the need to rewrite? Will I ever be satisfied with what someone else did or will I always have to redo it somehow?

It's an interesting thought, one I'm not sure I can answer...

Grand Plans... For Naught...

2010-01-02T03:25:49Z

Well, I sat down to organize my stuff and work on Dark Days of Apollo, and I found myself two scenes into it and pretty disgusted with my latest effort. The first scene seems rushed, the second is just crap, and I have this overwhelming desire to write a paragraph that says "Everyone died. The End."

I really wish I'd waited until the story was finished to start posting it. I thought I'd finish it so quickly back then, and then things really got out of hand. There's a lot of stuff that happened in between, and I never wanted to leave it undone. I do feel guilty, especially after leaving a cliffhanger, but...

Well, the next chapter's not in a fit state to read, so people will just have to wait. I'll look it over again in a few days. Maybe then I won't be tempted to burn it...

Yay... Typed... Done...Well, Almost...

2010-01-01T22:52:20Z

Heal the Whole
Chapter Four
Word Count: 3,732
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I can't own anything. The pygmies and debt collectors own me.
Summary: There are remedies in nature for many ailments, more than most people imagine.
Spoilers: Um, none. This is very, very AU. :P
Author's Note: Title comes from a saying used by an essential oil expert, "Heal the whole, not the part."

Okay, I think I have most of this one settled finally. This was the part I skipped ahead to write, and it is my favorite part of this story. I kept rewriting it in my head over and over...

Awkward Truths

“Harold has come by again. He says it's not safe to travel his route any longer. There has been fighting on the southern borders. France has started a war, though they have not yet declared it. The unrest will end in our deaths,” the village blacksmith said, shaking his head. “France. We'd have never gone to war with them if Lord Thomas was alive.”

“Maybe that's why he was killed,” Tom suggested as Christina gave him a look. He shrugged.

“Don't be daft, man. Who wants a war with France? They'll slaughter all of us in the south,” Pete said firmly. “So what if the king pushes them back? All of us will be dead, our belongings plundered, our women—Well, we'll be gone. That's a fact.”

“I heard Lord Marcus is coming south. That he plans to hold the French off from a place not too far from here.”

“Oh, please, if his lordship's coming down here, it's to raise a bloody army, not to save us. Weren't a one of them lords that cared about common folk except Thomas, and he's dead now, isn't he?” scoffed Bill, and the others gave noises of assent. Christina rolled her eyes. She picked up Camille and gave her a kiss as she moved around, trying to get comfortable again. She was in the difficult phase of her pregnancy now, with plenty of discomfort and a true lack of appetite, though that might have more to do with the admission that Tom had made.

“Marcus comes for an army,” Morrissey shook his head. “He will find only simple farmers.”

“Be glad of that. Life in the army is no life at all, and none here should desire it,” Tom said bitterly. She looked at him again. She could not deny that things were awkward between them since his revelation. She was scared, but it wasn't that. She did not fear for her life, not exactly, but she feared for her children, for her daughter and son. More for her son, growing inside her. She knew this one was a boy, and she knew that Tom's noble house would never accept this child as his heir. She loved him, noble or not, but what future did they really have? She could not fool herself into believing that it would last. He was a noble. She was a sorceress, or so they said.

“What would you know about army life?” Morrissey asked. “I thought you were a steward.”

If only, Christina thought.

“I believe my brothers served,” Tom answered quietly. “And I know I have some training, but I was never comfortable with it.”

“Some training,” Bill muttered. “Puts me on the ground, nearly breaks my back, he does, and he just has 'some training.'”

Tom ignored him. Pete looked at Christina. “They'll come to our village for sure. If they're raising an army, they'll want to get the sorceress on their side.”

“I have no real powers, and I will not join the army,” Christina insisted immediately. She watched Tom for a moment. He was suffering from another headache; she could tell. It must be this talk of armies. He said brothers. Perhaps more memories had come to him, ones of army life. “Is there truly much point in discussing this? If war comes, it will come, with nothing we can do to stop it.”

“True. We were going to organize a hunting party, head deep into the woods and gather as much game as possible before the weather changes. Will you go with us, Tom? We could use someone with your skills to heal us if anything goes wrong, and you were saying there were plants that grow deep in the forest that should be harvested.”

“I'll be ready at fist light, with everyone else,” Tom agreed, rising to his feet and picking up Camille. Christina followed him out, taking the child back as soon as they were away.

“Do you really think Lord Thomas was killed to start a war with France?” she asked, ignoring what should have been her first demand. She would get to that later. What he'd said during the village meeting concerned her, given his latest revelation. How close had he been to the royals? How much did he really know about the court and politics?

“If the murderer's goal was to take advantage of the instability of the royal house, then yes, he was. There may have been other factors, but everyone knows that Lord Thomas was the reason that France never did more than threaten in the past. If someone was after the throne, they would have to eliminate Thomas. He was the favorite. If they wanted to destroy the kingdom, bring the country to its knees, they would kill Thomas and let France do the rest of the work. Or if it was just for the land they could get their hands on in the chaos, war with France would suit their purpose. A good number of knights would fall in the defense of the land until peace was forged, and in the meantime, a greedy, unscrupulous man could have doubled or tripled his holdings,” Tom explained, frowning and rubbing his temples. He winced. “I do not think I ever cared for politics. Intrigue. Whatever this is, it is a waste.”

“Not to the man behind it, whoever he is,” Christina said, helping him back into the house. He sat down at the table and rested his head upon the wood as she set Camille on the ground. “Whatever he gained from doing what he did, he must feel it is enough.”

Tom shook his head as she crossed to the stove. “I doubt that. This was always supposed to end in war with France. That has not happened yet. He is probably impatient, waiting for the war to begin, perhaps pushing it along in whatever way he can. If he is close to the royal house at all, he could be responsible for the death of the queen and heir as well.”

“I would say you are paranoid, but I know there are herbs that could have caused her to go into labor early, which is most often fatal for both the child and the mother,” Christina agreed, handling the herbs carefully as she prepared something for his head. She was going to try cypress this time. Perhaps it was an issue with the circulation of the blood in his head causing him such pain. “You should not go if your head is bothering you so much.”

“Why should I stay? Your distance makes it clear I am not welcome here.”

Christina stared at him for a long time after his words, and though a part of him wanted to take them back, he could not. It would not undo what he had said or the truth of his words. They had spent the last weeks as distant strangers who lived in the same house. Things had been less awkward when he first woke up here. He felt as though she hated him and resented every minute he spent with Camille or anything nice he did for her. She had rejected him, despite any words to the contrary, and they both knew it.

“It is not that. You cannot tell me that you are a noble, that they would kill our child, and pretend that it is nothing,” she began.

He shook his head angrily. They had gone over this before as well. “I am not pretending it is nothing. If I truly believed there was no threat, I would bring you with me to seek out my lands and family. I stayed here to keep you safe. Maybe it was a selfish part of me that wanted to stay just to be with you, but even so... It is clear that you have made your decision.”

“You're saying words for me that I would not say. You know I am more than capable of speaking my own mind,” she reminded him, and he shook his head again. She might not be saying the words aloud, but they were there in every action she took.

“You are punishing me for something that I have no control over. I could not choose the house I was born into, nor did I remember it when I asked you to be my wife in all senses of the word,” he told her, rising to take the herbs from her as the pain grew worse. It did not help when they argued. Still, perhaps he was close to the final revelation, to knowing who he was and remembering all, and perhaps then the pain would stop. That was some consolation, but not much. “I did say that my pledges here were subject to my prior obligations. We both knew that.”

“But you insisted that you'd rather be here, and that you weren't a noble.”

He had not forgotten that conversation. She thought now that he was lying then, but that was not true. He had genuinely believed himself to be something other than nobility, close to it, enough to know of its privileges but not a part of it, for how could he be? “I did not believe I was.”

She snorted. He set the herbs aside and took her arms for a second, holding her to look at him. “Christina, a noble should not be like I am, forgiving, accepting, or possess my knowledge and enthusiasm for herbs. My personality is not that of a given noble. It is certainly not that of my brother... William, who saw me as a toy and armies as play things. I am not him, nor am I the indulgent but distant man I believe was my father, who sent me away with a pat on the head and did nothing about my brother. Perhaps my loss of memory changed me. I do not know for certain. What I do know, what I have absolutely no doubt about, is that I love you and our children. I would gladly renounce my lands and whatever title I have to stay with you and preserve this life.”

She shook her head, stepping out of his embrace as she went to gather Camille before the young girl got into something she should not. Holding her daughter, she looked at him. “Is it really something you have any choice in, Tom?”

She was right, of course. It probably was something else he could not control. There was no way to know if his family would accept abdication, and even then, that might not guarantee Christina or Camille's safety.

“Tom—”

“I think it's best I go tomorrow. Let the distance do us both good.”

Christina was collecting herbs from their garden when she heard it, the thundering of many hooves. She picked up Camille and watched as a procession came into town, many men, all of them armed, wearing the king's colors and holding the banners of Lord Marcus. So it was true. He had come south. Did he come for an army? He would find none here, though perhaps some fools would join his cause. Men were those kind of fools, boys especially.

She went into the town square with the others. It was expected of her, of everyone. She would not make trouble by failing to appear before the king's brother. Or of his army. It did not matter. She could not afford to cause offense, not in her current state. She was trapped.

“We are honored, my lord,” Morrissey began with a differential bow. “May I welcome you to Trinity and offer you what hospitality our quiet village can offer?”

“Yes, my good man. You are the village leader?”

“I am, sir,” he answered proudly, though some snickered. Since Morrissey listened to may of Tom's ideas, and it was believed that she had bewitched Tom, she was considered the village leader. “John Morrissey.”

“Tell me, Morrissey,” his lordship began as he dismounted. “There are many rumors of a sorceress in this village. Are they true?”

“There is a woman many call such. She does not call herself so, but she is skilled with healing herbs, she and her husband. Christina, come, please and greet his lordship,” Morrissey gestured her forward. She resisted the desire to roll her eyes.

She adjusted Camille's position on her hip and walked over to face Lord Marcus. She saw something in his face, something distinctive and noble. “You will have to forgive me, but with my husband absent and this one apt to run, I cannot put her down to bow properly.”

He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “You are the one called sorceress?”

“If you seek a witch to aid you in battle, it cannot be me. Upon my daughter's life, I swear I know no magic, only herbs to heal,” she insisted. She would not let the king's brother believe the village's superstitions. It had gone on for too long already. “Such remedies I will gladly share, but I cannot travel with you.”

“Even the king's brother is not foolish enough to decline such an offer, though I reserve my skepticism,” he told her with a smile. Lord Marcus was often overlooked and forgotten, but he was perhaps more like his brother Thomas than the others. “Let us talk more. I wish to know of your herbs. Such was a passion for my brother, and would that I had listened more before he was taken from us.”

“It is time to feed Camille, and I was to boil some herbs, but you are welcome, your lordship,” she said as she turned and returned to her home.

“Your buildings are of curious design.”

“My husband's work. He started by remaking our home and ended in the whole village,” she said with a proud smile, placing Camille in her crib before she started to boil water and make tea.

“I should like to meet your husband. You say he is absent?”

“The hunting party left last week to gather stores for winter. He travels with them in case of injury. I have gone myself in times past, and my presence has been necessary,” she explained as he sat at their table, much like Tom did. “They will return soon, today perhaps.”

“You worry for him?”

“Men have died on such trips. So it was with Micheal.” She served Lord Marcus the tea and put some herbs in to boil as she prepared a stew.

“Are you certain that you know no magic?” he asked as he sipped his tea with a frown. She turned to look at him. She was used to making it to Tom's taste. That Lord Marcus enjoyed the same style was curious. Perhaps it was a thing among nobles.

“Do not tell me that the tea is so good that I must know magic. I do not. It is the color of my skin and supposedly pagan upbringing that makes me a sorceress,” she told him. “I could not aid your army save with empty lies.”

“I may need them. Could I not persuade you to ride with us? Your presence alone would inspire my men and give enemies pause.”

“Such a request is impossible,” she said. “I suppose that I could leave one child behind, but the other I cannot.”

“You have two children?” Lord Marcus looked around the hut, seeing no one, and she wanted to laugh. “Cannot your husband handle both while you are away for a short while or a woman of the village?”

“I have already told you, it is impossible,” she said, shaking her head. She knew that he heard what he wanted to hear. “I am currently with child. I am no sorceress. I shall not go.”

Lord Marcus started to protest again, but a man burst inside, rushed with excitement. “My lord, you must come with me. There is something you have to see.”

An uncomfortable truth had settled over Tom as he returned with the others from the trip. They had been successful, which was good, but she was right. These last days had proved that. He should go. He did not know where to go, he still could not remember where his home was, but he should leave. He did not want to. He liked it here. She was here, the children were here. But if she did not want him...

“Tom! They're trying to take all our game,” young James, Pete's son, called as he ran up to him. “There's an army in the village, Lord Marcus', and they say we have to give it to them for their men, but that's ours. Our whole supply for the winter.”

“Calm yourself, James. We will not lose our stores,” Tom promised. Lord Marcus was one of the reasonable ones. If it were the king himself or Lord Julian, there would be no negotiation, but Lord Marcus was a fair man who would see reason. He headed for the center of the village and the ranking officer, since Lord Marcus was not with this men. The commander regarded Tom with scorn.

“Oh, so the runt's gone and tattled, has he? Who are you, then, that you think you can change my mind? Your village leader is with Silas, and your sorceress with his lordship,” the commander laughed. “Go on, then. The gift is sufficient, and his lordship will be pleased. Run along and tell your leader if you like.”

“And if it were truly a gift, it would be a fine one, but you did not allow us to give it,” Tom corrected. “You have taken it from us.”

“Again, it was not a gift, nor could we afford to give so lavishly. We are not a noble house. Game here is scarce, and our winters are harsh. That supply took us days to gather and was to preserve this village through the winter. You think that it is only your army who deserve to eat? Will you deny the children, the people you are sworn to protect? It is no more just to let them starve than it is for them to be slaughtered by invaders. Our village does not have much, but we are loyal. Our women, our homes, our food, and our horses are not for you to take.”

'The army takes what it needs for your protection.”

“And when my child starves, what protection am I given? When you violate that man's daughter, what protection is it? If that is your idea of protection, I think that I would prefer negligence. Go, get out, and leave us what is ours,” Tom told him angrily.

“You need a lesson in respect.”

“I will not run from you, nor will I bow or bend my knees. You are a thief and a bully, nothing more.”

The commander drew his sword angrily, pointing it at Tom's neck. The blade hovered just before his skin. Tom stood his ground. “You should hold your tongue. You speak against the army of Lord Marcus. Such a thing approaches treason.”

“You equate yourself with the king and the royal family?” Tom laughed. “You are nothing to them.”

“I could easily end your life, fool,” the commander said. “Give me another reason.”

“I would caution you to stop, lest you harm one hair from his head,” another voice called out as Lord Marcus approached them. “It will be your death if you do.”

“My lord, I was—”

“Whatever it is that you have taken, return it at once,” Marcus ordered. The commander stared, but his men started handing the meat back to the villagers. Marcus shook his head and turned to Tom as the commander reluctantly returned his sword to its sheath. “My god, I thought... I shouldn't have believed it. It's good, so very good, to see you again, brother.”

Tom blinked, shaking his head in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”

Marcus wrapped his arms around Tom. “My brother, my dear brother. How I have missed you.”

Tom pulled himself from the man's embrace, aware of a growing ache in his head. “I'm sorry. I don't know who you think I am, but I am not—”

“You are my brother. My word, Thomas, do you really think that I would not know my own brother? Impossible. You raised me. I know your face as well as I do my own. You are my brother.”

“But I—it cannot be—”

“These long years I have prayed for a miracle as war grew nearer and nearer. I came looking for a sorceress to aide our fight, but I found more. The end to the war without any loss of life. You can speak to your uncle, as you have always done, and you will save us all,” Marcus embraced him again. “I could not be happier.”

Tom shook his head, trying to free himself again. “I am sorry, but I do not know you. I cannot be your brother, nor can I bring peace. I—have to go.”

“Thomas, I don't understand. You have forgotten me?”

“I do not know you. Leave me be,” Tom said, but the pain stabbed through his head, and he fell to the ground.

If I Only Knew How to Sleep... Then Maybe I Would Have Less Fic...

2009-12-31T09:08:23Z

Heal the Whole
Chapter Three
Word Count: 4,147
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I can't own anything. The pygmies and debt collectors own me.
Summary: There are remedies in nature for many ailments, more than most people imagine.
Spoilers: Um, none. This is very, very AU. :P
Author's Note: Title comes from a saying used by an essential oil expert, "Heal the whole, not the part."

Okay, I think I have noticed I have bad habits when it comes to AUs. That is to say, I either want to spend way too much time in setting them up and making the story drag by all the background, or... I skip too much and find myself with gaps in what I'm doing or a bit of a rushed plot. This story kind of falls into the latter category. It wasn't just not feeling well and work and cleaning keeping me from finishing this chapter. It was also that I am trying to fix what's wrong as I type, which may or may not be working so well...

On the Homefront

“Who is that?” Harold asked angrily, pointing at the man standing next to Marilyn, the woman who he had been pursuing with with trinkets from his travels, his trade route. In Morrissey's opinion, if the man stuck around instead of working a trade route, he'd have a better chance. Marilyn was mostly a practical woman. She wanted a man who was around. Many women in the village wanted one man in particular.

“You need not fear him. He is devoted to his wife,” Morrissey said, though he knew that Tom's devotion did not change how Marilyn felt about him. The foolish girl did not know better than to leave alone the man who belonged to the sorceress, but that was another matter. “You have been to the capitol. Tell us of the news there. We fall behind out here.”

“Not so very behind. Look at your buildings. That is a new design. Like what they did over in the lands that were Lord Thomas'. He brought it back from France.”

“Our Tom was a steward. He was using the style to improve his own house, and it carried over to us,” Morrissey said. The details of Tom's wounds and memory were unimportant, and need not be spread and embellished through Harold's loose tongue.

“You want the news from the capitol?” Harold shook his head disagreeably. “It is not good. Queen Rose has died in childbirth, the king's heir with her. Now Lord Marcus is next in succession again, upsetting followers of Lord Julian. France threatens war again.”

“Again?” Morrissey shook his head. They had always suffered from tenuous relations with France, but King William's marriage to the sister of the king of France and their son had kept the peace for longer than most people remembered. His death was the single greatest threat to the nation in years.

“You know they never found all of the bodies. Lord Thomas' men, they died by the hundreds, but they never found them all. Never found him, just his cloak and pin lost in the woods,” Harold grunted, still watching Marilyn with suspicion. “The king, he wants Lord Thomas buried in France, and he's ready to go to war to get it.”

Foolish, Morrissey thought, but then he'd never really known the royals to be reasonable people. Lord Thomas was considered the exception to that, but having never met the man, it was difficult to say if the stories were true. It no longer mattered, at any rate, because the man was dead.

Harold continued to glare at Tom until Christina came up the hill and Tom abandoned Marilyn for her. He took the child from her arms with a kiss. She smiled warmly at him. They were an odd pair, but no one doubted their devotion to each other. It seemed to grow each day. “He wed the sorceress?”

“As I said, you need not fear him,” Morrissey repeated. He had not seen a couple before more devoted, as strange as they both were. “She may have bewitched him, but that just makes him more your friend than your rival. He has done much to improve the village. Marilyn can now read and write. You may court her with letters as well.”

“Indeed? And why does he teach such nonsense?”

“He helped organize the school. And if you want Marilyn's hand, do not call it nonsense. She is very proud to have learned, as are many others,” Morrissey said, thinking of the bright smiles on the young children's faces as they read the short books with pictures that Tom and his wife created and adults as they finally read aloud the Bible and other books they had only experienced when someone read to them. “You do not want to speak ill of Tom here.”

“So the sorceress bewitches him, and he bewitches you all?”

“He has done much good here. You are a trader, but we can live without your goods. We cannot live without the healing either of them can provide,” Morrissey said in warning. He left Harold standing there and joined Christina and Tom at the side of the common. The child was squirming in Tom's arms, eager to be down and free to crawl or walk—she might be walking now—away. He bent to pat her head, ruffling the curls.

“Something Harold said bothering you, John?” Tom asked, bouncing the little girl on his knee.

“Bad news from the capitol.”

“Seems like that's all there ever is, all there has been for years,” Christina said, shaking her head. “I suppose it's going to be war, is it?”

“War with France seems imminent, with troops divided over loyalties to the King's brothers as he loses his heir,” Morrissey told them, watching Tom frown with confusion and pain.

“France has never really intended war before.”

“That was when the king's nephew lived and interceded for us. With Lord Thomas dead, we will end up at war,” Morrissey said, shaking his head as he took the toy sitting next to Tom and offered it to Camille. She smiled at him. Christina was not the only sorceress in this family. The little one had powers as well.

Tom shook his head. “I will not train these men—these boys—to die in battle. Do not ask that of me. I have refused before, and I still do. It will be an unnecessary slaughter if war comes.”

When they had established the school, curriculum had been set according to available teachers and their level of skill. It was said that in addition to religious learning, basic remedies from herbs, cooking, sewing, carpentry and reading, that the boys and young men should learn how to hunt and fight. Tom had opposed the idea of learning to fight—hunting, he had agreed was necessary—but fighting was not. One of the men who wanted such training, Bill, felt so strongly about it that he attacked Tom. In his defense, the stranger had laid Bill out upon the ground. Tom had been asked, repeatedly, to show these techniques to others, and he always refused.

“Train them to defend themselves. To defend their homes. We are a small village, but we are not so far from France. The invasion could come to us.”

“And if it does, training will not matter,” Tom said, quickly passing the child to his wife and grabbing his head.

“Tom? Is it—” Christina handed Camille to Morrissey and put her hands over her husband's forehead. He pushed her away and turned to vomit. Though the village was fond of Tom and respected Christina, there were those who believed his pain and continued loss of memory were a spell she worked upon him to keep him by her side. “How bad is it? Never mind. You should have told me that it was this bad. And why you have not the sense to prepare something for it before you leave the house I do not know.”

Morrissey gave Christina the child again and helped Tom to his feet, back to their home. He wished the man would change his mind. It would make him feel better about the possibility of war.

Christina sat in the rocking chair with Camille, nursing her as she slowly rocked. From here she could also keep an eye on her husband. His headaches were worse of late, and that should not be happening. His health should have improved long ago, not gotten worse. She had her suspicions about the cause of his pain, but she had not voiced them. She wanted to try something different, and she was not sure how best to proceed. She was going to ask him when he woke if he had any other suggestions.

He stirred uneasily, muttering in that other language of his. After all this time with him, she still did not know what it was. No one else in the village spoke it, and he seemed to avoid doing so most of the time. It like, his memories, caused him pain. He seemed more distressed than usual tonight. She could not understand any of what he said, but his tossing and turning was agitated, and he seemed to be in pain. This was not a restful slumber.

Camille had fallen asleep, so Christina rose gently and carried her into the other room, putting her down in the crib. She kissed her daughter's forehead and returned to the bedroom. She sat down next to Tom, and hesitated only a moment before shaking him awake.

He jerked away from her touch and opened his eyes, breathing deeply. He swallowed hard, and she wondered if he knew exactly where he was. “What... where...?”

“Home. You are home. You had a bad day yesterday. You are still having a bad day today,” she told him, reaching out to brush his hair gently. “I think we should try something else for your head.”

“I have noticed that the pain is worse when a memory becomes clear,” he told her, leaning back. “I do not know that anything will change that.”

“You remembered something else?” she sat back, wondering what it was. He had been holding back some of it, she knew, though she did not know why. In her darker moments, she suspected he had reason to leave her but would not tell her.

“When I told John that training does not matter... It was not just something... Someone told me that. My brother. He was a bully. He would say that,” Tom looked down, closing his eyes again. “He used to say that training did not matter right before he hurt me. And he was right, because I was trained, but it did not matter. I could not win against him.”

“You remember your brother?” she asked taking his hand. He had not spoken of a brother before. He nodded, running his fingers over her skin. “I take it this is not a good thing?”

“A part of me believes he is dead, but even if he is not... He hurt me. He could be very cruel when he wanted to be, and he wanted to be often enough. I do not want to remember him,” Tom said, pulling her into his arms. She could still feel a tension in his body as he leaned his head against hers. “I do not know all of it. All I can remember is that he said something about—he said training was not important and shoved me into a wall. I do not remember anything after that.”

“You have been injured with loss of memory before?”

“Maybe. It is difficult to be certain. If I was, it would help explain why this loss has persisted for more than a year,” Tom agreed as she kissed his cheek. She closed her eyes as she leaned against him. In his arms, she felt calm, relaxed in a way that she had never felt before she met him. She felt secure. He gave her that. He said he needed her, but she needed him just as much.

“So your brother was not a nice man,” she went on. “You are. Whatever he was does not matter, you know that, right?”

“I do not—Yes. I understand. I do not judge myself based on my brother. I am not him. I am fortunate to have you,” he said, kissing her again. He held her close, and she pulled him back down onto the bed with her.

“I almost wish I was a sorceress. I would hurt anyone who hurt you.”

“I know. And I love you for it.”

“Training does not matter,” his brother said, shoving Tom into the wall. His head smacked the cool, uneven brick, and the world went black. Pain exploded behind his eyes. He gagged.

Tom grabbed blindly for his brother's arm. “Let me go.”

“Oh, please, brother. You are so amusing when you beg,” the other man laughed. The sound echoed in the room, and Thomas felt himself sliding to the floor weakly.

Tom stood, looking out across the town common. The village was busy, full of people, and yet he felt extremely isolated within this bustle. He could not understand this feeling. He was holding his daughter, and yet he did not feel like she was there, either. This detachment was unhealthy. But at the same time, he knew why he felt it. The memories were coming back now, faster, more at once, a rapid succession that made a few things clear.

And, he strongly suspected, signaled the end of the peace he had known in Trinity.

He was not a steward. He was a man very interested in how the land was maintained, how his land was maintained. No, he was not a steward. He was a noble. He was entitled. He remembered an elder brother, and yet he knew he held his own lands. That made him in the higher ranks of nobility or maybe he had served with some form of distinction and achieved a knighthood of his own, though he very much doubted it.

His life had been privileged, but it was far from perfect.

“I spend most of my time out of the country anyway,” Tom began, shaking his head. “I may as well live there.”

“France? No. You belong here.”

Tom laughed, scoffing the words. “Please. I do not belong anywhere. You know how my brothers see me. For one I am a toy, to be bent and broken at his amusement, and most of the others despise me. I may be some people's favorite, but I am still a boy to be patted on the head and sent away with some trinket to amuse myself with. I am free only when I am abroad, and even then, I could not say I am happy. I am a half-breed, never at home with either side.”

He rose and gathered his cloak. “My decision is final.”

“Is it?” he looked back at his long time friend and knew the ugly truth of the man's question. “You know you will be dragged back as soon as they think they need you again.”

Tom looked down at his shirt, feeling a bit nauseous again. He had better find a safe place to sit before he dumped himself and the child on the ground. He smiled weakly at Camille. He should find Christina. But she already suspected that he was hiding something from her. One look at him, and she would know for certain. He would probably end up telling her, and he could not afford to do so. It would cost him everything.

She still believed he shouldn't have stayed with her. She was right. What he was made their situation impossible anywhere but here. If he had remembered before, he would not have stayed, would not have grown to love her. His loss of memory had made all of this possible, and that it was now returning was a threat to all he had and all he wanted. He could not say that he was being reasonable about it. He had lands and he was fairly certain that he had no heir, so if he was gone, they were neglected and people who counted upon him for their well-being were suffering. He could not see how to merge that world with this one. He could keep silent for as long as possible, and that would give him more time to spend in this idyllic place. Though it had its flaws, it was very close to paradise for him. He did not want to go. He knew he had led a life of responsibility and duty and honor before—those very qualities ate at him, telling him he should not delay in returning—but he no longer wanted to be trapped by that life.

Another question bothered him. Why, if he was someone so important, had no one come looking for him? Did they believe him dead? Then perhaps his lands were already redistributed, and what point would there be in returning? How had he come to be injured? Was he attacked? What kind of a fight had left him near death and without a memory? That other life had almost gotten him killed. Why resume it?

“You have a lot going on behind those eyes,” Christina observed quietly as she came up behind him. Tom looked at her and nodded weakly. “What is it?”

“Does it not bother you that no one has come looking for me? I mean... I may not be the richest man in the land, but I had family. I know that. Not all of them were like my brother, so why... Why has no one come? Why does no one search?” he shook his head. “I suppose I should not worry about it. I do not want to go back.”

“Oh, yes, more the fool you,” she teased. “You had a much better life then, Mr. Steward. Here you have a pathetic hut, a child that is not yours, and a wife who is a sorceress. Back there, you were practically a noble. Who would not want that life?”

He did not correct her. Instead, he let Camille take his finger in her hand. Seeing Christina had made him feel better, as perverse as it was, since he needed to avoid her to keep from telling her the truth. Still, she did help him in more ways than she would ever know. “Nobility is its own curse. Camille is mine. You may not be a sorceress, but I love you anyway.”

Christina laughed. “My word, Tom, if I was a sorceress, the things I would do to you...”

He leaned down to kiss her. “We have our own magic, you know.”

“This whole leaving me in the middle of the night thing is getting to be a bad habit with you,” Christina told Tom as she found him in the kitchen, mixing together a blend of herbs. It did not look like the usual one of birch and other herbs that he refused to tell her. He called it a secret, and she would have accused him of adding things to it that he should not if she did not know better. “Either you cannot stay still and thrash about, or you rise and leave me. What is that about?”

“You know what it is about. The more I remember, the more it hurts,” he muttered disagreeably, and she frowned. He did not usually snap at her. Things were very bad, after all.

She took a deep breath. “You know something. Something about the past that makes you... unhappy. More than unhappy. It worries you, maybe even frightens you. Do you not think you should tell me about it?”

“I know things about the past... and the future,” he said after a long moment, his voice full of pain. He lowered his head, closing his eyes. She watched him, waiting, uncertain of what she should do next. “You will not like what I have to say.”

“And why is that?”

“First... I believe you have another child,” he told her, and she laughed when she realized her hand was already on her stomach the way it usually was when she carried Camille. She had not really noticed, but then she did not mind, either.

“Why should that upset me?” she asked, thinking of the sleeping child in the other room. “I love Camille. You love Camille. We could fill our house with dozens of children, and it would not matter.”

“It would. It does,” he insisted. “Because this child's father is a noble.”

She stared at him, shaking her head. No, he had told her specifically that he was not... He had made her believe that this would not come between them. “What are you talking about?”

“I meant what I said. I am a noble. I cannot keep lying about what I remember. I was born to a family with wealth sufficient that I inherited my own lands though I am not the first or second born,” he went on, and he sounded so miserable when he did. He should not be miserable, not when saying that. It should be pride talking, but it was not. “I love you, Christina. I told you; I do not want to leave. But I cannot deny that it is true.”

“Tom—”

“I know what I should do, or what most people would think I should do. And I cannot help being conflicted. It is not just that the live I want is here. You and Camille are my life, and though some may say otherwise about her, they cannot deny that the second child is mine. That is my responsibility just as much as any land or title I might have. The more I think about it, the more I believe that the lands and title must have been passed to someone else.”

She shook her head. “That does not mean you should stay here.”

“Maybe not. Maybe it does. That life, for all it seems better, is not what it looks like. It is—All of my memories make me feel trapped. My brother, if he is alive... I do not wish to face him. And there is more.” He turned away for a moment, and she wondered just how this could get any worse or more complicated.

“More?”

“Please, Christina. You know what it would mean for you if I did. Given the realm of nobility that my family belongs to...” he drew in a deep breath, and she understood where he was going with this. It could not be possible, could not be real, but it was. “They would do more than deny you, as Micheal's family did. My family would have you and Camille executed.”

“How am I supposed to react to this, Tom? You cannot claim that everything will be fine. That is not how it will be. If, even if, you do not go back, there is still a threat, still a chance that someone from your family will stumble upon you by accident, and when they do, they will see me and our children as a threat to your noble line.”

“I swear, Christina, if I had known, I would never have placed you in this position,” he told her, turning around to touch her. She could hear the anguish and sincerity in his voice. He meant it, but what good did that do either of them now? He could not undo what had been done. Oh, maybe, if she was not truly carrying his child, they would let her and Camille go back to the land where she had been born, to be forgotten and ignored, never to be spoken of again, but what assurance was that? What kind of life would it be? “We both know the only alternative is to send you back to your home. Only there would you truly be safe. Is that what you want?”

“Of course not. Don't be daft, Tom. I love you, and I have two children to think about. I can live by what I know of herbs, but they do deserve a father. Besides, the journey is dangerous enough with one child, but I did not make it before because it is foolish to attempt when one is in my condition.”

Neither of them were really reassured by her words. Tom wrapped his arms around her, but she drew little comfort from it. “It is settled for now. I stay. I have a better chance at protecting you here.”

Am Disgusted with Myself...

2009-12-29T06:19:32Z

I caved.

After years of refusing to get a youtube account, after trying to boycott it (mostly unsucessfully, but still...)...

I have a youtube account.

Oh, I could have stopped myself. I probably *should* have stopped myself. But I didn't.

I blame this all on wanting to share my new skills learned with Vegas, which for all it's frustrating quirks, is a much better program than movie maker...

And I blame this vid:

Of course, as with all my vids, it's still available to download, too. :)

And I spent most of the night uploading more of my vids. Not all of the Hawthorne ones are up yet because there are just so many as well as most of the Tom/Christina ones have youtube links already.

I still have to go to all the various places with my vids and give the youtube links, but I'm trying not to think about that...

*big, massive yawn*

I should be in bed...

And More... Because I Finally Typed It...

2009-12-28T07:59:05Z

Heal the Whole
Chapter Two
Word Count: 4,236
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I can't own anything. The pygmies and debt collectors own me.
Summary: There are remedies in nature for many ailments, more than most people imagine.
Spoilers: Um, none. This is very, very AU. :P
Author's Note: So... This is one of those things where I go... Where did this come from? Actually, I know. I do. This story came from watching The Mists of Avalon, which I must admit, I really only did for Michael Vartan because I have never cared for Arthurian legend, and playing a game called Dragon's Age, and an idea that using my knowledge, albeit it limited, of essential oils/natural remedies would make a good story. Not so sure that's what I achieved because it took a few... turns on me that I wasn't expecting...

Title comes from a saying used by an essential oil expert, "Heal the whole, not the part."

Settled In

Tom looked around the small hut again. He was not used to living like this. He could tell that he expected something better. It was something, something personal, unlike most of what he had remembered or used so far. Though he had a name, possibly, he had very little else. He was used to finer things. That was interesting.

The house was workable, and she had given him permission to improve it. He was looking forward to the project. He doubted that he had ever done work like this, but he was going to try it. If only his head would stop hurting. His leg and side, even the ribs seemed to be healed, or at least they were not causing him as much pain.

It was his head that was still a problem. He had walked the perimeter of his new addition, marking it off, and he had begun leveling out the ground for the foundation, but the more he did, the more his head ached. He had to stop, and that was where Christina found him, resting. She had returned from treating a little girl, and Tom suspected that she had gone out for herbs again despite his objections.

“I said you could make improvements, not kill yourself doing them,” she muttered in annoyance. “What are you doing?”

“I told you. I do not think my head will ever be the same,” he said. “I have mapped out where I want to put the new room. If I can get this room up, I would take down another room. We want the bedroom redone first, before winter. The nursery next, to be ready when the time comes. After that, the kitchen. It can wait because it can be heated in the winter. I think a fireplace in the bedroom would be a good idea.”

“What were you, royalty? How do you expect to build all this? You cannot do it on your own. I do not believe you were a bricklayer before you came here. Do you really think that you can hire someone? With what money?”

“While I suspect that I was somewhat affluent prior to whatever brought me here, but that is gone. Do the people of the village pay you anything?” he asked, looking up at her. She was the only healer this place had, the only one in the entire south lands. Her skin color kept many away, kept them in fear, but he knew there were many in the village who respected her knowledge, many who would travel to see her. “Trade that for labor.”

“You are a strange man. How is it you know so much about this?”

He shrugged. “The best nobles tend to their houses. They do not sit back and get fat while others work. It is true that he does not have to, but he is a fool if he does not take an interest, in what goes on. Perhaps I was a steward. I could have overseen some estate.”

“You would rather believe that than believe you are a noble?”

“I am not a noble. If I was, I would not have accepted anything that has happened to me, especially not you. You know that as well as I do,” he said, voicing an ugly truth. She looked at him in annoyance. He caught her arm. “Please, do not get upset. I do not mean to—If I was of any noble house, married or not, they would demand an annulment based on your skin color. I did not say that I would or did. I just meant—it would not be honest to deny what we both know.”

“So you would rather throw that knowledge in my face, is that it?” she demanded. “I am not—”

“You are a capable, intelligent woman worth far more than your face. I am sorry that people will only see that and not what I have seen in these few days, but I am only one man, not my house. I subject to prior obligations that I do not remember.”

“And what pledges to you make here?” she asked, watching him intently.

He smiled at her, but did not answer.

It was a mistake, she knew, to love a man of his color. Her pregnancy had made traveling home an unwise decision, for the journey was long and ardorous, but she had always intended to make it after her child was born. She had not intended to stay among these people, nor had she thought when she found him that he would be in her care for so long or have such an effect on the villagers.

Watching him with his building project, Morrissey had been impressed with his knowledge and increasing skill, and the two men had set about improvements for all the homes and buildings of the village, that they might better prepare the village for winter. The man had worked out a schedule for making the improvements, and all the families were participating in the building work, as all were benefiting. He had made a fair schedule, prioritizing based on the state of the person's home and the health of the family.

He wore himself out with the work, and yet he still found time to speak to the children, who loved him and the taste of the treats he shared with them. He wasn't a cook, but he knew other uses for herbs than just healing, and the kids loved him for it. He was quite popular in the village.

She knew that she was not alone in loving him. It was not just the children who cared for him. She saw the looks other women gave him. She knew that one day, the village priest would come to tell her that annulling their marriage was the best for all concerned. Let him marry one of the other girls, for they were not of the wrong color or believed to be a sorceress.

“I think what this village truly needs is a school,” Tom said, sitting down next to her in the square. He had just come over from the current project house, one belonging to a family with four children and no father. “It would seem my mind is full of useless knowledge, but these people and their children know very little, if any of it. I am not saying they need it, but look at the children. They learn only what their parents know. If they do not sew or cannot cook, neither can the child. I think some measure of education in the basics of life would benefit everyone, and those inclined toward study could use some of the less practical, more intellectual knowledge.”

She stared at him, unable to believe what she was hearing. Who was this man that she shared her house with? His mind was unlike anyone else's. She had known Micheal to be a man of higher pursuits, but even he was not like Tom. Tom was... There was something truly beautiful about his mind.

“What?” he asked, frowning at her. “You do not care for the idea?”

“I did not say that. I... I merely wonder at your endless enthusiasm for ideas and improvements. Who are you, Tom, that you know these things or that you would care to do them here? These people—they are not your people.”

“I do not have people. I do not have a memory. All I have is here. I have this place. I have you,” he told her, and she blinked as he squeezed her hand. He smiled at her. “Come with me. You should be resting. And you have not eaten.”

“Neither have you. And your head has been bothering you a lot lately. You should be resting, too,” she told him as he helped her to her feet, wrapping his arm behind her back, supporting her as he led her back to her house. He had already completed the new additions to the house, and his current project was the kitchen. She was not bothered by the mess, though she missed sitting up late in the kitchen like she used to do. The new bedroom was nice, the nursery even better, but the warmth and friendliness of her kitchen was missing.

She was not used to this, not used to the changes, and she knew there were more to come. Pregnancy was necessary, expected, in most cases unavoidable. She had not been happy to find out that she carried a child. It was not the child she resented. It was the circumstances. She had fallen for a man she should not have loved, she had married him and let him take her away from what she knew. It was supposed to be a better life, and for a short time, it was. But Micheal's mother had made things difficult, so hard that he had decided to leave. He had found this new place for them, another better life, but it fell apart with his death.

She knew, now, just how big of a mistake it had been to come here, to marry Micheal. Whatever her pain at the separation, would it really have been less painful than this? He was gone anyway. She was an exile, far from her home, and trapped here by her child. It was hard not to be angry over the circumstances, but she did love her child.

She loved Tom, too, which was worse. He could leave whenever his memory came back, or before, if he wanted to, and she would still be here. Loving him was dangerous.

She had done it anyway. Somewhere in the last few months, she had grown so accustomed to the man beside her, so fond of him, that she no longer wanted to leave if it meant staying with him, that she was happy to have been trapped here, since it led her to him, but he would not stay. This was not his child, and she could not expect him to raise it. She would manage on her own.

She always did.

There was something, Tom thought, in the buildings that he created. Something...familiar. He was not a student of architecture, he did not believe, but he knew that he had studied this style and admired it for its simplicity and practicality, for the way it allowed the better use of space and stability. He knew it wasn't his own, and he knew that it was not the style of most builders locally. He did not know where he had learned of it, but he knew that it was a good, sound decision.

“This is something new. Such an interesting diversion of yours, isn't it, brother?”

He looked over at his companion and sighed. When would this boy ever learn that these things were not diversions? They were much more than diversions. They were important decisions that affected the lives of everyone around them. It was an old complaint. How could the boy ever learn otherwise? Their father treated them all as children. They were responsible for nothing, and it would cause them no end of grief when he was gone.

“I have looked into several styles of housing since I came back,” he corrected. “This is the most suitable, best option available.”

“Oh, I don't doubt you've researched them. All you do all day is read. You can't help but know everything there is to know, can you? I mean, the things that fill your head no one needs to know, but you still keep doing it.”

“Do you see that farmer there? He does not know how to read. He's never learned, just as generations of his family before him have never learned. What I have is a gift, and I will not squander it in idle play. I have more to do than I could ever hope to accomplish.”

“And you're a spoilsport. Why do you have to be so good, anyway?”

Tom winced, putting a hand to his head as he tried to let the memory subside. He had not discussed it with Christina because he knew that she would not like it, but he had come to believe that his memories were what caused the pain in his head. When the came, even the shortest ones, the ones so fleeting they were gone in moments, he was left in agony.

He truly was not certain that he wished to remember, not considering the pain he would no doubt have to endure if he did. Instead, he stuck to his regimen of herbs for the pain and tried to deal with the memories that came as best he could. He collected them, tried to figure out the sort of man he had been before, but there were so many gaps, so many things missing that he could not be certain what was true.

He knew that he had family. He did not know where they were or what happened to them. If they lived, did they wonder where he was? Did they believe he was dead? Arguably, he should go to find them. He had put it off at first because he was still recovering. Now that his leg and side were healed, with only the pain in his head and the memories to worry about, he no longer had that excuse. Still, he put it off by telling himself he had the repairs to Christina's house to supervise, and now the rest of the town was being rebuilt before the harsh winter storms hit, and he could not abandon the village to that. He also had no idea where he should really go to seek out his family or the rest of his memories.

He knew, though, that they were all excuses. The reason he wanted to stay was her. She was something else, someone... He did not know who he was, but he felt that she understood him. She did not judge him as some of them did, and he admired many things about her. She was strong, she was smart, and she did not turn away from what was right, no matter what. She argued with parents who would not let her treat their children, and she found ways to help them even when they refused. She did it without much thanks or gratitude. It was a hard life here, and she was amazing for doing as well as she did.

“You know, if you're going to do these projects, you will have to take better care of yourself,” she told him, and he smiled at her weakly. His head ached so badly that he wanted to collapse. She grabbed his arm and dragged him back towards their house.

“It has been some time,” she agreed, watching him take out the supplies to prepare himself something for the pain. His head must be really bad today, and he should be resting, not working. He kept pushing himself too hard. “Your memory should have come back. I—”

“You think I lie about my memory?” he asked her as he prepared himself a dose for his head. She grabbed her pot from the shelf and put it on the fire, adding some spices to the bottom as she did. He would get the water, as he always insisted on doing, and she would finish the meal. They had settled into a routine in the time that he had been here, and she did not like the idea of it changing. “Why would I do that?”

“Because you're a criminal,” she began, though she did not believe it. She really did not think he was. He was too good a person, even if he did not remember who he was. He looked at her, and she shook her head. “Because you have nothing to go back to but death. Because you have a wife you hate and four fat kids that you never want to see—”

“There is a woman...she died in childbirth,” he said, looking down at her swollen stomach. He shook his head slowly. “If I was married, she's gone now.”

“Tom—”

“Do not say you are sorry. You did not know her.” He turned away for a second, his head lowered. “And I do not know her—I feel that the child died with her. I do not know who she was. She could have been a sister, mother... not my wife.”

“But she's the reason that you barely let me do anything. You are afraid that I will die, too?” she asked, now understanding it. She moved closer to him, touching his arm and drawing his attention back to her. She could see pain in his eyes, so much pain.

She waited, and he touched her face, so gently. “I need you. I do not have anything else. I woke up injured. I should have been dead, and I have no memory. I can do things. I can make things, help people, but I cannot remember who I am. I cannot be who I really am. I am scared. I am lost, and that is something no man wants to be. You keep me from going out of my mind. I am—I need you.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but he covered it with his. She had not felt like this since—no, not even for Micheal. She wanted this man more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. And then the pain stabbed in her back, and she moved backwards, clutching her back.

He looked at her. “What is it? The baby?”

“I think so,” she said, and he picked her up, carrying her into the bedroom. He kissed her forehead after he set her down.

“I may have training, but I have never done this,” he told her. “At least... I cannot remember doing it, which is as good as never having done it. You will have to talk me through it. Here. This will help with the pain. This will be a long night.”

She nodded through the pain now stabbing through her. He squeezed her hand and kissed her forehead again before he left the room for more supplies. She put a hand to her stomach and fought the pain and fear. She trusted him. She knew he could do this. She trusted him. She saw right through his excuse, knowing he was doing it for her benefit. He wanted to keep her busy, distracted.

She did not care. She knew that she would be fine, and the baby, too.

“A fine baby girl,” Morrissey said, observing the child in Tom's arms. He touched the girl's face, which seemed odd because Tom did not think Morrissey cared for the color of Christina's skin. He did not seem as unfriendly towards the child. The girl's skin was not as dark as Christina's, so maybe that was enough. It should not matter at all, but Tom knew he was one of very few who felt that way. Even he could not be sure if he had always felt so, or if it was something that had happened when he lost his memory. “What does she plan to call her?”

“I do not know at present. She has been asleep since it was over,” Tom said. He shifted the baby and refilled the mayor's tea for him. He passed the cup back to the other man. “I wanted to speak to you about this... 'arrangement' that the priest put in effect. I have come to accept that my memory is not coming back. I may never know what life I had before. I know the life I have now—I would like to keep it.”

Morrissey drank his tea. “You are saying, I assume, that you wish for a more formal, binding ceremony.”

“Yes.”

“Even though you could have a life somewhere besides the village, you want to marry a woman of colored skin and remain here?”

“I would, assuming that she agrees,” Tom answered. He gave the baby a toy that one of his young friends had made for him. She was too young for it, but he did not have what the little girl needed. He already thought—after only a few hours—of the girl as his own. He did not know if Christina would like any of this. He thought she had enjoyed the kiss, but they had not really talked since then, not about that. He had to focus on getting her through the birth. He had not been prepared for it, and he had worried. She was everything to him. H needed her, and he hated it. He loved her. He loved her child.

“You know that you do not have to ask her for anything. You are her husband.”

“I thought your village believed that she was a sorceress. Would you really recommend that I not ask?” Tom asked, teasing the baby. She yawned, and Tom smiled at her. She was too young to play as well, but he just liked interacting with her.

“Of course not. She's a woman not taken lightly,” Morrissey agreed. “I have no objection to a more binding ceremony. I do not know where you come from, but to this village, you are a blessing. The improvements to our homes, the suggestions for our crops... All of it. We owe you much for our own well-being.”

“I wanted to speak to you of some other improvements. A school and a church. I know there is a church here, but it is small, and the villagers do not attend because there is no room. If it was larger, and it served as a school—not for book learning alone, but for everyday tasks such as sewing and cooking, woodcutting, and perhaps forging basic items... Just things that if everyone knew, it could help the village—”

“I will speak to the others. If they agree, we will ask the most knowledgeable and skilled to teach a course in the area. For the book learning, I suppose the best candidate would be you.”

Tom rubbed his head, wincing in pain. “Probably.”

“You want my job, Tom?”

He laughed. “No. I do not. I believe I was a steward, perhaps. I know how things could be arranged, but not how to do them myself, as my bricklaying proved.”

“Steward or not, you have done, this village well,” Morrissey said as he headed to the door. Tom shrugged as he headed into the bedroom. He set the baby next to her on the bed. He wanted to speak to her, but his head was killing him. He went back into the kitchen. He took the dose and sighed.

Everything he knew, everything they knew, said that his memory should have come back by now, that his head should not be plagued by this kind of pain. Something should have changed, the treatments should be working, but they were not. He was the same.

“Did you mean that?”

He stopped and looked back at Christina. “You should not be out of bed.”

“I know. But since you are out here, I need to ask you here.”

He turned and guided her back into the bedroom. He made her sit, and he sat next to her. “I... I love you. Need you. I would rather stay here than ever go back to what I was because you... you are everything.”

“You are a ridiculous man, Tom,” she told him, shaking her head. “You—You do not really want this. You do not want to marry a woman of color. A sorceress.”

“I know what I'm doing,” he said, kissing her again. “I love you. Do you feel nothing?”

“It is because I feel something that I am trying to talk you into sense. You should not do this. I should not do it.”

“I love you. Whatever my life was before you, it nearly got me killed. I do not know why I would go back to that. Why would you want that?”

“I do not,” she said and pulled him onto the bed with her and the baby.

Another Story that Proves I Am... Insane...

2009-12-26T06:43:49Z

Heal the Whole
Chapter One
Word Count: 4,295
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I can't own anything. The pygmies and debt collectors own me.
Summary: There are remedies in nature for many ailments, more than most people imagine.
Spoilers: Um, none. This is very, very AU. :P
Author's Note: So... This is one of those things where I go... Where did this come from? Actually, I know. I do. This story came from watching The Mists of Avalon, which I must admit, I really only did for Michael Vartan because I have never cared for Arthurian legend, and playing a game called Dragon's Age, and an idea that using my knowledge, albeit it limited, of essential oils/natural remedies would make a good story. Not so sure that's what I achieved because it took a few... turns on me that I wasn't expecting...

Title comes from a saying used by an essential oil expert, "Heal the whole, not the part."

Civil Unrest

“What are the heralds saying?”

“Nothing so far, my lord,” Silas answered, bowing his head in reverence to the crown prince. Young William was the heir, and due all the respect of his father, but Silas had long served the family, and he could not help his favorites. Were it not determined by birth, Silas would choose, not the king's first son or even the second or third, but the fourth. It would surprise many, for young Thomas was not the fierce leader that his brother William was, or even a distinguished fighter as any of his other brothers had proven themselves to be. Battle did not make a king.

“You believe that he's still coming,” the prince said, looking out at the darkness. The torches did not extend far enough, just barely out below them, not far enough to see the much desired approach.

“You lack faith?” Silas asked, though it was dangerous to do so. William was the heir. His word was as much law as his father's.

“You have the advantage of hoping on others. I have to plan for the alternative. I have to be prepared to lead this country to war. This could be the last night of peace, the last night of freedom. Our enemies will not hold back if our alliance falls,” the prince went on, shaking his head. The king had six heirs, it should have made for a stable kingdom, but the land was in turmoil and chaos, and the unrest continued. The borders were besieged by threats from all surrounding lands. “I wish we had never had to send him. It is so hard on my father when he is abroad.”

“Your father worries over all his children.” Peace was held through fragile alliances, and the king's wives had a tendency to die young, in childbirth. King William had three sons and two daughters by his first wife, William, Robert, Charles, Elizabeth, and Mary. William was the head of all the armies, with Robert and Charles and two other brothers as generals below him. Elizabeth had married into one of the kingdoms on the border. Mary was allied to a local man, a marriage to ensure the loyalty and safety of the northern border. The only surviving child from William's second wife, a Frenchwoman, was the most valuable strategically, the one who held the fragile peace together.

“Not like him. It is no secret that my father's second wife was his favorite, or that her only child is his favorite as well. He is a good person, my brother, or I should hate him for taking what should be mine. I speak not only of the love of my father, but that of the people. Do you think I am unaware of how many would wish him the one to assume the throne when Father dies?” William smiled as he leaned against the railing.

“He would not wish it. It is not his way.”

“Of course he doesn't wish it,” William laughed at the words. “Thomas has no desire for prominence or power. He would willingly live in seclusion, were it an option, devote his life entirely to his studies. It is not possible. He is of royal blood, and he has a great number of responsibilities.”

“Indeed, my lord,” Silas agreed quietly. He had spent a good deal of time with Thomas in the scholarly pursuits that William and the others mocked, and he knew their value. If only he could be allowed to live free of his family and these responsibilities, if there was not a constant threat of war from France that only Thomas' intervention could abate.

“Wait, do you hear that?” William asked, leaning over the balcony. Silas looked out as well, as the heralds lifted banners and trumpets sounded. He had returned. Lord Thomas had returned. They watched as the horse and its rider approached them. “What news, Thomas?”

“Peace.”

****

Thomas adjusted the cloak around his neck and wished that all of this secrecy was unnecessary. He knew that his father's kingdom was in trouble, that his own life was in danger, and that these steps were necessary, but he hated it all the same. He hadn't been alone for many seasons, so long that he had begun to despise even his closest of friends and the knights assigned to be his protectors. He wanted nothing more than to return to the quiet life that he had before his brother had been killed.

Tom was not the only heir left, though his brothers were equally unsuited. Tom had not trained as his brothers did in the military arts. He was not defenseless, but his brothers led armies while he studied the healing arts. He had never been interested in fighting, not like his brothers. His father had appreciated his wisdom, called him his favorite adviser, but Tom was uncomfortable at court.

“My lord, you should not linger here. These words are dangerous.”

“Is there anywhere I am free to linger anymore, Silas?” Tom asked, looking at his close friend with amusement. “They tell me it is not safe to walk, not safe to ride. They would have assassins in every bush so that indeed I would almost rather they come for me than live this constant regimen of fear.”

“I am aware of my own value as a political asset, believe me,” Thomas said as they returned to the horses. “Robert has never let me forget that my father married my mother for her father's alliance, and that I am necessary for the maintenance of that alliance.”

“Your brother has never understood diplomacy except to scorn it,” Silas said, shaking his head. “You have always understood its delicate nature.”

“I am the fourth of the king's sons, a position that is, by its very nature problematic. My mother was foreign, again a problem. They said my mother was a spy, that I am,” Thomas shook his head. “I am well aware of diplomacy because I have always needed it.”

“You know that your brother was simply jealous,” Silas said as he mounted his horse. No sooner had he sat down than he was struck with an arrow and fell from the saddle. Thomas drew his sword as men surrounded him. He could hear the panic of the horses, more arrows struck trees and flesh, sounds of battle all around him. There were five men around him, and he knew that he was not the type of fighter who could defend himself against this kind of fight. He was aware of the men behind him as he parried one attack, throwing his weight into the man to make him fall into one of the others.

Another attack came from the right, and he dodged it. He continued to fight as more men joined the ones attacking him. Yet, none of them were really trying hard to injure him. He recognized this now. It was a tactic designed to weary him. They wanted to take him alive.

He found himself caught, and then there was another man. He came through the others and approached, grabbing Thomas' face. “Lord Thomas. Interesting. You were a much harder target than your brother. And he led an army.”

Though the man's face was covered with his hood, Thomas recognized the voice. He looked up at the other man with hatred and shock. “What do you think you will accomplish with this?”

“You will watch all of your men die, and then you will. That is all you need ever know.”

Christina walked through the woods, gathering the supplies he would need for the months to come. She paused to rub her back. The weight would only increase in the months to come. She knew that. She didn't really want to think about her child. It would cause her to remember her husband, and that she could not do. She wanted to join him sometimes, the pain of losing him was that strong.

It did not help what he'd left her to, a woman of her color skin in his country. She was an herbalist, a healer, but they all believed her to be a dark sorceress. Desdemona, she was, waiting for Othello to murder her. She had never betrayed Micheal, though her marriage had not been happy news for his family. His mother led the other women of influence to shun Christina, forcing Micheal to move them to quiet village, and even here they would not be accepted if she had not helped the village elder's son.

She approached the stream, ready to harvest some of the roots surrounding the bed of the creek. She had just bent to retrieve one when she heard it. A soft moan. A man's moan. She couldn't move any further. She knelt next to him. He was in terrible shape. He had been in some kind of fight, that was clear. He had lost. He was covered in blood, most of it from his head, side, and leg, to stop the bleeding and start the healing. He should have been dead from the wound in his side. It was deep, possibly infected already. She would have to treat for that, but she believed that she could save him. She sat the basket down, next to him. She pulled the apron from her waist. She dipped it in the creek and returned to him, cleaning the blood from his face, his hands, his side, and leg. The leg would heal, given time, especially since he knew since he knew enough about herbs to have shoved some hastily ground geranium in the wounds to stop the bleeding and used something to ward against infection as well.

She inspected the wounds after they were clean. She took some of the plants she'd gathered and mixed them together, lavender and tea tree, crumbling them into the open wounds. He could use something for the pain, but since he was insensible, it wasn't a priority. When he woke, she could give him something. She knew that he was going to need a long time to recover, and she could not carry him to the village herself.

“There. I have done what I can,” she told him, getting back to her feet. “I have to get someone to carry you back, but you should live. I'm sure that will please you since I know you fought hard to stay alive so far.”

He only moaned again, and she smiled as she headed to the village. She did not know anything about him, but she liked his persistence. She wanted him to live. He was strong, and she did not want to seen another man die. There had been too much death lately. Michael. So many men that she didn't. William, the crown prince, his brother Robert, and his brother Thomas, they had been slain, with all the men accompanying them. Lord Marcus and Lord Julian had also been attacked. The king had died, just yesterday.

It was too much. Too much death. It had to stop.

“You are a fine healer, Christina, but you know that we cannot permit this. He is not your husband. He cannot remain in your home,” Morrissey said, and she sighed. She looked back at her feverish charge and shook her head as she faced the town leader again.

“What do you expect me to do?” she demanded. “He needs constant care. I cannot allow him to die because of some—”

“The priest has decided there is one solution and that he will grant you absolution for your sin of the last few nights if you marry him,” Morrissey explained. Christina stared at him. She couldn't believe that he was actually considering this.

“What? He's been unconscious since I found him. We do not know his name. He could have a wife. Children. And I am still within your restriction of mourning. Micheal has only been dead for two months. I cannot—”

“They are not expecting this marriage to be more than a way to keep your dealings respectable. If he is already married, it will fall under the exceptions and be annulled. They merely want to pretend that they are being... strict but reasonable. It is for them, not you.”

“As I can see,” Christina agreed coldly. “Let them do as they must. I will not abandon this man to die because of their hypocritical judgments.”

“I expected you would say that. Congratulations,” Morrissey said, turning to leave. She shook her head as she shut the door behind him. She turned back to the cot and sat down next to her new husband. She took a wet cloth and ran it over his forehead.

“So, you know what? You have to wake up. They have gone and declared you my husband. I think you deserve to know a few things about me. I have... They call me a sorceress, but I just know enough to help people with herbs and plants. You know a bit about that, too, I think. I guess we've got that in common,” she said with a smile. He didn't stir, nor had he any of the times she'd spoken to him since he was brought here. “I had a husband. He died. I have a child coming. I don't expect you to care for either of us. I can handle myself, and I can care for my own. I am already caring for you, after all.

“Not that I expect you'll stay around for long,” she told him. “You're not the type that would, are you? You must have gotten separated from some lord's lands or army. Maybe you were even with Lord Thomas' men when he died, though I heard they all perished. It would be good to know someone survived that. Too much death...”

She laughed, shrugging. She did not want to think about that. Though she was already in the custom of speaking to her child, and she knew that neither of them could hear her. It was nice to have someone to talk to again. She rose to prepare a new dose of herbs, and he caught her arm.

“Helichrysum.”

His voice was weak, and his word almost baffling. She stopped. “Excuse me? You just woke up, and you want to argue about how I treat you?”

“Palamarosa,” he croaked out and added, “My head...”

“I bet it hurts,” she agreed. “You took a good knock to your head. Let me get something for the pain, and you better not even think about moving.”

She added a gesture of warning with her hand and moved to get the herbs. His hand fell back onto the bed, and he was quiet until she returned, using a paste on his forehead. She gave him a peppermint leaf. “Chew this, if you can.”

He accepted it, doing as he was told, though from the look on his face, he disagreed with her choice. Perhaps he felt the peppermint was not as strong as he needed. It should help with the pain regardless, and it had been many days since he had eaten. Better to start with something easy on the stomach. After a few moments, he asked. “Where am I?”

“They call this place Trinity,” she answered, explaining. “It is in the center of three towns... Richmond, Mansfield on the border, and the capital. It's pretty small village, far from most places, for all that it's in the middle of them.”

“I have not heard of Trinity,” he said quietly.

“I doubt you were not on your way here when this happened. No one comes here. If anyone has a choice, they live upon the lands that were Lord Thomas'. Not here,” she shook her head. “The south lands are practically unprotected and under constant threat. Do you remember how you got here?”

“I'd say by horse, but with the pain and exhaustion it's difficult to be sure,” he said, his hand on his forehead. “I couldn't... I don't... You said you were my wife?”

“Until you say you have one back where you're from,” she told him, sitting down and checking the wound on his side. She supposed that was what they considered unseemly—that he was bare above the blanket, but his treatment required that she see him. He had broken the bones inside his chest, he was badly bruised, and the wound was too raw to cover with more than a bandage. “Do you?”

“I... I do not know. There is a strange jumble inside my head. I... I know that my ribs require birch, but I do not know my name.”

“Just rest. Memories can get lost with blows to the head. Perhaps the next time you wake or even in a few minutes, you will know,” she said, rising again to find some birch. She did not understand how a healer came to suffer such violence.

He closed his eyes, whispering curses in a language that she did not recognize.

In the week since he had woken in the care of the enigmatic woman who called herself Christina, he had sought desperately to remember anything of himself and his past, but it remained stubbornly locked away, out of his reach. He had little else to do with his time, since his injuries and her insistence kept him still. It was hard to move with such pain, and she would lecture him if he tried. Since he could not walk, and she could not lift him if he fell, he halted his efforts there.

The bed was not comfortable, nor was he. He did not like to be abed all day, and this inability to remember did not improve his mood. If he had something, he would have thrown it. As it was, he was forced to lay still, miserable with nothing to occupy his mind but questions.

“I see you are grumpy again today,” she began as she came into the house. He looked at her. She smiled. “I think I may have something to brighten your day. I have found a way to get you out of that bed for a while.”

“I do not know my name. I do not remember anything before coming here, yet I know herbs and history, though as you have explained, I seem to have missed a month somehow, not knowing what happened to the royal family. I should know things that I do not, and even the prospect of leaving this confinement cannot change what I do not know.”

“No sense in feeling sorry for yourself,” she told him, rubbing her back. He had noticed her doing that a lot in the past few days. He frowned.

“You know that you should not be handling some of those herbs in your condition,” he told her, and she sighed, taking a seat next to him. “You are not going to tell me that you are not in a condition?”

“I am. You do not have to worry about it. This is not your responsibility.”

“It is mine if you get sick by handling those herbs. I know you want the child or you would have dealt with it sooner. Do not risk it on my account. I can prepare them myself,” he told her, and she nodded.

“I am not comfortable with others using my herbs.”

“I have training. You know that. Herbs I know even though I know nothing else. Pretty soon you will not be able to gather them yourself,” he reminded her. She made a face as he sat up in the bed.

“You say that like you think will be here by then. I doubt that. You will be walking soon, and you will leave as soon as you can. You will get your memory back. You do not have to remain,” she said as she brought him the mortar and pestle. He sat up and worked the mixture to the consistency that it needed. She watched with approval.

He looked at her. “I am not as confident as you in thinking that my memory will come back. I know of herbs and plants that aid memory, not restore it. I have nowhere to go until I can remember where I should be. I would not ask you to continue to lodge me or care for me in any way after I am able to do so myself.”

“You are my husband.”

“Because they would not permit you to treat me if they did not marry us. You have done more than enough already. I have seen my wounds, and I know that I should have died. I knew when they married us that you had already had me under your roof for a week. At any time, they could have executed you for such behavior, and I am not ungrateful for the risk you took on my behalf.”

“I have a bad roof and I need another room for my child. I do not suppose you have any skill in that regard?”

“If not, I will learn,” he agreed. It was the least he could do.

“What is this?” Christina asked, setting a bowl of soup next to her charge. He should not be out of the bed, but he was stubborn. He had dragged himself across the room somehow, the idiot, and he sat at the table, next to a preparation of birch and other herbs, most painkillers, working on a piece of paper. She frowned. “Are you an architect?”

“I am... some form of strategist, I believe,” he answered. “Though I have some education in the matter of architecture, I do not think I ever built anything. Still, I hope I would have done better than the current state of this house.”

She made a face. It wasn't the first time she'd gotten the feeling that he was accustomed to finer things and a better way of life. She was tired, though, and she took the empty seat next to her. “What do you mean?”

“Well, aside from the roof, the foundation is uneven. There are gaps in between the bricks, the stove improperly ventilated, and the layout is just... unsatisfactory. The kitchen is too small, the bedroom is the same,” he shrugged. “If it were up to me, I would rebuild it completely.”

She looked at the walls and shrugged. “You are my husband.”

“It would be at least two weeks before I could start,” he said. He pointed to the drawing. “What do you think? This would be the bedchamber, this the nursery. The kitchen is here, and the rest of this room would be as it is now.”

“I like it,” she answered. “Eat the soup.”

He took the bowl and took a bite absently, adjusting his drawing. She knew that he was trying to keep himself busy, keep his mind off of the pain and his missing memories. “I was thinking about our temporary arrangements. I still believe that you will regain your memory. But in the meantime, I would like to have a name to call you by.”

“I have been trying to remember my name, but I cannot. I do not know what it is,” he shook his head. “I suppose that I should have something to go by until I remember.”

“Anything sound familiar? Christopher? Micheal? Andrew? Alexander? Robert? Marcus? Lucas? Charles? William? Benjamin? Thomas? Phillip? Edward? Clarence—”

“Wait,” he frowned; his head was hurting him again. He set the soup spoon down and reached for the herbs. “There was... So many of them seemed familiar, but... William, no, not... Thomas. Thomas. I think maybe... That one is more familiar than the others, but I still can't be sure.”

“Tom,” she looked him over. She'd thought maybe he was one of Lord Thomas' men. It could be his name or the name of the lord he followed. “Suits you. I want tea. What about you?”

“Tea would be fine,” he said as he got up. He touched his head again. She made his tea with peppermint and gave it to him.

“Stop trying so hard,” she told him. “The memories will come in their own time.”

“I have to wonder if my head will ever stop hurting again,” he admitted. “There is another matter we should discuss.”

“Oh?”

“The sleeping arrangements. You are pregnant. You cannot continue sleeping on the floor. You should have the bed.”

She laughed. “And you, the wounded man, sleeps on the floor? Are you really suggesting that? You cannot sleep on the floor with broken ribs, with your leg like that. Absolutely not.”

He took a deep breath and hissed in pain. “I understand you are a widow and that our marriage is not a true marriage, but unless we obtain another bed, we should share.”

She looked at him. She did not know what to say. His argument for this was sound, and she did not know what held her back. He was injured. It would not be like that, and Micheal was dead. There was nothing to betray. Finally, she nodded. “Of course.”

And I Wrap it Up... Well... I Think, Anyway...

2009-12-23T23:15:50Z

New Chance, Old Dance
Chapter Ten
Word Count: 2,670
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I can't own anything. The pygmies and debt collectors own me.
Summary: Philadelphia is the past for some, the present for others. Not everyone can let it go.
Author's Note: Okay, at the end of Cold Case episodes, there's usually a music montage with the killer being arrested and scenes of the people involved in the case, doing a bit of then/now. This is not exactly something that I could duplicate in fic, but I gave the final scenes a bit of a 1998 soundtrack with Sarah McLachlan's Adia. And for non-Tony/Abby fans, you can kind of skip the last scene because everything else is wrapped up before it. :)

Cold Comfort

Adia, I do believe I failed you...Adia, I know I let you down....

“This is usually where you find one of us after we close a case,” Lilly observed as she tapped the box that DiNozzo sat staring at. Christensen, M. It now had the word “closed” on it, and the date. She felt a sense of satisfaction every time she saw the words on the side of a box. Closed didn't mean it was over, not for the family of the victim, their friends. She knew it was only a measure of closure, not all of it. It would still take years to heal.

“I didn't realize I was intruding. In my day, no one ever came down here,” he told her, and she smiled a little. He was right about that, and she was glad things had changed since she left the line. There were more boxes with closed on them now, more families had that measure of peace.

Don't you know I tried so hard to love you in my way...

“You don't have to go,” she told him before he left. She hadn't meant to disturb him.“Though... I'm sure there are people wondering where you are.”
“I'll go back to them in a few minutes,” he said, hunching his shoulders a little. “I need to be alone for a while.”

It's easy let it go...

“I don't know,” Lilly said, looking around at all the boxes. These were lives, each and every one of them. They weren't simple, and they didn't fade with time. “You're not really alone here.”

Adia, I'm empty since you left me, trying to find a way to carry on. I search myself and everyone to see where we went wrong...

He looked at her, shaking his head. He didn't feel the same way she did, and she knew she couldn't explain it, either. She started to leave, letting him have his time alone. She knew why he was down here. “It's not your fault, you know.”

'Cause there's no one left to finger; there's no one here to blame...

“Isn't it?” he asked, shaking his head. “Martie chose me instead of Jones, and he killed her for it. Then he found me, and he... I let him trap me instead of catching him ten years ago. And it worked for a while because he went to prison, but he got out, and he killed again just to get my attention. You want to tell me how that is not my fault?”

“You're not responsible for what Jones did. Whatever his motivations, he chose to kill, not you.”

DiNozzo shrugged. “I played my part. I let him get away with it out of fear.”

“You know, one thing I've learned working cold cases is that it's not too late for justice to be done. Sometimes, it comes at a price, but it's not too late. Ten years or ninety, when someone speaks for the victims, it still matters. Martie would be glad you came forward, and I think she'd be proud of the way you handled it,” Lilly told him. She reached over and touched his arm. “There are a couple of people who would like to meet you. Martie's mother and her best friend. They would like to know who you were, share their memories of her with you.”

“Sounds like penance,” DiNozzo muttered, shaking his head. He shrugged. “It's not like I can't say I owe them. Hell, I think they'd be easier to face than Ford's family. He was their hero, and he was a good kid, and he didn't deserve to die at the hands of some sicko who just needed someone in the navy. It didn't matter who it was, and how do you tell them that their son didn't matter? That he died because he was there?”

“He died because of the uniform he wore. That should make them proud.”
“You're saying, in a twisted way, he died for his country?”

“Kind of, yeah,” she agreed. “I don't know. Maybe that's the kind of comforting lie they need. Or maybe you tell them the truth. Tell them that their son's death helped solve another person's murder. It's cold comfort, but it's some.”

He shrugged again. There was a noise on the stairs, and Lilly looked back to see DiNozzo's friend Abby coming down them in her very impractical shoes. “Tony? You down here?”

“Back here, Abs,” he answered, touching Martie's box again. He closed his eyes, and Lilly figured he was trying to make peace with what had happened, with who he was now and how that had changed this. He didn't give the man he was now much credit, but he'd been changed by Martie's death. In a good way, Lilly suspected.
“There you are,” she said with a wide smile, and Lilly could see a bit of resemblance in it to the picture of Martie smiling. “Bert was worried about you.”

He looked at Abby with a genuine smile. “Just Bert?”

She shrugged. “Me, too.”

“You want to come do some penance with me? I guess I'd owe you two dinners at Cafe Atlantico,” he told her, and she shook her head.

“I don't need dinner at Cafe Atlantico to help you,” she said. She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Though... I will need to eat some time today.”

There's no one left to talk to, honey...

Abby smiled reassuringly at Tony as they walked up to the house. Detective Rush had given them the numbers for Martie's family and friend, and they had agreed to meet at Martie's parents' house to talk to Tony. He was relieved to have only one stop, but he was still nervous. She could tell. She'd done everything she could to make him feel better about this, but it wasn't enough. She knocked for him, knowing he would have stood there all night without going inside if she'd let him.

Mrs. Christensen opened the door with a wide smile and invited them in. She led them into the other room and invited them to sit. Tony did, starting to squirm as soon as he did. “I'm glad you called us. There's been a piece missing from my daughter's life for so long, and it's good to have the question answered at last.”

Tony pulled on his suit uncomfortably. “I really don't know what to say, Mrs. Christensen.”

“Anything. Everything,” Karen Wilkes said, and she laughed. “Sorry. I guess... We just don't much about what happened.”

And there ain't no one to buy our innocence 'cause we are born innocent...

Tony started to explain, gaining confidence as he did, absently stroking Abby's hand. He told them about being undercover, about the robbery that Karen and Martie had witnessed, and then about Martie, right up until he left her that night. He didn't tell them about Ford, but he was honest about how he didn't tell anyone his part in it, about how he'd felt that he had to stay silent, and that it was a mistake. Abby squeezed his hand, and he smiled at her. She was glad she was here to see him through it.

Mrs. Christensen and Karen smiled, they laughed, and they cried. This was good, Abby thought. It would help them, and it would help him, too. The last few days had been hard on him, but he was getting better. And she believed that they would get even better now that it was behind him. He wouldn't stop feeling guilty, not for a long time, if he ever did, but he would learn to cope with it, and she would be there for him.

Believe me, Adia, we are still innocent...

“She really loved those earrings,” Karen said after a moment. “She wore them everyday from the day they showed up. She was always playing with them, too.”

“I guess it's a good thing I got them,” Tony said, leaning over to play with Abby's earring for a second. “Abby figured out that there was DNA on the earring. It's how we caught him.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Christensen told her. “I can't tell you how much it means to me that he is behind bars again.”

“I was happy to help,” Abby told her with a smile.

“Abby's a forensic genius,” Tony said, playing with her pigtail now. “She's great. And she and Martie would have gotten along really well....”
It's easy, we all falter...

She could tell that Tony was pretty much at the end of his rope. He didn't know how to keep talking anymore, how to keep that smile on his face. Really, he didn't have to, but she knew that he wouldn't want to break down here. Not here, not in front of strangers. “Tony, I need to get back. We've got evidence from Ensign Ford's case to finish processing.”

“Right. Um...” Tony got up awkwardly and passed them his NCIS business card. “I'll try and stop by next time I'm in town.”

Abby smiled at him for making that effort, and she locked her arm in his as they headed out the door. When they were outside, she turned to him and kissed his cheek again. She knew that he didn't hear these words enough. “I am so proud of you, Tony.”

Adia, I thought that we could make it...

Tony walked into Abby's lab and looked around with a faint smile. Philadelphia was behind him. Again. That felt good. Better. He'd like to forget the last few days, but Jones' voice was finally fading. It didn't lurk in the back of his head the way it used to, and Martie's face didn't haunt him in the same way. He would never make up for what he did, but he was closer to it than he'd been in the past ten years. He had told the truth, had told it all, and that was something.

But I know I can't change the way you feel...

Abby came out of her office, and he stopped to stare at her. Oh, sure, he'd seen that dress before, it was his favorite, after all, and he knew she was beautiful, but she was something else tonight. Maybe he was different, or the light was or something. He didn't know.

“Wow, Abs, you look great,” he told her as she slowly turned in a circle. “Really great.”

“Thanks,” she said with a smile. He hadn't seen her put her hair up like that before, but he liked it. She came over to him and took his arm as they went to the elevator. “You know, I was thinking.”

“Am I in trouble?”

A friend who won't betray...

She shook her head. “No. You're not in trouble. I don't know why you always jump to that conclusion, but you're not in trouble, Tony. I wasn't thinking anything bad. I was just... curious. I've got a theory I'd like to go over with you.”
“Oh?”

“You said I was like Martie. So... I have to wonder. Is the reason that you never got close to me because you didn't want to repeat what happened to her?”
He shook his head. “Abby, you're not—We're close.”

“No,” she corrected. “I'm not talking about friends, because we are good friends. But as much as we've flirted and joked around and gone to dinner together, it's never been anything more. I know it's not because you're not attracted to me. I know you are. I have proof. But you never pushed for more than flirting and dinner. And that's not like you.”

“Sure it is,” he began, though he felt a bit lost. He usually lost arguments with Abby. This was no exception. “I don't take every woman I meet to bed.”

“Most of them you do. You try, at least, and you try a lot harder than you tried with me,” she told him. “And you wouldn't have had to work as hard with me, either.”

He gulped, really not sure what to say to her now. She was going to far. This was the boundary they never crossed. They talked a good game, both of them, but it was just a game. Well, not the friendship part, and he really liked that part. He needed Abby. But the rest... That was the line that shouldn't be crossed because of Gibbs, because it would ruin things...

I pull you from your tower; I take away your pain...

“So, I guess what I'd like to know is... Is it Martie? Were you afraid of losing me like you lost her, or is it just... me? Am I only good enough to be your friend and not something more? Because you and I could have gone to friends with benefits a long time ago, you know.”

He swallowed hard and wondered why they were still in the elevator. “I... Um...”

She pushed the stop button on the elevator, faced him, and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. Okay, she'd just thrown out all the boundaries, and that was... He didn't know what it was. He didn't know what to think. He took her hands down and held her back for a second. “Abby, I don't want friends with benefits from you.”

She looked at him, and he could see he'd hurt her. He had to explain, and quick. He couldn't—damn, he felt like a heel all over again. “You mean more to me than friends with benefits, Abs. I need you too much to screw this up.”

And show you all the beauty you possess if you'd only let yourself believe that we are born innocent...

She smiled at him and wrapped her arms around his neck again. “Who says you'll screw it up?”

“I usually do.”

“And when you think you've screwed up, who do you come to?”

“You.”

“So we're already used to solving problems together,” she said with a shrug. “Thing is, Tony, you and I... We might not make sense to a lot of people, and we're definitely different, but we work together well. We get each other, in ways that other people don't. We're friends, but we appreciate each other physically, too, and that means we have a better shot than most people do.”

“And you want to do this? With me?”

“I do.”

He considered for a very long moment. He knew this wasn't something he should just jump into, not after everything that had happened, and not with so much to lose. But what Abby said made sense, and she was right. She was usually right, and he was usually stupid not to listen to her. He smiled slowly.

“Raincheck on dinner, then?” he asked, and she laughed as he kissed her again.

Work in Progress

2009-12-23T06:15:06Z

People will notice that I've changed the header of my livejournal again. And the color scheme of the theme.

It's really not done yet, since it's hard to know the right balance of colors with all the various possibilities out there, and when I adjusted my header pic, it has more than one shade of blue-ish variety in it.

That aside, it's somewhat darker now, which is fine with me because it suits my mood.

I suppose if it's really hard for people to read, I can make adjustments... And I'm sure I'll play with colors some more now that I've figured it out...

So I Have Been Distracted...

2009-12-23T01:15:00Z

New Chance, Old Dance
Chapter Nine
Word Count: 2,241
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I can't own anything. The pygmies and debt collectors own me.
Summary: Philadelphia is the past for some, the present for others. Not everyone can let it go.
Author's Note: Short one, again... I figure this kind of wraps up a part of it, and the rest will be done tomorrow. :) Plus, ten chapters is nice and round. :P

Served Cold

“We want to talk to you about your boss,” Will began as they sat Ginley down in the other interview room. He'd come willingly enough, but he hadn't said much so far. Jones' money wouldn't buy silence if it meant being an accessory to murder.

“I don't have a boss,” Ginley insisted proudly, folding his arms over his chest. “I work for myself. My own company, my own business, and it does very well, thank you.”

“Your client, then,” Miller corrected quickly, rolling her eyes. She put a picture of Jones on the table. “This man. And don't try to tell us that he's not your client. His business makes your successful business possible. Tell us what you do for Mr. Jones, and we might not lock you up as an accessory to murder.”

“Murder?” Ginley shook his head immediately. “I'm not—I never had anything to do with a murder. I swear. That guy, he paid me to watch someone, dig up dirt. Said his wife was sleeping with this guy. Never saw any proof of that or of the wife, for that matter, but the money was good. All I did was keep an eye on the guy, I swear. Never touched him, never hurt anyone. I don't know anything about a murder.”

“Tell us about Jones." Jefferies asked, calming the man back down. Ginley was a glorified peeping tom, working for ambulance chasers and divorce lawyers. “According to the records, he started paying you on May third, ninety-eight. Was that the first time you saw him?”

“May third. Sounds about right. He came into my office, woke me up. I'd been out the night before, tailing a husband for his wife. Didn't find a damn thing, and I was in a pretty bad mood...”

“I need to know whose number this is,” the kid said, setting a ticket down on the desk. Abe rubbed his aching head and sighed. Yet another tail job that would keep him up until all hours and pay nothing.

“Go look it up on the internet, kid. Save yourself the trouble.”

“I don't just want to know the name. I want to know who he is,” the kid insisted. He looked strung out, high or something. Abe didn't know what to make of him, but he'd be a fool to take his money. Something was off about this one. He opened his jacket, and Abe thought he saw stains on the shirt that didn't match the rest of the clothes. Kid was half-preppy, half-junkie. He put three hundred dollars on the table. “This should be enough for a retainer. You'll get the rest direct deposited from my bank. Now, I want to know everything. All the details. Where he grew up, where he went to school, what he does. Everything.”

Abe looked at the money, listening to his stomach growl. He took the three hundred dollars. “Sure, kid. You got yourself a deal.”

“You still have that ticket?” Miller asked, and Ginley nodded.

“Kept it in my files. Number came out to an Anthony DiNozzo. I was pretty surprised to find out the kid wanted to know about a cop. Of course, it didn't take me long to figure out that the guy was undercover. I wondered if it had anything to do with that, but the guy wanted me to keep digging. Not everything I found was good.”

“You have the file on DiNozzo?”

“When you said it was about Harry Jones, I grabbed it. Look, the guy's not dirty, if that's why you're asking me. I was talking about his childhood. You don't want to know why he got disinherited at twelve,” Ginley said. He passed the file to Will, who took it and opened it, flipping through the mess of receipts until he found the ticket that was in amongst the others. Miller collected it in an evidence bag. Ginley watched her and shook his head. “What's going on?”

“Jones is a suspect in the murder of a girl on May second. This ticket was one she wrote on the night she died,” Will explained, shaking his head. “You continued to watch DiNozzo... For ten years?”

“The money was good,” Ginley said defensively. “Look, I didn't do anything to DiNozzo, and I didn't tell Jones everything I found. I never knew it had anything to do with a murder.”

“Not even when your client went to prison for manslaughter?”

“The bank paid me, and the money was never late,” Ginley said with a shrug.

“DiNozzo moved from Philadelphia, and yet you continued to follow him?”

“For what the kid was paying me, a couple of trips to Baltimore or DC weren't unreasonable. Plus, I got to get out of the city every now and then. Not a bad gig, and DiNozzo made it fun, actually. He always had something interesting going on, if it wasn't a girl, then it was a case,” Ginley shrugged again. Will shook his head, exchanging a look with Miller. If anything had happened to Abby, they'd be locking Ginley up as an accessory. “Haven't I cooperated? I didn't have anything to do with any murder. I've got a couple of lousy rolls of film from May second somewhere if you need them.”

“We need a full statement from you,” Miller told him. “Everything you did for Jones. In writing. And we want that first meeting in detail.”

“You screwed up,” DiNozzo said as he walked into the interview room again. Gibbs followed him, knowing that if DiNozzo played it right, Jones would not clam up as he had in the past. He shouldn't trust DiNozzo with this, not after he kept the threat against Abby a secret, not after he kept his involvement with Martie Christensen secret for ten years. He didn't have much choice. DiNozzo was the man's focus. He was the only one that was going to get through.

“Excuse me?” Jones asked as Gibbs took up a position in the corner of the room, watching silently.

“I said, you screwed up,” DiNozzo repeated, setting a file on the table. “Not that anyone should be that surprised by it, not really. Usually anyone with as much hot air as you is more full of it than they'll let themselves admit. You think you didn't slip up, thought you had me right where you wanted me, but you didn't.”

“And now you're repeating yourself,” Jones shook his head. Gibbs looked at DiNozzo. He was losing the edge he had before.
“Well, some people are so thick it bears repeating. Or a good smack to the head,” Tony said with a grin, and Gibbs knew that was directed to him as well. Get to the point, DiNozzo. The act wasn't going to get anywhere with Jones. “Thing is, your little trap, the one that was working so well... It's fallen apart, and it's come back to trap you.”

Jones looked at him disdainfully, not believing DiNozzo's words. Tony smiled. “Thing is, secrets are only powerful when you keep them. That's what makes blackmail effective. And my so-called weaknesses, the friends that you think so little of, you don't understand their true value. They're more than friends. We're a family over at NCIS. McGee's the chubby little brother, Ducky's the friendly grandfather, Ziva's the sexy step-sister, Abby's the glue that holds us all together, and Gibbs...”

Gibbs looked over at Tony, and DiNozzo shook his head. “Well, I'd rather not have Gibbs mad at me, so we'll move on. Thing is, these people trust me. And yeah, they're a little pissed—a lot pissed—in some cases, that I didn't tell them about this, but eventually, they'll forgive me. But they don't think I had anything to do with Martie's death. They still think that was you. In fact, now we can prove it was you.”

“Really? By your stunning eyewitness testimony? You know there are so many ways around that. Look at your character, Tony,” Jones goaded. DiNozzo ignored him.

He opened the file and took out the ticket, setting it in front of Jones. “You recognize that, don't you? You took that from Martie the night she died. And we know that because I watched her write down that number. Not only that, but your money doesn't buy silence. Your private investigator talked. He gave us that ticket and told us about the stains on your shirt when you went to see him. Dark stains, could have been blood. Martie's blood. You were wired, like you were high, and then you wanted to know about that number. A number Martie got hours before she died. We're going to tie you to her murder.”

“Circumstantial evidence,” Jones said. “My lawyer will have fun destroying your pathetic case.”

“Oh, I saved the best part for last. Before we get to that though, why don't we talk about where you were on March fourth?”

“March fourth?” Jones frowned. “Why are you asking me about March fourth? Martie died in May.”

“I'm not asking about Martie. I want to know where you were only a couple of days ago. Did you forget? Convenient, but I have to say, it doesn't look good for you.”

Gibbs watched as Jones frowned. He looked down at the folder that was still open on DiNozzo's side of the table and tried to get a peek at it. Tony moved it out of his view. Jones wasn't used to being out of control of the situation. It was starting to get to him. “I think we can make a valid case against you for the death of Evan Ford.”

“I have no idea who that is.”

“I'm sure you don't,” Tony agreed, and Gibbs watched the other man shake his head. He knew what his gut was telling him, and that was that DiNozzo was on the mark. Evan Ford, a young man with a good career and a full life ahead of him was dead because of Jones' twisted obsession with DiNozzo. “But you didn't need to know who he was. You didn't care. All you needed was a crime that would get the attention of NCIS' major case squad. My attention. You got lucky because we came out on the first one, but I have no doubt that you would have kept killing sailors and marines until we came up here.”

“You really think you matter that much to me, Tony?”

“I'll tell you what I think,” Gibbs interrupted, moving from the corner over to the table. “I think you couldn't handle being thrown over by a woman, and you had to know what made the other man better than you. And when you looked into DiNozzo's background, saw how similar you two were, you couldn't accept it. DiNozzo wasn't the better man. You had to know why, so you came back, but meeting DiNozzo didn't answer your question. Nothing has. And nothing will.”

Jones made a face, pouting like a child. “I'm not talking to you.”

“You don't have to,” Gibbs said. “They've got your DNA on the earring Martie Christensen was wearing the night she died. You can tell them what happened, and you better hope they offer you a deal, because you won't get one from me.”

Martie left the concert early, before it was over. She wasn't really in the mood anymore. She was glad that he'd given her his number, but it wasn't the evening she'd hoped for. It was still special, but... She shook her head. It was supposed to be romantic, being in love with an undercover operative. She supposed that she was making too much of it. He was just a cop doing his job.

“Where's your boyfriend?” Harry demanded, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her away from the doors. He'd been waiting for her. She didn't understand.

“I don't have a boyfriend,” she said angrily, trying to get her arm free. “I don't know what you want, but you're not getting anything from me.”

“You don't get to leave me, Martie, that's not the way it works,” Harry insisted, tightening his grip on her arm. She yelped in pain and kicked him in the shin, jerking herself free, and running away from him. She ditched her heels as she kept running. She shouldn't have left early. If she'd waited for the others, she wouldn't be alone. He wouldn't have been able to do this to her.

He grabbed her hair, jerking her back, ripping the earring from her ear. “He gave you these, didn't he?”

She felt tears stream down her face as he started hitting her, over and over and over...

So I Finally Get a Bit Organized...

2009-12-22T06:35:18Z

And it took a while, and it was kind of mind-numbing, but after finishing my chapter for the round robin on mary_marshall and updating New Chance, Old Dance here on my lj, on tony_abby and ff.net, I sat down and actually put vid links up on the_twistedfork . I didn't put any of the Hawthorne or In Plain Sight ones there yet because I don't want to have to fix the links when I redo the vids with DVD clips.

I realized I have some completed fic not on spoon_migration , but that will have to wait until tomorrow. I've been considering taking down fickle_pygmies as I never update it. I noticed a couple of my Tony/Abby vids are not posted, but I have no artwork for them yet, and I'm too tired to be artistic, so I'll deal with that tomorrow. I made a piece of artwork earlier, cover art for a story I haven't named...

Also, I think I'll try to work on Dark Days of Apollo and Breaking the Curse this week. DDA has one whole line and a title for its next chapter, so that's good. Breaking the Curse I think I finally settled my debate on using Resurrection or not, so I'll sit down with that. If I could come up with a title for the one story, I could start posting one for Hawthorne again.

I think I'm in a crossover mood. After New Chance, Old Dance is done, I think I will investigate the NCIS/IPS crossover I started a while back and I'm going to go over the NCIS/Hawthorne one, too... Maybe there's something salvageable in them. *shrugs*

As for my grandmother, I'm trying to be cautiously optimistic after my freakout the other day. I mean, my uncle scared the crap out of me, and I suppose that's because she was so sick she scared him, but they say she's off life support and responding to meds, or that was the last I heard....

More... Because I Seem to Be Writing A Lot...

2009-12-22T00:51:34Z

New Chance, Old Dance
Chapter Eight
Word Count: 3,639
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I can't own anything. The pygmies and debt collectors own me.
Summary: Philadelphia is the past for some, the present for others. Not everyone can let it go.
Author's Note: Secret's out... ;) And now for some more twisted logic...

Cold Truths

He shouldn't be here. But she'd been so stupid that he had to come. He didn't want to. Maybe he did. This one was different. It wasn't just the way she kept pursuing him, or that she'd figured it out, or that she even that pretty. She was pretty, but not so pretty as to make her something different. She just... knew him, that was all. And he didn't like how well she knew him, but he did, and the damn girl had his head up and down, and he had to get her out of it. Nine times out of ten, as soon as he slept with a girl, she wasn't the same to him, and he had to admit he enjoyed the pursuit more than everything that came after sex. The idea of a house and kids and that crap wasn't him.

He flipped the credit card over in his fingers. She hadn't actually canceled it, stupid girl. She'd let him and his buddies charge up a four hundred dollar bar tab and never called the fraud people. He really didn't know what to think about that.

He stood outside the room, looking in the window until he spotted her, holding up the credit card when she looked up. Her eyes widened, and she got flustered. He shrugged, turning away from the window and waiting. She would be here in a second.

“I can't believe it,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

He looked at her, reaching up to touch the new bangle in her hair. “Nice earrings.”

“They were a gift,” she smiled up at him, and he shook his head. “Thank you.”

“You sent them to yourself,” he said, dismissing it as nothing. “You should have canceled the card.”

“Why? I wanted you to give it back to me,” she told him, and he rolled his eyes as he pulled her away from the room and down the hall. “Admit it, if this was just nothing between us, you wouldn't be here now.”

“You don't know me,” he said, shaking his head. She didn't, after all. She'd seen enough of something to know that he was an undercover cop, but she didn't know him, not really. Whatever either of them thought, they weren't meant to be or anything. “You don't even know my name.”

“So tell me already.”

“Can't.”

“You'd have to kill me?” she teased, and he laughed.

“Not exactly. More like we'd both end up killed,” he answered, and they both knew that wasn't a lie. “You have the card back. I'm going to go.”

“The earrings weren't the only thing you put on my card. Or were those tickets someone else's work?”

“Tickets?” Tony frowned, and then he remembered the other thing he'd done to check and see if she'd canceled the card. Tickets. “Oh, right. That. It was kind of a joke. Thought maybe, if it was over by now, we could have gone. But it isn't over. So enjoy them. Or find a scalper who will buy them.”

“Or you could still go with me,” she suggested with a smile. She shrugged. “Even construction workers go out now and again. Especially if the girl's paying, right?”

Damn. It really would be too easy to get used to this one. Only he couldn't, because he was undercover and she was all kinds of wrong, no matter what she thought. He was really damn close to the bust, and he shouldn't mess it up over her. But he wanted to.

“Pick me up at seven,” she told him, giving him a quick kiss and running down the hall. He sighed. He shouldn't do this, but he had a bad feeling that he knew where he'd be at seven tonight.

“You're back.”

“Thank you for stating the obvious,” DiNozzo muttered as he slumped into a chair, the goth girl hovering nearby. He had the hippo again, and everyone would be teasing him about the stuffed animal if circumstances were different.

“I meant that I didn't really think you were coming back after the way you left,” Scotty corrected, and DiNozzo shrugged. He must have considered leaving. Had the goth one talked him into staying, or was it something else? The man looked exhausted, and he could probably curl up with that hippo and fall asleep. “Vera's in there now. Not getting much out of him.”

“Apparently, that's the way Jones works,” DiNozzo said, closing his eyes.

“DiNozzo,” Gibbs said, and the man jumped up in his chair with a curse. Scotty wanted to laugh, but he actually felt a bit sorry for the guy. Jones was a real headcase, and DiNozzo's unwillingness to work with him was really not a surprise. “You have something to tell us?”

DiNozzo sat back down, his friend Abby rubbing his shoulders to relax him. She leaned down to whisper something in his ear, and he laughed a little as he shook his head. “I was undercover in ninety-eight. I was really close to a big drug bust when I walked into the wrong five and dime that was about to get robbed. I couldn't call it in, couldn't stop it as a cop, especially since I knew this guy was one of my dealer's customers. He was high, had no idea what he was doing. I was just going to get some Pringles and call it a night.”

“Pringles?” Lilly asked, looking over at Miller. “Wait, you—”

“I ended up stealing the gun after I knocked him out,” DiNozzo finished. His boss gave him a look, and he flinched like he'd been smacked. “By the logic of my cover, I could take it and sell it for money for drugs, which is what I claimed I did. In reality, I turned it over to the cops and got it off the street. I think it was used in another robbery or something. I don't remember. I wasn't paying much attention at the time. A few weeks later, I ran into the girl I'd flirted with over Pringles. Didn't realize it was her at first. All I could think about was that she was going to blow my cover. She almost did, showing up at the construction site days in a row. She was smart, had me figured out, knew I was undercover, and I liked her a lot more than I should. I told her I'd talk to her when my assignment was over and stole her credit card to keep my cover.”

“You knew Martie Christensen?” Lilly asked, shaking her head. “Why didn't you—”

“I told you. I was undercover. I made the mistake of going out with her once, and I never heard from her again. I figured she got it out of her system, whatever made her want to see me, because she never called the number I gave her. I didn't know she was dead until a year later when Vera shoved a file in my face and told me to read while he grabbed the suspect,” DiNozzo answered, shaking his head. “By the time I realized who Martie was and that I was one of the last people to see her, I was across from Jones, and it didn't take long for him to claim that we were twins, brothers, all that crap. I was screwed. I couldn't admit to being there without everyone thinking I was working with him or that I killed her. I didn't. I liked her.”

He looked up at Abby. “She was like you, Abs. A sweetheart, but she had a backbone of steel when she wanted something, just like you.”

Scotty looked at the couple, and despite the physical differences between Abby and Martie, he could see what DiNozzo meant, after the interviews they'd done. And with that connection in mind, he understood. Abby was no random target. Jones had chosen her, not Ziva, for a very specific reason. She was like Martie. She wasn't just convenient. She was special. He was starting to think that there was more to this than they knew. Not just that DiNozzo was the mystery man they'd been looking for. He nudged Lilly, and she frowned at him.

“Vera said it was like Jones had a copy of DiNozzo's file, right? What if he did?”

“What are you getting at?”

“DiNozzo is the guy Martie threw Jones over for, right? And we don't know why Jones came back when he didn't have to, but think about it. Jones has some private investigator on his payroll, we know that much. So, what if he had one back then, one that found out who DiNozzo was. He got DiNozzo's background, and he came back to face the guy he lost her to,” Scotty began. “Remember, they supposedly have a lot in common. Had to make Jones wonder why DiNozzo and not him, right?”

“Yeah, but is that really why he came back? To get a look at the guy who supposedly won the girl?” Lilly asked, shaking her head. “It's a bit thin.”

“The guy's messed, Lil. We think he killed a girl who dumped him, right? He might have killed his mother. That means the guy isn't stable to begin with. Maybe after he killed her, he started to obsess over who it was, maybe he had to know before he killed her. And that led him to DiNozzo, and he's definitely obsessed with DiNozzo.”

She nodded, looking over at the NCIS agent holding the stuffed hippo. “We need to know what happened that night.”

Tony looked at the horn, tempted to honk it. She'd said seven; he was here. He had a car, clean clothes, and he'd taken the time to shave. He looked a lot better than he had for most of the last few months. He wasn't sure why he'd bothered. The girl had already seen him at his worst, and she still wanted to go out with him. This was a bad idea, though, and he knew it. He could blow the bust on a girl. Great.

He looked up as she rushed out the door and to the car. She opened the door and leaned inside before sitting down. “I'm sorry. I almost forgot my purse.”

He just looked at her, putting the car into gear. What did she really need a purse for? The tickets were paid for, and he had cash for refreshments, if they wanted them. Her purse would probably end up stolen. She'd really dressed up for a concert. Damn, this must mean a lot to her. She sighed and looked out the window.

“I'm glad you asked me to come tonight,” Martie told him, and he frowned at her. He hadn't really asked. He'd bought the tickets on her card, but that wasn't really an invitation. “I know that you weren't going to go at all, and you really didn't have to go for my sake.”

He reached over and took her hand, running his fingers over it. He really liked her, more than he should. She smiled at him, another one of her dangerous ones. He wanted to forget about this concert and take her back to his place. He couldn't do that. Going in public with her was bad enough, but he knew his place was being watched.

“Are you okay?” Martie asked as he stopped the car in the parking lot, shutting off the engine, and he tried to smile for her benefit.

“It's not that I don't want to do this, because I do. Don't get me wrong, Martie. I like you. But I shouldn't be here.”

“You're worried about your case, right?”

“Yeah. I could be blowing it right now. It wouldn't matter so much if it was just me I was screwing up. I've done that forever. But these people sell to kids, and my neighbor sells herself so she can buy. I can't let that go on if I can stop it,” he said, wondering just when he'd become this person. He hadn't joined the police for a big bust or to be a hero. He'd joined for the badge and the gun, and he didn't know why he actually wanted to do this job.

She leaned over and kissed him. He kissed her back, his hand going to the back of her head, and he really would have taken her home right then and there if she hadn't pulled back. “I understand. If you can't stay, you can't stay. You will call me when you're out, right? I mean, you said it wouldn't last much longer.”

He nodded. “It shouldn't. We're really close. Closer than anyone thought we'd be.”

He dug in his pocket for paper and couldn't find any. She reached into her purse and dug out the ticket. Flipping it over, she waited on the blank side, and he gave her his real number, the one for Tony DiNozzo. She smiled at him again, running her hand over the number. “This is the real you.”

“I don't know what the real me is anymore,” he admitted, and she shook her head. She kissed him again. He wasn't sure what she saw in him, but he liked that she seemed to believe in him when no one else did. That was worth more than he wanted to think about.

She gave him another smile. “I'll call you.”

He watched her get out of the car, hating himself for letting her go about as much as he was convinced that he couldn't stay. Let her enjoy the concert. Then when all of this was over, he could find her again, if she still wanted him to.

“Martie was alive when I saw her last. I didn't do anything to her, I swear. She went to the concert without me,” DiNozzo finished. “I don't know what happened to her. I didn't even know she was dead. When she didn't call, I figured she changed her mind. I wasn't... I let her go.”

“But you gave her your phone number. She wrote it on the back of the ticket,” Valens said, reaching for the evidence log. “Her purse was found by her body, and there was only one ticket stub inside it. No writing on the back.”

“So she threw it away,” DiNozzo muttered in irritation. “What does it matter?”

“Actually, if Scotty's theory is right, that could be how Jones knew it was you that Martie was with. And if that is how he knew... Then we might have something to tie him to Martie's death,” Lilly explained. “If he used a number that she got the night she died to track you down, then he had to have seen her after the time he claimed. He found her after that concert.”

“You really think he'll admit to it, even if he did?” DiNozzo asked doubtfully, shaking his head. Abby squeezed his shoulder, and patted her hand absently.

“We've got financial records, Tony,” McGee reminded him. He pulled a list up on his computer. “There are regular payments to a Abe Ginley on Jones' statements. I cross checked the name with a list of private investigators, and Ginley is licensed in the state of Pennsylvania. We might be able to get him to tell us if Jones gave him that number to track down.”

“Miller, Jefferies,” Stillman ordered. “Go find Ginley, get him in here.”

“On it, Boss,” Miller agreed as she grabbed her coat. Jefferies went with her, slower, but still hurrying. McGee watched them go with a frown, but they didn't have the jurisdiction in this case. They all wanted this case wrapped up fast, but it was going to take a lot to get a confession from Jones, if that was even possible, and they needed more evidence for their case if they were going to do this without it. DiNozzo was still their best chance of getting a confession, but it was going to be hard. And he would need everything they could give him.

Vera came out of the interview room cursing loudly. Stillman's look stopped him from grabbing his trashcan again, but he spent a few minutes calling Jones every name imaginable before he calmed down. DiNozzo looked over at him and passed him the hippo. “Give it a squeeze. It helps.”

Vera frowned, but he squeezed the hippo anyway. As it made another loud noise, he shook his head. “I swear, Tony, only you.”

“That belongs to Abby, actually,” Tony said. “She just shares it with me because she loves me.”

“Well, you should have seen him after he got back from having the plague. He looked terrible,” Abby said, shrugging. "He was supposed to be resting, so I gave him Bert as a pillow.”

“You got the plague?”

“Long story. Very long. Not really relevant to the current conversation,” DiNozzo said immediately. “Did Jones tell you anything?”

“Nope. Just sat there and smiled at me. Bastard.”

“Miller and Jefferies are going to pull in the private investigator Jones used, see if we can connect him to Martie that night through the investigation Jones had him do. Jones may have gotten a number from Martie that night that he could only have gotten if he saw her after the concert,” Lilly told Vera. He didn't know what DiNozzo had told the rest of them, and he probably wouldn't react too well, either.

“Wait, you found the mystery guy?” Vera asked, frowning. “Where is he?”

DiNozzo held up a hand. “I was undercover when I met her, and she was alive when I left her. I didn't have much of a chance to explain things before Jones decided I was his... partner, and after he said that, I couldn't say anything. IA would have hauled me in, and I couldn't prove I didn't kill her. I left her at the concert, and I went home, but it wasn't the kind of place where anyone noticed. I had a few drinks and passed out and didn't even know she was dead until you gave me her file.”

“Damn it, DiNozzo—”

“You can't tell me you'd really do anything different, Vera,” DiNozzo said. “I was screwed from the moment Jones walked into that room. You think anyone would really have believed that I didn't have anything to do with Martie's death after he knew all that about me? After he kept acting like we were pals, buddies, twins? I was stuck. I knew it, and he knew it. And then he kept writing me letters, and the hole I was in just kept getting deeper and deeper.”

“You should have said something,” Vera said, shaking his head.

“I didn't tell Gibbs, and he scares me more,” DiNozzo said with a shrug. Gibbs gave him a look, and he slumped down in his chair again.

“I'm thinking that Jones knew who DiNozzo was all along,” Scotty told Vera. “Our boy here gave the girl his phone number, the real one, before she died. If Jones is our doer, he would have found it on her. It was on the back of a ticket that wasn't found on her body. Jones may have waited that year to learn what he needed about DiNozzo before he came back to Philly. It might have started out as a need to know who Martie threw him over for, but it's become more twisted over the years. The letters, the threat against a woman who is like Martie...”

“Oh, shit,” DiNozzo said. He looked over at McGee. “You said... I mean... You—the ensign, he was in three different places, right? And we thought he never left the ship. But if he knew about Abby, knew about NCIS...”

“You're saying the credit activity was a misdirect?” McGee asked with a frown.

“Or maybe someone stole his wallet off his body,” DiNozzo said. “Ford didn't know anyone in Philly, remember? His shipmates all said he had never left home until he joined the Navy, and they were in port less than an hour. That's why we were thinking someone from the ship, but maybe all the killer needed was the uniform.”

“You think Jones killed Ensign Ford to get our attention,” Ziva said, and DiNozzo nodded unhappily.

Gibbs looked at the door to the interview room. “Either way, he's going to regret it.”

Feels Early to Be Posting...

2009-12-21T01:29:47Z

New Chance, Old Dance
Chapter Seven
Word Count: 3,585
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I can't own anything. The pygmies and debt collectors own me.
Summary: Philadelphia is the past for some, the present for others. Not everyone can let it go.
Author's Note: So I wrote a good portion of this chapter, realized it wasn't in the right spot, and had to go move things around. It should still make sense... One hopes.

Man Overboard

There were a lot of things Tony didn't miss while being undercover. Actually, being undercover was great. He was someone else, and a lot of the things that irritated his coworkers worked very well in the field. The cocky former athlete part of him really worked out here. Everyone was down on their luck, and being a bit bitter about losing a pro career helped. It would have been Tony's ticket out. He would have been big time, rolling in the bucks. Now he was down here doing manual labor, and he was pissed about it. Or so the story went.

The one thing he didn't like about being undercover was the effect it had on his social life. He'd been the unofficial king of the badge bunnies back in Peoria. He was busy every night of the week, and he didn't even have to make the calls. They came to him. He was fine with that. Who wouldn't be?

But undercover, as a part-time construction worker, mostly drunk or high or looking to score loser, he didn't get the same kind of attention. It took a certain kind of girl to want a guy like him, and they were usually high or wasted themselves. He might have been many things, but he didn't take advantage of women like that. He took them home, and he put them to bed. They didn't call, but he felt a little better for doing it, letting them get one night of sleep instead of being used by whoever would take them.

He had been lucky, though. He knew there were guys who didn't get a chance at this kind of thing, and there were others that cracked under the pressure. There were others who stayed undercover for years and nothing ever came of it. He'd only been under a few months, and he was not only in, he was on the verge of a big bust, the kind of bust that made a career. It wasn't the career he cared about so much—if he did, he'd stop mouthing off to the lieutenant, but the bust might mean a medal, and it would definitely mean a better shot than where he was now. Tony had been in crappy apartments before, but none quite as bad as this. He knew he might be able to swing a transfer over to homicide. Supposedly, that was where everyone wanted to be. Maybe they were right about it, maybe not. He just knew that he could get there if he pulled this off.

Lucky, yes. Annoyed, too. Sick of rats and whatever else was in his apartment, being unable to sleep without the crack addict next door paying off the drug the only way she could, of being unable to go where he wanted when he wanted, he wanted out. It didn't take long for undercover work to get old. The job itself wasn't bad, but the other stuff was. It was kind of nice to have an excuse to go into some place in a nicer neighborhood for a change, to flirt with a girl who wasn't about to pass out from whatever she was on.

The convenience store was right next to the building project, but he'd tried not to use it too much. He didn't want to get involved in a mom-and-pop place. He'd get recognized, not as a cop because he never came here as one, but if he got into a habit like that at a place where people had nothing better to do than chit-chat, he would get in trouble. And he couldn't go to the one on his way home. He'd messed that one up.

He was just going to be a few minutes. In and out. He would grab something to eat and head back out. Back to the job site, back to another half-assed day that never seemed to end. He never wanted to work construction again.

“Some lunch,” a woman said from behind him, and he looked down at the chips in his hand with a shrug. “You ever think of eating healthy?”

“Don't have the money or the time,” Tony answered, looking her over. She was cute. Familiar, too. He couldn't exactly place her, but if she knew him from Philadelphia, before the undercover assignment, he was screwed.

“You don't recognize me, do you?” she asked, following him to the counter.

“I don't. If you're going to claim I knocked you up, you'll need more than this,” he told her gruffly, paying for his food and headed out the door. He shoved the door open and let it fall back. Sometimes he held the door open for girls, because he knew they liked that, but he didn't want to impress this one. He needed her gone, quickly, before his dealer showed up and the case got screwed.

“You didn't knock me up,” she called after him, and he turned around.

“Then what do you want, lady? I only got a few minutes left of lunch.”

“To thank you,” she said with a smile that was truly killer. She didn't know just how dangerous it was. She was beautiful, but it was the kind of beautiful that she didn't even notice. That kind was the worst, really. If they used their beauty, it was one thing, but she didn't. The image she had, half-innocent, but smart, too, he could tell that she was smart, and she was a combination that was irresistible. She was his type of poison. He liked to say he didn't like them smart, but there was something about a smart, pretty girl that did him in. Especially if they liked him when they had every reason not to.

“I didn't do anything,” he insisted, heading for the construction site.

“Turn on the recorder.”

“I'm not so sure we want to hear this.”

“Trust me, the DiNozzo method isn't pretty.”

“It's effective.”

“Enough. By the book, people,” Stillman's voice rang out over the others. “The monitors go on. Now.”

Lily watched as Vera hit the controls, turning on the audio and visual equipment for the other room. The observation room was more crowded than usual, with the team from NCIS here as well as the homicide detectives, and no one was giving an inch. DiNozzo was NCIS, but he had been PPD, and that made it difficult. He was the one who had to do this, but he wasn't a part of the department anymore, and his new friends were extremely protective. The former marine and the goth one especially seemed to be worried about him.

She wasn't sure, though, if Jones was the one who had done it. His obsession with DiNozzo was one thing, but it didn't necessarily mean that he was Martie's killer. She had been concerned by the mystery man since they opened the case, and she wanted to know who he was and if he had anything to do with Martie's death. She wouldn't be satisfied until she knew who he was and what he'd done that night.

“...It's a waste. You working for the government. For the so-called good guys. You can't possibly be so naïve, can you?”

“I joined for the badge and the gun,” DiNozzo said. “Things that get women. You should have seen the way they fell over themselves for the uniform. Badge bunnies. Almost made the whole thing worth it.”

Lily made a face, and so did Kat and the woman from NCIS, Ziva. McGee made a noise of disgust as well, but when she looked at Gibbs, she just saw tension.

“Badge and gun. Not much of a higher calling, and honestly, you don't need it,” Jones told DiNozzo with a leer. Lily looked over at Vera. Was this something new, or had it been like this the last time? “I'm sure you have enough attention without the assistance of your badge, don't you? I mean, I never had one, and I got plenty. The gun... Well, that's another matter. It's a power symbol. So phallic, right?”

“Prison gave you new tastes, or were you just in the closet back then?” DiNozzo asked, apparently goading Jones. “Maybe that's why your mother had to die, why your father cut you off. Your... weakness.”

“Weakness?” Jones shook his head. “You think I'm weak? Oh, that is funny. You're the one who's weak. You have people around you and you think that makes you strong? They're pawns. All of them can be used against you. Will be used against you. Pretty little Abby, for instance. Do you realize just how irrational you become when she's threatened? How many mistakes you've made since that happened?”

Angry, DiNozzo grabbed Jones by the collar, slamming him into the wall. “Abby is not a mistake. My friends are not mistakes. You are a sick freak, and you are not my friend, and you will stay the hell away from her. If you go near her again, I'm not even going to be the one you have to worry about.”

Judging from the dark look on Gibbs' face, DiNozzo wasn't kidding. Jones needed to stop before that man went in there and did something about it.

“You speak of the marine, yes? Former marine, that is. Tell me, if he's so protective of her, of you, why are you still in here alone with me? Why hasn't anyone rescued you yet?”

“Maybe they want to leave me alone with you so that I can kill you,” DiNozzo suggested, and she doubted many in the room disagreed with him. Gibbs had a great deal of patience, and he was waiting for something before he made his move, but she could see how the conversation was affecting the others as well. “And we'll make up a story later, get me off scot free. After all, we're only the so-called good guys, not the real ones.”

“Killing me won't get the confession you all want. It won't guarantee that Martie's killer is behind bars, will it? You might feel better, but that's not justice,” Jones smiled, and DiNozzo slammed him into the wall again, but the smile didn't quit. She could see it getting to Vera. It must be hard watching DiNozzo do this again. “If you want justice, you will talk to me.”

“And give you what you want? Yeah, right. You don't have me where you want me, Jones. You think you do, but you don't.”

“So you keep telling yourself, Tony. But you're wrong. I don't have to worry about people's opinions and approval like you do. All those weaknesses you surround yourself with—your friends—they can't know what I know about you, can they? You couldn't face them after that, could you? You've backed yourself into a corner with all of your secrets.”

“And now you're just getting desperate.”

“Am I?” Jones laughed. “You have secrets. Big ones. And you can't afford to let me reveal them.”

“You think I can't?” DiNozzo shook his head and left the room. Lily followed the others over to where he leaned against the wall, taking a few deep breaths. Abby went to him and touched his arm, passing him a stuffed hippo that seemed to have some sort of significance for the other team. He squeezed it, and it made a loud noise that sounded like a fart. Lily frowned, heard Scotty laughing behind her.

Gibbs moved in front of DiNozzo. “There something we should know?”

DiNozzo attempted a halfhearted smile. “You know all my secrets, Boss.”

“Jones seems pretty convinced otherwise,” Stillman put in, and DiNozzo shrugged, rubbing his head. “Better if you tell us now. Don't let him hold it over your head any longer.”

“I need a few minutes before I can go back in there,” DiNozzo muttered, walking past the others to the door. The NCIS team exchanged looks, and Gibbs nodded to Abby, who went after him.

Vera cleared his throat. “I want a few minutes with him.”

Stillman nodded. “Watch yourself in there, Nick.”

“You're stalking me.”

She laughed, leaning against the fence and smiling. She thought this was funny. She didn't see it like a cop did, and definitely not the way a paranoid undercover cop afraid of losing his cover saw it. Still, Tony had to fend her off, see what he could do about getting rid of her. Maybe a date would be enough. End whatever illusion she had. Unless this went all Fatal Attraction on him. “I honestly just want to finish one conversation.”

“Bad idea. When people tell you I'm bad news, they're not lying. Do yourself a favor, tell yourself you've had the brush with the bad boy, and let it go,” he told her, hanging his duffel bag over his shoulder as he walked away, down the street. She rushed after him.

“I don't want a bad boy. And if you really were one, you wouldn't have tried to avoid me or send me away,” she told him. “I was thinking about it, what you did. And I know what you are.”

“I'm a construction worker. Not a big mystery.”

“Yes, you are,” she told him, and he looked at her. Damn. She'd figured it out. Smart was dangerous, he'd said it before, but this was worse. She actually knew what he was. She had, between her mind and her fantasy, put it together, and she knew he was undercover. “I shouldn't even be talking to you, but I couldn't help it.”

“You're in over your head.”

“I am,” she agreed with another smile, not seeming to care, even if she should. Damn it.

“I can't talk to you. I can't be seen with you,” he insisted. He stopped and grabbed her arm. It wasn't that he didn't want her. He did. He also wasn't stupid. He'd gotten this far because of his cover, and he had to stick to it, make sure it didn't have any holes in it. She was a hole, a mistake. And he was going to make an even bigger one. “Give me your name, and I'll look you up in a few months. By then, I'm sure it won't matter.”

“I'm willing to wait,” she told him, and he shook his head. She was young, and she didn't get it.

“That just means you're more of an idiot.” He stopped and cursed. Shaking his head again, he looked back at the construction site. They were all hooting and laughing. He should have ended this days ago. He just didn't think she'd be like this. He'd have her slap him for their benefit, but it was too late for that now. “You're all sorts of wrong, you know that? Too young, too smart except when it comes to me. Look, you made a mess of this.”

“I know. I'm sorry. I'd make it up to you if I knew how.”

“Best thing to do now is to go back to your regular life. I'll tell them you're a one night stand who cleaned up and is trying to get me sober,” he told her, and she smiled a little at that. “Now, go. Back to your old life, everything back to normal.”

“But I didn't give you my name yet,” she said as he tried to push her away.

He held up the credit card he'd palmed from her wallet and smiled. “Thanks for the party, sweet thing. Now scram.”

She stared at him and actually sputtered curses at him, threatening to call the police and that she was canceling the card. He just waved as he headed back to the boys with a wide grin. “Girl was good for something at least. I figure... no better way to piss off a broad trying to get me sober than to go have a party, right?”

His dealer smiled widely as they headed to the nearest bar. Tony let go of his breath in relief. His cover seemed to be intact. She should be fine.

“What's going on?” Abby demanded as soon as she was outside with Tony. She should have grabbed a coat, but he hadn't, either, so they would freeze together until he was ready to go back inside. Actually, he'd be ready faster knowing she was out here without a coat. He'd drag her back inside to prevent her becoming an Abby-icicle or something.

“You mean besides the man who's obsessed with me, might actually... Well, let's not go there, and everything else? The fact that he threatened you, that he's killed before but that we can't prove it?” Tony asked with a slight laugh, and he shook his head. “There's nothing going right. Everything's wrong.”

“And what you never seem to get is that we can help you,” she told him. “Only you have to let us.”

“He's right about me, Abs.”

“No, he isn't. I didn't hear everything, but I heard enough to know that he doesn't understand you at all. You're not the man he thinks you are. You're better than that,” she insisted, holding out Bert to him. He took the hippo and turned it over in his hands. “You are, Tony. Don't think you're not.”

“You don't understand,” Tony said, lowering his head and closing his eyes. “He was right about the secrets. I called his bluff for now, he won't tell anyone until I'm back. Wants to see me suffer when he does. Wants that moment.”

“Then your old boss is right. Don't give it to him. You don't have to let it him do this to you.”

“You don't... It's been so long, and I'm stuck now, stuck because I didn't... I can't do this, Abby,” he said, walking away from her. She ran after him, catching him by the arm.

“Tony, look at me,” she said, waiting until he did to continue. When he was looking at her, really looking at her, she swallowed and spoke. “You are, and always have been more than you let yourself believe you are. You're good at underplaying yourself, and it works really well when we're going after people, but it's not you. You're more than what they see. We may have started out rocky, but we're friends. Good friends. I love you, and nothing you can tell me know will change that.”

He frowned at her, and she smacked his arm. “Come on, Tony. Don't let the fact that I care about you make you... I care. I love you. I'm not taking it back. You want to deny it, but you're worth it, too. There's no reason not to tell me now. You have nothing to fear from me.”

“Abby—”

“Tell me,” she begged this time, since her orders weren't getting through to him, and she really was getting cold now. It wasn't even that. She hated what this was doing to him, and she wanted to stop the pain that she kept seeing in him. “Please, Tony.”

He looked down at his feet. “I was undercover shortly after I got to Philly. I'd barely passed the exam for detective, but they needed someone like me. I don't... I didn't know. I swear, I had no idea. At the time, it made sense. I never got a call...”

“What do you mean?” she was confused. She really didn't know what he was talking about. What had he done undercover that was so bad? What call was he talking about? It didn't really make sense.

He swallowed, looking a bit sick. He cleared his throat again. “You sent the earring for analysis, right?”

“Yeah, but this isn't my lab, Tony. We may be waiting for a while for the results. Why?”

“The DNA on them... might not be Jones, right?”

“She went out with someone else that night. It could be his...” she stopped and looked at Tony in shock. “Tony, are you saying it was you? That you were with Martie that night?”

Crazy Day With Family but Still a Chapter...

2009-12-20T05:29:45Z

New Chance, Old Dance
Chapter Six
Word Count: 3,168
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I can't own anything. The pygmies and debt collectors own me.
Summary: Philadelphia is the past for some, the present for others. Not everyone can let it go.
Author's Note: The story's getting longer than I had thought it would be, and that's not necessarily a bad thing. :)

Disputed Waters

“Karen, we're hoping you can help us,” Lilly began as she sat down across from her again, smiling. She really did like the woman. One thing about cold cases, she met the most interesting people in her work. She got to hear about times that were long gone, but she was a part of keeping them alive. That part of her job was just as rewarding as speaking for the victims. “We've been trying to track down the man Martie was with the night she died.”

“I thought you were looking for the man who killed her. We know who that is,” Karen said with a frown. She looked at Miller and back at Lilly and shook her head. “I'm sorry. You'll have a very hard time convincing me that it wasn't Jones.”

“Well, so far, we can't prove that it was Jones,” Lilly said. She looked over at Kat and shrugged. How did they explain it? It wasn't enough to know, to feel like they had the killer. Unless they could find evidence to prove it, Jones would walk. “We're hoping that if we can find the man Martie saw, then we can eliminate him as a suspect. It would make a case against Jones stronger.”

“I never knew who he was,” Karen said, reaching for her drink. She took a sip. “I would have told people if I did. Martie's mother, of course, I would have told her. It would have meant the world to her to know about the man Martie loved, to know him. I know, because it would mean that to me.”

“Maybe you met him,” Kat suggested gently. “Maybe she didn't say it with words, didn't really talk about him, but there was a look, a tone of voice...?”

Karen sighed unhappily. “I've been going over that for ten years, trying to figure it out. I guess a part of me always figured that if I could find him, I'd have someone else to remember her with, someone else who loved her. Or at least I hope he did.”

Lilly had seen way too many cases of people who loved someone that killed the person they loved to feel the same way. So had Kat. “Any luck?”

“There is one guy I keep going back to, but...” Karen shrugged. “I guess I don't want it to be him...”

“We're going to be late,” Martie protested as Karen dragged her into the store. Martie was many things, but a grocery shopper she was not. She was never very practical when it came to necessities, and they had to get something before they ran out of everything. Food wasn't something to be skipped on, but Martie never seemed to remember all the ingredients in any recipe. Karen gave her lists, and she lost them or got distracted.

Just like right now. Karen nudged her friend, who shrugged helplessly as she turned away from admiring some guy's back. Martie might have Harry, but she was still looking for someone better. An upgrade, Karen liked to call it, because Harry was decent but not great. Martie was a special person, gifted, but she had lousy taste in men. Well, Harry wasn't that bad, Karen supposed, but she really didn't like him. And this one, in his beat up jacket and paint stained pants, might be just as athletic, but he was bad news.

“Come on. We wouldn't be late if you had gotten the right sugar in the first place,” Karen reminded her, and Martie shrugged.

“Why do we really need brown sugar? Wouldn't white sugar work just as well?”

“You're lucky I'm a good cook,” Karen told her grumpily. She couldn't explain the difference between the sugars and why it mattered to Martie. She was one of those people who burned microwave dinners. “If you could only get the right stuff when I ask you to, we'd be set.”

“Do they have Pringles here? I'm hungry,” Martie asked, disappearing around a corner. Karen sighed. Martie was a lost cause when it came to this kind of shopping. Get her in a shoe store, and she'd be thrilled. But groceries? Not at all.

Karen grabbed the brown sugar and came around to the other aisle. She rolled her eyes as she saw Martie flirting with her latest loser, debating the best flavor of Pringle with laughter. She went up and grabbed Martie's arm. “We're late, remember?”

“Don't let me keep you,” he said, taking his canister and heading towards the front. Martie looked at Karen and sighed.

“He was nice.”

“They're always nice. And now you're stuck with Harry,” Karen reminded her. She heard the doors of the store open and looked up as another guy in a bad coat came in. She shook her head as Martie's new loser came back to them. He must be after her number.

He put the canister back absently, watching the new arrival. Martie frowned. “I thought those were your favorite.”

“Get down,” he told her, pulling her and Karen with him as the creepy coat guy opened his jacket and took out a shotgun, yelling at the cashier. Karen's mouth opened to scream, but nothing came out. “Stay quiet. Stay here.”

“What?” Martie asked, but Karen pulled her close and held onto her as she shook. She didn't want to be alone. She didn't know how they got in the middle of this. They weren't even in that bad of a neighborhood. This kind of thing didn't happen here.

“You were in the middle of a robbery. Dangerous.”

“And I totally panicked,” Karen agreed. She laughed a little. “It wasn't like Martie really held onto hers, either. She thought he was a hero. He wasn't. I'm pretty sure he was in on it.”

“Martie got involved with a man who robbed a convenience store?” Kat demanded, looking at Lilly and back at Karen. This changed things. Martie's mystery man was involved in an armed robbery, and they were looking at a man who had no prior convictions or arrests? “Why didn't you say anything about this before?”

“I didn't have proof that Martie got involved with him, and he wasn't involved in the robbery, not exactly...”

Martie's new friend got up and moved quietly to the front as the crazed gunman threatened the cashier. Karen didn't want to look, but she couldn't turn away. He didn't notice the man coming up behind him. She hoped that was a good thing.

He lifted something, Karen couldn't tell what it was, and he hit the gunman on the back of the head with it. Karen stared at him. She couldn't believe what he'd just done. Martie nudged her. She thought she'd found a genuine hero. But as much as Karen was relieved that the guy was no longer threatening the cashier, she didn't think it was that heroic.

He picked up the robber's gun and walked out of the store.

“You know you have no jurisdiction here,” Stillman began as Gibbs and McGee joined the rest of the team in the Philadelphia homicide division's squadroom. They were supposed to be searching the ship, but after Abby came back from lunch to tell Gibbs that someone had shown up at the restaurant, someone from Tony's past, and whoever it was, it must have been bad, because Gibbs got really quiet and ordered Ziva not to let Abby out of her sight while he went off to make a phone call.

Everyone was acting very weird, and something was going on. When Gibbs came back to find that Abby and Ziva had left, he was even angrier than before, and he yelled for McGee to follow him, leaving the ship behind. With the little he'd been able to pick up and what he knew about Tony's past in Philadelphia—admittedly, it wasn't much—McGee had gotten a few of the details, but not the whole picture. He hadn't been able to ask Gibbs, either.

“Doesn't matter,” Gibbs said, looking over at Abby, Tony, and Ziva. Abby looked slightly guilty, Tony wouldn't even look at Gibbs, flinching like he'd been smacked just by the look, and Ziva shrugged. Her job had been to follow Abby, and she'd done it. “My people. My case.”

“I understand you wanting to be involved, but I can't just hand this over to you and your team. That's not the way it works,” Stillman shook his head. “Your assistance is appreciated, but—”

“My people, my case,” Gibbs repeated. “I already know that Jones won't talk to anyone but DiNozzo. I also know that this killer made a threat against Abby. My team is here. My people will work this case. Accept it or get out of the way. We're not leaving until my people are safe.”

“I'm not giving you this case.”

“Call it a joint investigation if you want. We're not going.”

“What is this, a hostile takeover?” Rush demanded as she and Miller walked into the squadroom. McGee frowned. Other than Gibbs and Stillman facing off, it looked rather peaceful. Too peaceful, looking at Abby practically snuggled into Tony's lap as she went over some list with the other detectives. Ziva didn't look very comfortable, actually she looked kind of threatening, but it didn't seem like the other men in the room minded her being there.

“A negotiation,” one of the men explained. “I'm not really sure who's winning at the moment. Maybe you can stop it. What did you find out from Karen?”

“Something good and bad. Karen has a theory about who Martie's mystery man was, but it kind of pokes a hole in our current theory about Jones,” Rush answered, sitting down at the desk that must have been hers. Tony looked around Abby's back at Rush. “Martie met a man she considered a hero. Might be our mystery man, but if he was...”

“If he was?” Gibbs prompted, turning away from his staring contest with Stillman.

“He incapacitated a man robbing the store, took his gun, and left. Not exactly heroic, but not entirely criminal, either,” Rush answered, looking at Stillman almost apologetically. He shrugged slightly.

“So, Martie had a thing for bad boys?”

“Or maybe she just liked Pringles,” Miller muttered, getting a smile out of Rush. McGee didn't get the reference. Maybe it was something that made sense to women? McGee had never been very good at figuring those things out.

He shook his head, shrugging it off as Tony stood up abruptly, dislodging Abby as he did. She started to protest as he headed for the door. Then he stopped, right in front of someone who made Abby tense up as well. Talking seemed to be difficult for Tony, which was almost unbelievable considering it was Tony. “Jones.”

“Tony. How sadly predictable you are, my friend. What a smell. I can't say that I've missed this place. And Vera. You haven't changed. I'd say you lost weight, but you haven't,” Jones went on. He walked past a stunned Tony towards the others, towards Abby. “Tony was very rude earlier. Didn't even introduce us. I'm Harry Jones, Jr. You must be Abby. I've heard a lot about you.”

“In here. Now,” Tony said angrily, dragging Jones into the interrogation room.

“You made a mistake coming here,” Tony told Jones coldly as the door shut behind them. Someone had probably run into the other room to start up the a/v equipment, and he didn't have much time. There wasn't anything he could say to intimidate Jones, no threat that he could make that would get him anything other than Jones laughing in his face.

“You saying you have me right where you want me?” Jones asked, laughing. “Oh, if that were only true, Tony. You would be so much better off, right? You want me back in prison, locked away, hidden from the world. You want me where you can pretend I don't exist.”

“You don't have to be in prison to for me to forget you,” Tony said, letting him go and backing away. He shrugged, leaning against the wall. He wanted to believe what he was saying, fool himself with his own act. He needed to believe his words more than Jones did.

“You like to think that, but as long as I'm alive, I'm a living, breathing reminder of your failure. Every time you get close to a woman, you remember me. Every time you look at that goth out there, you'll think about me. You can't escape me, can you?” Jones smirked. “It would be a lot easier for you if you just accepted what you are.”

“And what is that, again? Your brother, your buddy, your pal?” Tony countered, watching Jones with disgust. He folded his arms over his chest and attempted a smirk of his own. “Or is it something else you want from me? You want what you can't have, right? But you had Martie, right up to the day she died. It was fine when she agreed to tolerate you, but she wanted something else. She wanted more, but not from you.”

“Right. Martie's mystery man. Have they found him yet? I doubt it. These Philadelphia cops are so inept. Especially your old partner. He didn't touch the case for a year while I was in Europe. I guess maybe you could have been a good influence on him, but you weren't around long enough. You couldn't take the pressure, could you? You went running. You always run, don't you?”

“At least I still can. Still do. I found a useful way to use my athletic abilities, unlike you. We all miss the glory days, but I don't spend my life trying to recreate them, not with the team, not in some sick obsession with someone I don't even know,” Tony said coldly. Jones didn't know him. He could say he did all he wanted, he could point out similarities that weren't there, but he didn't know Tony. No one really did. Gibbs knew more than he said, Ducky knew things, too, and Abby... Abby knew a lot. Not Jones.

“Please. It's a waste. You being a cop. Oh... But you're not just a cop anymore, are you? You've become a big shot federal agent now. What is that agency you work for again? It's not the CIA or FBI or the NSA or... I'm sure I'll remember it eventually,” Jones shrugged. “It doesn't change the fact that it's a waste. You working for the government. For the so-called good guys. You can't possibly be so naïve, can you?”

“I joined for the badge and the gun,” Tony said. “Things that get women. You should have seen the way they fell over themselves for the uniform. Badge bunnies. Almost made the whole thing worth it.”

“Badge and gun. Not much of a higher calling, and honestly, you don't need it,” Jones told him with a slight leer. Tony rolled his eyes. It was just another one of the man's head games. “I'm sure you have enough attention without the assistance of your badge, don't you? I mean, I never had one, and I got plenty. The gun... Well, that's another matter. It's a power symbol. So phallic, right?”

“Prison gave you new tastes, or were you just in the closet back then?” Tony asked, trying to push Jones' buttons, any of them, if at all possible. “Maybe that's why your mother had to die, why your father cut you off. Your... weakness.”

Tony lost it. He crossed the room and jerked Jones by the collar, slamming him into the wall. “Abby is not a mistake. My friends are not mistakes. You are a sick freak, and you are not my friend, and you will stay the hell away from her. If you go near her again, I'm not even going to be the one you have to worry about.”

“You speak of the marine, yes? Former marine, that is. Tell me, if he's so protective of her, of you, why are you still in here alone with me? Why hasn't anyone rescued you yet?”

“Maybe they want to leave me alone with you so that I can kill you,” Tony told him. “And we'll make up a story later, get me off scot free. After all, we're only the so-called good guys, not the real ones.”

“Killing me won't get the confession you all want. It won't guarantee that Martie's killer is behind bars, will it? You might feel better, but that's not justice,” Jones smiled, and Tony slammed him into the wall again, but the smile didn't stop. “If you want justice, you will talk to me.”

“And give you what you want?” Tony laughed. “Yeah, right. You don't have me where you want me, Jones. You think you do, but you don't.”

“And now you're just getting desperate.”

“Am I?” Jones laughed. “You have secrets. Big ones. And you can't afford to let me reveal them.”

Late... That's Okay, Though...

2009-12-19T08:31:38Z

New Chance, Old Dance
Chapter Five
Word Count: 2,633
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I can't own anything. The pygmies and debt collectors own me.
Summary: Philadelphia is the past for some, the present for others. Not everyone can let it go.
Author's Note: Now I realize that I should have said before, no spoilers for season seven of either series. I'm trying not to make either side too hard to follow or keep up with since not everyone has seen all the episodes, so... I've included a few details here and there, but nothing too spoilery for either show. It's mainly the characters that I wanted and borrowed. :)

Ice Water in the Veins

“Abby, go back to the ship.”

“Oh, come on now,” Jones said with a smile, pretending to be friendly. She had no idea what he was, how sick and twisted Jones really was. “The very lovely lady can stay.”

Tony swallowed with difficulty. He shook his head. Abby shouldn't have been within five feet of this bastard. If he'd had his way, it wouldn't have happened. What the hell was Jones doing here? He shouldn't be here. How had he known where Tony and Abby were eating? Was he... following them? Shouldn't Vera or someone have assigned a uniform detail to the bastard? Had he lost them or.... Tony cleared his throat. “Abby, go find Gibbs.”

“But, Tony—”

“Gibbs, Abby. Go to Gibbs now,” Tony insisted firmly, taking a step closer to Jones. Let the freak focus on him as long as it got Abby out of here. After all, it wasn't really Abby that Jones wanted. He might have sent the photo of her, but that was only to mess with Tony's head, to get his attention. Or that was what Tony kept telling himself to justify not telling her. Though he almost had. And he wouldn't have a choice about it later. Now she'd seen Jones. He would have to tell her about him.

The thought made him sick. Jones watched Abby leave and turned back to Tony. “Such a shame you didn't let her stay. Of course, she was finished eating. You weren't, but you don't seem to have much of an appetite today. Not the company, I hope?”

“What do you want, Jones?” Tony asked, and the other man laughed. Where the hell was the waiter? He still hadn't come back.

“Did you know I used to eat here? Every Saturday night. They have an amazing selection, don't you think?”

“I wouldn't know. I've only been here a few times, and I order the same thing,” Tony lied, his gut twisting with the knowledge of another thing they had in common. What was it with Jones, taking everything that had been good about Philly and tainting it?

“Oh, Tony. You don't know how nice it is to see a familiar face. Sure, the owner recognized me, and he let me pay for your meal, but it's not the same as seeing you again,” Jones went on. He smiled again. God, those smiles always made Tony shudder. “I missed you.”

“I don't know why,” Tony told him. “We don't know each other. And you're supposed to be in jail.”

“Isn't that the funniest thing? You know, I thought I must have been the one who knocked Adriana down the stairs, but I wasn't. When it happened, it was an accident, but someone else deliberately pushed her down those stairs. He murdered her. Not me,” Jones kept smiling, and Tony choked back vomit. This man made him sick, so sick. “And you know I know you better than you want to admit.”

“Are we going to have another 'we're the same' conversation? Because those were old ten years ago,” Tony muttered, pushing past Jones. As long as Abby was safe, that was all that mattered, and he knew she'd gotten out okay. Jones didn't work with a partner. If he had a partner, he wanted Tony for it, but Tony had never agreed with him, didn't want any part of it or him.

“We're not done, Tony.”

Tony stopped, turned back with a smile as he shook his head. “Oh, that's right. You're Harry Jones. It's not over until you say it's over. That's why you killed Martie, isn't it?”

“Oh, please. If I did that, would I really make it so easy on you? Would I admit it just because you're worried about your girlfriend? You want the reassurance of me behind bars again, you'll have to work for it. I'm not going back there without a fight,” Jones went on. “After all, you didn't even write me back when I was in there. I want something more than that.”

“Like a kiss? You must be used to a man giving you love after all that time behind bars,” Tony said with a smile of his own. “Sorry, but you're not my type.”

“You'll come back to me, Tony. You have no choice.”

“Your dates are wrong,” Valens said as he sat down on the corner of Vera's desk. Nick made a face and swatted him with a folder. The younger man didn't move.

“What do you mean, my dates are wrong?”

“You've got May second, ninety-eight as the day Martie Christensen died, but all of your interviews with Harry Jones have May ninety-nine on them,” Valens explained, handing him a paper as proof. Nick shook it off. He knew what the date said. He also knew that it wasn't wrong.

“It's not a mistake. I investigated the case right after it happened, but Jones went on some year long trip to Europe, and couldn't be extradited because there wasn't enough evidence. By the time he came back, I had a new partner,” Nick said with a shrug, remembering DiNozzo's reaction to the file. He'd been thrown into the fire on that one. Barely had a chance to read it before Jones was in the room. “Caught DiNozzo up to speed just before dragging Jones in.”

“Interesting,” Valens muttered. “So... you didn't do any work on this case in that whole year?”

“I had other cases, and the man who did it was in another country,” Vera protested as Valens shook his head and went back to his own desk, muttering to himself as he sat back down.

“Why come back at all?” Jefferies asked, sticking his nose in, “Jones was pretty much home free. He couldn't get extradited. He would never have had to do time at all.”

“Who knows?” Vera asked with a shrug. He didn't like to think about Jones' motives too much, at all. “Guy's a freak. I bet he had killed before Martie. Tony seemed pretty convinced that Jones had killed his mother. He might even be right about that.”

“What do we know, anyway? We haven't found anyone who saw Martie's mystery man—well, we've got a few people who saw more than just a shadow, but not much. Dark hair, tall, athletic, not that specific,” Valens said, shaking his head again. “We're not going to find this guy unless he comes forward, and if he hasn't done that in ten years, he's not going to do it now.”

“Maybe,” Jefferies agreed, then countered, “or maybe he didn't before because he thought we had her killer. Almost everyone believes Jones did it.”

“Or maybe this mystery guy is the doer. Maybe he hasn't come forward because he killed her, and he wants everyone to go on thinking that it was Jones while he gets away with it.”

Vera shrugged. He didn't give a rat's ass who the mystery man was. Sure, he'd been wrong in the past, but this wasn't one of those times. Jones was guilty. He'd led them through some song and dance routine, messed with Tony's head, but he did it. He was playing a game then, and he was playing one now, but Nick would be damned if Jones got away with it this time.

Jefferies tapped his arm, and Nick looked up to see DiNozzo standing in the bullpen. Kid was a mess, and he didn't seem to know where he was. “Damn, Tony. You look like hell.”

Tony didn't answer, didn't say anything, just stood there. Nick finally got up and went over to him, pulling him into an empty chair. “Thought you weren't coming.”

“Tell me you have something on this bastard.”

“Not yet. His alibi still doesn't exist, and we've got a witness who says he saw Jones the day Martie died, and he was angry with her for breaking it off, but that's not enough to prosecute,” Jefferies told him. He looked at the younger man sympathetically. “He came to see you, didn't he?”

“Must be following me,” DiNozzo said, running a hand over his face. He rolled his head from side to side. “I was hoping that Abby would be safe as long as she stayed in DC. But she's here.”

“So,” Valens said, looking DiNozzo over. “You gonna talk to him? Help us with this?”

Tony laughed. “I already talked to him. It isn't going to help.”

“Tony!” Valens heard a woman's voice call, and he and the others looked up at the same time. Sure, he'd seen the picture of the woman DiNozzo called Abby, but it hadn't prepared him for the full effect. She was a goth, all right. Cute, but a little odd, especially with the stuffed hippo in her hands. “There you are. We were looking all over for you. I wanted to do a trace on your phone, but you broke it earlier, so that was no good, but Gibbs said you had to be here, and McGee thought you were off... Well, never mind what McGee thought. What's going on? Who was that guy at the restaurant? Why does Gibbs insist that Ziva follow me every where?”

“Abby, calm down,” DiNozzo began, standing up and looking behind her with a curse. “Look, it's a long story, and I don't really want to get into it right now...”

“Not good enough, DiNozzo. For one thing, I know when you're lying to me, and you have been since before I came to Philadelphia. For another, when Gibbs gets like that, I know things are bad, and I don't like it when things are bad. So you need to start explaining, now.”

Scotty shook his head, trying not to laugh. Looks like DiNozzo was a bit hen-pecked by his girl, who was supposedly just a “friend.” It was as good as seeing Vera put in his place by a single mom.

“You said I should look into my old haunts, remember?” DiNozzo said, trying to charm her with a smile. “This is one of my old haunts.”

She looked at him, clearly unimpressed. “But... They have a picture of me on that board. Why do they have a picture of me? Is this why Gibbs is making me go around with an escort?”

“Well...”

“Tony,” the other woman, Ziva, began, her voice cool and dangerous, with an accent. “I suggest you answer her question.”

“Not fair when the ninja assassin joins in,” DiNozzo muttered, shaking his head. “Fine. It... There was a case I worked before I left Philadelphia. It was ugly, went bad on me the first day. We knew who did it, had known for a while, and we brought the guy in, but... we had nothing on him, and we needed a confession. I was in on the interrogation. He... fixated on me. Kept telling me that we were the same, that we were twins or brothers or some kind of crap like that. He got to me, and we never got a confession. Not for the murder. He admitted that he'd knocked a girl down the stairs in ninety-five, that it was an accident, and he went to prison on manslaughter charges.”

“That's...good, right?” Abby asked, looking around the room. “Okay, not good. “Why is it not good?”

“They just overturned the confession. They found DNA from a hand-print on her shirt. She was pushed down the stairs, deliberately, and not by Jones,” Jefferies explained. She nodded. Scotty liked her. But DiNozzo was still kidding about the assassin, right? Sure, this Ziva woman looked capable, but an assassin?

“Jones never let our... connection go,” DiNozzo went on unhappily. “He sent me letters, but you remember that mix up where I was supposedly dead? The letters finally stopped. Until I got the photo.”

“But why me?” Abby pressed, and DiNozzo shrugged helplessly.

“You are my friend, and you know that I haven't really been dating lately. Whoever he got to spy for him must have thought you were more than my friend or maybe just a friend was enough for him,” DiNozzo shook his head. “I don't know. It doesn't really matter.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Now, she looked hurt. Damn, Scotty thought as he watched, that look should count as a weapon. She was too good at using, too.

“I was... trying to protect you, I guess,” DiNozzo offered, trying to comfort her.

She smacked his arm. “You should have told me. You should have told Gibbs. Not that he doesn't know, because he does, but... You should have told me. Not just because of the threat, but because I could have helped you, you idiot.”

Ziva was laughing, and so was Scotty. DiNozzo glared at both of them before sitting back down in a pout. The girl smiled, shaking her head as she went over and sat on his lap, picking up the file in front of him. Just a friend. Right. Maybe that's what they kept telling themselves. But they were awful close, really damn friendly. She put it down. “Where's the evidence log?”

“Isn't Gibbs going to get a little upset that you're moonlighting?”

“Gibbs loves me. Now pass me that evidence log and let me work,” she told him, taking the list from Jefferies. She started reading it over, and Scotty looked at Vera and Jefferies. What made the old man think that she should see the file? Just because DiNozzo was a fed didn't mean she was. Who was she that they were going to trust her? Not that Scotty would want to tell her she couldn't. “Where is this earring? Do we have it?”

“There was only one, Abs.”

“One when her body was found, but two when she left the house. And that's not what I meant,” she corrected him with a smile. “She was beaten to death, and there's nothing here to give any information about her killer, except, the thing is... Here, Tony, pretend you're going to kiss me.”

“Gibbs will kill me for this, you know that, right?”

“I'm proving a point. Would you do it already?” she asked, and he finally did. Scotty watched carefully, wondering what she was getting at. DiNozzo did what she said, his hand going to the back of her head and his fingers brushing her very...unique earrings as he leaned in close and then backed away. She smiled saucily at him. “Do you see what I mean?”

“You think that Jones' DNA or fingerprints will be on that earring?”

“Well, it's probably not enough for a match on the fingerprint, but there might be DNA on it, yes,” Abby announced with a smile. “See? I told you I could help.”

“Unless it's not Jones,” Vera put in grumpily. “What if it's just the other guy's?”

“Would finally tell us who the hell he is.”

Busy, Very Busy... But There is a Chapter...

2009-12-18T06:15:19Z

New Chance, Old Dance
Chapter Four
Word Count: 2,098
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I can't own anything. The pygmies and debt collectors own me.
Summary: Philadelphia is the past for some, the present for others. Not everyone can let it go.
Author's Note: Not much to say that I haven't already said. This chapter is shorter than the ones before it, but it had everything it needed in it. :)

Run Aground

“If Jones will only talk to DiNozzo, is there some reason why you haven't called him?” Miller demanded, leaning against the desk. Nick looked at her. She didn't get it. Then again, he didn't really understand it, either. Why was he so protective of a kid he barely knew why DiNozzo had gotten under his skin. The kid hadn't been his partner for very long, wasn't the best partner that Vera's ever had. If pressed, he would have to say that title belonged to Jefferies. But there was something about DiNozzo. Even when Vera wanted to hate him, it didn't work.

All things considered, he should hate DiNozzo for the prank that kid pulled on him ten years ago. Whether they'd witnessed it or not, the others had never let him live it down, even newer ones like Rush, Valens, and Miller.

“Several reasons, actually. I don't like dealing with the feds. And I don't like giving that bastard what he wants,” Vera answered, and Miller shook her head. He looked at her. She didn't know what it was really like for DiNozzo in that room. “'Sides, even if I ask, he might not be willing to do it. Guy really did a number on that kid.”

“So you keep saying, but he's not a kid anymore,” Miller reminded him. “The guy's a fed, now. I'm not saying you should give Jones what he wants, but you need to at least ask the man because someone has to talk to Jones if we're going to wrap this case up. Maybe this time, he'll confess to what he did to Martie.”

“Not going to happen,” Vera disagreed. He got to his feet, grabbing one of the interview tapes and leading her into the other room. “Here. Watch this and tell me if you can ask DiNozzo to sit in the same room with this bastard again.”

He shoved the tape in the player and pushed play; Miller watching him with a frown. She really wouldn't understand until she saw this, maybe not even then. The screen came to life, and there was a much younger DiNozzo across from Harry Jones, Jr., the man looking very, very smug as he studied the young detective.

“How old were you again, when Daddy DiNozzo cut you off?” Jones asked with a grin, and DiNozzo shook his head, desperately tying to gain control of the conversation again. Nick didn't want to leave the kid in there alone with this freak, but he shut his mouth any time Nick was in the room.

“I thought we were talking about the girl you knocked down the stairs in ninety-five,” DiNozzo said, shaking his head. He was tired, and it really showed. The kid was dragging, but Jones was thriving, getting off on twisting everything around and messing with DiNozzo's head. “Not my father.”

“Sore subject, eh, DiNozzo?” Jones asked with a grin. “What makes a father disown a kid when he's only twelve, anyway?”

“You were fourteen,” DiNozzo corrected. “About Adriana Lewis—”

Jones wrote something on the paper and signed his name to it. Vera went into the room to collect the bastard, but he pulled free and went over to DiNozzo. Vera couldn't hear what he said, but whatever it was, the kid went white as a sheet and stepped back in a horrified daze.

Jones laughed as Vera dragged him from the room.

Abby left Ziva to find Gibbs and talk to him, ignoring the looks the crew of the ship were giving her as she headed down to the lower decks. She really had no idea where Tony would be. She'd asked McGee, and he'd grumpily told her that Tony was a deck below him searching the aft section. He was really in a bad mood, and she needed time to help him, too, but she figured the reason for his anger was to do with the way that Tony was acting, which was also affecting Gibbs, so if she fixed Tony, she could fix them all.

Of course, that was putting things really simply and assuming that Tony could be “fixed” at all. Still, she knew that one thing would help Tony even if nothing else did. She smiled down at the hippo in her arms and continued on determinedly. She wasn't going to stop. Not now. Someone had to talk to Tony, and she was the best person for the job. Gibbs was good at getting people to see they were wrong, but Tony didn't need intimidation. Ducky was good at giving advice, but Tony didn't need advice. Ziva was good at getting people to talk, but that wasn't the way to do it, either. McGee wasn't having any luck. What Tony needed was Abby and Bert. He needed trust.

She ducked her head into a berth just in time to hear Tony say, “Damn it, when I say no, I mean no.”

He threw his phone at the wall, and it broke. She waited as he stared at it for a while, taking a few deep breaths as he tried to calm himself. He lowered his head and closed his eyes. She judged it to be a good moment and squeezed the hippo.

He jumped, but when he turned to her, it wasn't anger on his face. Before she was entirely sure what he was doing, he had rushed over to her and picked her up. Now this was different. Usually he pretended to be hurt or exaggerated how hurt he was to get out of a hug. “Abby.”

“I didn't even dress up as Career Girl Barbie,” she said as he put her down. His hands lingered for a moment on her waist before he stepped back a bit awkwardly, trying to pretend what he'd just done was nothing, even though they both knew that it wasn't. “You must be really bored.”

He laughed, leaning his head back. “Out of my skull. I've gone through one deck so far, and McGee's done one, but this is taking forever. I don't suppose you being here means Gibbs has called off the search?”

“Well, Ziva's here, so she can help, but, no, the search isn't off,” Abby told him. He muttered under his breath, and she held Bert out to him. He gave the hippo a good squeeze and passed him back. She knew that Gibbs wanted this ship searched, but she was getting the feeling that would have to happen without Tony. She was stealing him, and Gibbs would just have to deal with it. “You know a good place to eat around here?”

He shrugged. “It's been a few years since I've been here, but if they're still around, they were better than good.”

She smiled. “Then you had better feed your forensic tech goddess, shouldn't you?”

“I thought we were doing Cafe Atlantico when I got back,” he began suspiciously as he followed her out of the room, shutting it and leaving his broken cell phone behind him. He didn't even seem to notice that he didn't have it or remember that he had broken it. His smile was almost genuine, and she knew he was glad to see her. She wasn't entirely sure why. They were good friends, but he didn't usually show it like that.

“I was hungry now. And Bert missed you.”

He laughed again. “Okay, Abs. You want to tell me what's really going on?”

She shook her head. “Not unless you tell me first.”

It was good to have Abby where he could see her, where he knew she was safe. Then again, he didn't like having her here in Philadelphia, where he knew Jones was. And somehow Jones knew he was here, which meant he would know that Abby was here. If she'd stayed in Washington, maybe Tony being in Philadelphia would have been enough of a distraction to keep her safe. Jones was going to be where he was. Now that she was where he was, she was in more danger than before. He should have told her not to come.

Damn, he could feel the Gibbs smack after that thought.

He looked at Abby again, saw her quick, reassuring smile, and he didn't want to tell her. He didn't want to worry her, didn't want to admit that he was such a screw up. A lot of it was Jones, but not all of it, and if she knew... If she knew the truth, she wouldn't feel the same way about him, and he really needed her right now. He knew it was selfish. He usually was selfish, and it usually didn't matter. But this was her life, and he shouldn't be selfish with her life.

“Abby,” he began, about to tell her, but then her phone rang, and she winced at the noise as she answered it. Some of the other people in the restaurant were looking at them, but he ignored them as he watched her.

“Gibbs,” she said with a smile. She could smile. He wasn't going to do anything to her. Gibbs would never do anything to hurt Abby. “No. No. Come on, Gibbs. A girl's gotta eat, and why shouldn't she do that with a good friend who knows the best places in Philly?”

Tony sighed. He just shouldn't go back. That was how pissed Gibbs was going to be. And he'd broken his phone. Usually, that was what Gibbs did. And Tony didn't have a file cabinet full of spares for his phone. Maybe he could go get a new one before he went back to the ship. That was a good excuse to stay away, not just from Gibbs and the ship but from the Philly PD, too. He knew that he should go in and help them. He should talk to Jones.

He was afraid. He didn't like to admit it, but he was scared of what Jones would say. There pasts were so similar, the man knew just what to use against him. He'd twisted everything back then, and he could do worse now because Tony had a lot more to lose now than he did back then. Back then, he was on his own. He'd just come out of an undercover job, barely knew the man who was his partner... It had been too easy to leave Philadelphia behind. He had a lot of burned bridges, and he couldn't go back.

Abby set down the phone and smiled at him. “Gibbs said if you're not on the ship then there's something else you should be doing. He also said that you had better answer your phone next time.”

Tony grimaced. “I guess I'd better get a new one.”

“After we eat,” she promised, and he shook his head. He didn't have an appetite left. He didn't know how Gibbs knew these things. Maybe he didn't really know about Jones or the demand he'd made. But it was Gibbs. Gibbs knew things, things he shouldn't. It was who the man was. The whole marine thing probably only fine tuned that ability. He must have been born with it. Gibbs as a child. Another scary thought.

“You still with me, DiNozzo?”

He blinked and looked over at Abby. She pointed to his food, and he looked down at it with a frown. He really couldn't eat anything now. Where was the waiter? He needed to pay the bill and get out of here. “Yeah, I'm here, Abs.”

“No, you're not.”

“I'm sorry,” he began, but he heard someone behind him and stopped. It had to be the waiter, and that meant that they could get out of here. He turned to ask him a question and his mouth went dry.

“Good to see you, Tony. It's been a very long time,” Harry Jones said with a smile.

Meant to Finish and Post this Earlier...

2009-12-17T04:48:14Z

New Chance, Old Dance
Chapter Three
Word Count: 3,259
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I can't own anything. The pygmies and debt collectors own me.
Summary: Philadelphia is the past for some, the present for others. Not everyone can let it go.
Author's Note: This is a crossover with Cold Case, and it will be a gen story for Cold Case (there are sadly not enough of those), and Tony/Abby (eventually) for NCIS.

Hooray for a story that helps me remember the joy of fanfic...

The Cold Trail

“You were Martie's roommate?” Scotty began as he sat down on the woman's couch. Lilly took a seat next to him as Karen Wilkes set a cup in front of each of them. He liked these interviews, not because of the subject matter, but because it was an opportunity to sit, have something to drink, like those old social calls that no one made any more. It was amusing, especially with the older people they talked to, who made such a big deal out of it. This was a habit he would never have had, never would have thought he'd appreciate, either. This slow down wasn't like him.

“We were paired up freshman year, and we loved it so much we moved in together afterward. We were going to stay together until we got married,” Karen explained with a bittersweet smile. She pulled back a loose strand of her dark hair and laughed. “Oh, we were such kids...”

It was sad, talking to these people who'd lost someone so long ago. Other people didn't understand what it was like for them. Her friend never got the chance to see her get married, and she was just a memory now. Scotty cleared his throat. “What about the day she died? What was she like that day? Distracted? Upset? Angry?”

Karen shook her head. “Happy. That was the worst thing, you know. I'm not saying that she should have been sad or miserable, but she never saw it coming. She was so damn happy...”

“Am I going to need a new address?” Karen teased as she walked past the bathroom where Martie was getting prepped for her date. Martie didn't usually bother with a lot of makeup; she was one of those lucky ones that didn't need to, but she was putting on makeup for this guy. And it was definitely for the guy—people didn't dress up for concerts. No, this guy was something special. Karen wished she knew who he was. She was kind of glad it wasn't Harry, because she didn't like him very much for some reason, but she didn't know the new one at all. And as much as she didn't like Harry, she'd been really surprised when Martie announced that she wasn't going to the concert with him.

“It's a date, not a proposal,” Martie protested with a wide grin. Karen knew what was coming next. “Besides, I'm not going to get married, remember? Mom says she's happy, but she lied. She hides in her house, tells herself she's fulfilled. But she's not. Not like she thinks.”

“Marriage isn't what makes people unhappy,” Karen corrected stubbornly. So what if she was romantic, still waiting for Mister Right? She wanted that whole thing, marriage and kids, and Martie had found someone she really cared about. That was why he was such a big secret. She'd really fallen for this one, whoever he was. He had better be worthy of her. “Life is.”

“And you're going to get married and lose yourself to your husband, career, and kids,” Martie said with a grin, adjusting her earrings. She came over and hugged Karen close for a minute. “Tonight's going to be special. I know it.”

Karen smiled back. Martie in a good mood was always infectious. Karen never wanted to see her unhappy. She was such a sweet person, the best, the absolute best. It wasn't hard to see what the men saw in her. He was a lucky man, the one getting all this fuss out of Martie. Karen left her friend to finish getting ready and decided to put on some music.

As happy as she was for Martie, she was going to have to forget that she was going to be alone tonight. Like she was every night.

Being an arrogant, playboy rich jock hadn't really earned Harry Jones any friends, Kat thought after another interview with one of his so-called friends. Almost everyone she'd talked to had been quick to distance their name from his. Oh, they'd known him, but they weren't really friends, if she knew what they meant. She found it kind of pathetic, but then, who would want to admit to a guy who went to prison on manslaughter charges being their friend, and who would want to know the same man if he was accused of murder?

She walked back to her car and headed out to the next name and address on her list. She didn't really want to be the one verifying Jones' alibi, if that was what happened, but then again, she didn't want to be in on the interview, either. She could have gone with Valens and Rush to talk to friends of the victim instead of friends of her killer, but someone had to do this job.

She parked in front of a building just as a man shut the front door and started to leave. She opened the door and leaned over it. “Hey, you know a Ken Loomis?”

He stopped, turned around and looked at her. “I'm Ken. Who are you?”

“Detective Miller. I'm looking into the death of Martie Christenson,” she said, shutting the door as she walked towards him. He looked around to see if anyone was paying attention to them, and seemed to relax when he didn't see anyone. “So, you were with Harry Jones on May second?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Loomis answered. He shook his head. “I used to play on the same team with Jones before he busted his knee and had to give it up. Not that he did. He hadn't even finished college, but he was already reliving the glory days. He showed up at my apartment that afternoon. He wanted to go out and play ball with the guys. I didn't even know where they were, and I wasn't really in the mood to put up with his crap. I'd just bombed a test, and I had less than a week before finals. I was going to lose my scholarship because of my academics...”

“Hey, Ken. Where's the guys?”

“Out. I don't know where. Look, I don't have time for this, Jones. I gotta go find a tutor to help me pass this math class or I'm going to lose my scholarship,” Ken answered impatiently, trying to push past him. Jones caught his arm and held on.

“Easy, buddy. I know the best tutors in the school. Come with me. I'll hook you up.”

Ken sighed. He didn't want to accept a favor from Jones, and there was no telling if the “best” tutors were any good. He didn't want someone who'd write a paper for him; he needed someone who could explain the damn trigonometry to him. Still, it wasn't like he knew who to go to, and even if the tutor Jones gave him wasn't any good, he could at least find out from one of them who would be better. If Ken hadn't pissed off the SI teacher, he wouldn't be in this mess.

“What about your girlfriend? Isn't she good at math?”

“Martie? Yeah, she's decent. But she's not my girlfriend. Tramp dumped me for some other guy.”

“Oh.” Ken didn't realize the girl had come to her senses, but that was good for her. Better to get rid of Jones now rather than later.

“No big deal, man. I don't care about that bitch. Don't need her,” Jones said with a fake smile. Ken looked down awkwardly, trying not to notice, but the other man's hands were gripped in fists so tight they were turning white. He shook his head. The girl had better watch out because Jones was bound to do something stupid.

“So, what do you think of this DiNozzo?”

“I'll say one thing for him, he's a piece of work,” Lilly said as she walked with Scotty through the halls of Martie's school. They were still looking for the other man, the one who had taken her to the concert instead of Jones. He had been the one she threw Jones over for, and he was the last one to see her alive. He should have come forward back then, and since he hadn't, it looked like he had something to hide. She stopped outside the professor's office and knocked. “You believe him?”

“About the threat or the Mossad assassin?”

“Both.”

“Threat's real. Assassin... Probably not,” Scotty answered as the door opened. He smiled. “Professor Canton? I'm Detective Valens. My partner, Detective Rush. We're here to talk to you about a former student of yours. Martie Christensen.”

“Martie,” the man said with a slight smile, shaking his head. “That is a name I haven't heard in a while. She was a bright star, Martie. Very smart. She was going places, and determined to do it, too.”

Scotty gave Lilly a look, and she shook her head. No way this was Martie's mystery man. It wasn't just the difference in age, which was considerable, but he was one step away from patting an imaginary Martie on the head. He seemed fond of her in the way an old lady is fond of a pampered little dog, not as a man valued a woman, and not even as a teacher really thought of student.

“You held a Saturday lab on May second, ninety-eight?” Lilly asked, going back, again, to the day that Martie died. There was a riddle there, a puzzle. The mystery man, the reason she'd left Jones for him... Those questions could answer the question of who killed her and why.

“Standard lab. Don't remember any problems that day, but then, it was a long time ago,” Canton said with a shrug. He took off his glasses and rubbed them on his shirt. He held them out and studied them. “I'm going blind. Worse every year, and soon there won't be anything left of these eyes.”

“Do you take roll every class?” Scotty asked, and Lilly liked his logic. With eyes that bad, a memory, too, the professor might not even have known if she was in class that day. If she hadn't gone to class that day, that could change a lot of assumptions about what happened the day she died.

“I pass around a paper for the kids to sign and match the signatures to the number of bodies. It's not perfect, but it's as good as these eyes get. I haven't really put a face with a name in years now. Martie's class was probably the last time that happened."

“But was Martie actually in class the day she died?” Lilly pressed. “Did you see her? Do you still have the sign in sheet? Or did she answer a question?”

“Martie always came to class. Hard not to miss her. She had those shining curls,” the old man said with a smile. “And she always knew her stuff. Though... I think she left early that day...”

Canton slowly scrawled out words on the chalkboard as one of his students read aloud to the class. The book did most of the teaching for him now. He had to get the students to read it, discuss it, and ask questions. He couldn't do much else. Gone the days of slides and productions. He stopped and looked for his reader. He made the readers stand. Easier to find them that way. Ah, right. It was Martie today. Hard to miss her.

“Hold on for a moment, Ms. Christensen,” he interrupted her. “Let's discuss this paragraph, shall we? The classic theory of—”

“Oh, my god, I have to go,” Martie exclaimed, and he looked back to see her shove her books in her bag as she rushed down the steps and out the door to a shadow that was waiting for her. Canton shook his head.

“I'll need a new reader,” he began, pointing to someone in the audience. “Good. You. Now, the classic theory...”

“Martie's mystery man?” Scotty suggested, and Lilly shrugged. It could have been him, could have been Jones. All Canton had given them was a tall shadow. “Thanks, professor. We'll need a list of the students that were in your class that year and who would have been at that lab on Saturday.”

“I don't have those records anymore, but I'm sure the school does.”

Gibbs walked into the Philadelphia homicide squadroom, glancing at the empty desks as he headed to the back office. The room was like the one back at NCIS, emptied out as everyone worked the case. His team was divided, half in the field, half at court. Ducky had come up to perform the autopsy, but Abby and David were still back at NCIS.

His gut didn't like that Abby was out of his sight. He'd called David, told her to keep an eye on Abby, but he felt like driving down there himself. He should be there. Then again, something was going on with DiNozzo. Better to get Abby up here, where he could keep an eye on them both at once.

“Agent Gibbs,” Stillman began, rising from his desk to shake Gibbs' hand. “Been a long time since I've seen you.” "But not so long since you've seen DiNozzo."

Stillman laughed. “You haven't changed. I remember you walking into my office and asking me about him. You were even less forthcoming then. You want me to tell you what DiNozzo told me without giving me any reason to, just like you wanted me to tell you about his time here without a reason to, just like you wanted me to tell you about his time here without a reason. You hired him. He works with you. You know him better than I do. What do you think he told me?”

“DiNozzo was supposed to be investigating the death of a naval officer. He came here instead.”

“The name Harry Jones mean anything to you?” Stillman asked, and Gibbs said nothing, waiting. Stillman shrugged. “Harold Jones, Jr., the prime suspect in the last case DiNozzo worked before transferring to Baltimore. Bludgeoned a girl after she changed her mind about dating him. During interrogation, he fixated on DiNozzo. Eventually, he confessed to a lesser charge. The lesser charge just got overturned. He's out.”

Gibbs continued to wait. Most of this he already knew. He had learned about Jones when he considered hiring DiNozzo. All these years later, the man still had no idea that it had taken a lot more than a damn smile to get him into NCIS. The case—in the form of Jones' letters to DiNozzo—had followed him to Baltimore casting doubts on DiNozzo's career and integrity. Some reporters and internal affairs officers believed that he had been Jones' accomplice. When DiNozzo joined NCIS, the letters continued to come, never opened, until the mix up where DiNozzo supposedly died. If the letters had started again after the issue was resolved, they'd gone to DiNozzo's house, and he'd never said anything about them.

“According to DiNozzo, after years of silence from Jones, he got a plain envelope, no prison return address but postmarked from Philadelphia, with one item in it. A photo,” Stillman continued. Gibbs felt the knot in his stomach tighten. Abby. “He's convinced it's a threat against a friend of his. We reopened Martie Christensen's case two days ago. My best detectives are working it. I assigned uniforms to watch Jones, but my hands are pretty well tied.”

“The friend,” Gibbs began, though he knew who it had to be, who it was.

“He called her Abby. She one of yours?”

“Forensic tech,” Gibbs agreed, wondering why DiNozzo had kept this from him. He ought to ring the man's neck. At the very least, he was getting a head smack when Gibbs got back to the ship.

Stillman rose and went to the door. “Rush. Valens, in here.”

A blond woman and a cocky young detective came into the office. The woman studied him carefully, exchanging looks with her partner and Stillman. She was observant. That was good. She would have to be if she was going to solve this case. Not that Gibbs wanted to leave it in their hands. He didn't. Abby's safety was his concern, not theirs. “Where are we with the Christensen case?”

“We spoke to her mother and roommate, and a few of her professors, as many people as we could who knew her back then,” the man answered, watching Gibbs as he said it. “None of them knew why Martie went to the concert without Jones. As far as either the mom or the roommate knew, she was looking forward to it and had no problems with him. And no one knows who this mystery man that went to the concert with Martie was. She never mentioned him to anyone. We think he might have shown up at her class that day, but the professor's nearly blind, so all he saw was a tall shadow. Could have been a man or a woman. We're tracking down other kids who were in the class that day, seeing if we can find anyone who saw more, but so far, eight out of the twenty-five were either not paying attention or not there that day.”

“Her mom said their conversation ended when Harry showed up, and by the time that Karen spoke to her before she left, something had changed her mind about going with Jones, but Martie never told anyone what that was,” the woman added. “Martie's dead, which leaves us with Jones...”

Stillman shook his head. “Vera and Jefferies already went to see him. Find Miller and see what she learned while going over Jones' day. See if any of your kids intersect with the ones on her list. We might also look for any similar deaths to Martie's, see if there might be another one by Jones or if someone else could have done it.”

“Martie Christensen was beaten to death, Boss, not a very specific crime,” the woman said. Her partner agreed with a shrug.

“I know. See what Miller has. Go from there.”

There was a crash from outside the office, and Gibbs and the others looked over to see a large black man trying to calm down the man next to him, who was bashing a trashcan against his desk. “Vera!”

“Sorry, Boss. I know I shouldn't let that bastard get to me, but...” Vera let out a string of muffled curses as he slammed the trashcan again. “Damn smug son-of-a-bitch. He knows Tony's in town. Insisted on speaking to him and no one else.”

Right... So Things Going Better... Just Not Going to Happen...

2009-12-16T10:22:48Z

Ever, apparently. I don't know if my weird mood earlier (which insisted that I must finish and post fic even though it was the only thing I accomplished today as well as wanting to cry for no apparent reason and weird panic attack stuff as well) was semi-prophetic or simply a coincidence in the light of the last few hours.

I was about to head off to bed, putting to rest my DDA chapter until the next day, but then my phone gets a text message. My grandmother is in the hospital, not doing well, and from the sound of it, they want to take her off life-support/don't think she'll make it through the night.

Sleeping was shot, so I finished the chapter, and I'm waiting. Waiting for some word.

Exhaustion's probably going to take me, first.

She's states away, and I guess I kind of knew this was coming, but I'm too far away to say goodbye, you know?

EDIT: So, my grandmother has stabilized. Apparently she has pneumonia, among other things, and the new word is to wait and see, something I've never been very good at...

And to Think, I Thought Things Were Getting....Better...

2009-12-16T10:10:13Z

Part Fourteen: Return the Color of Red
Word Count: 4,590
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I can't own anything. The pygmies and debt collectors own me. Well, I created Jitterbug, and I like her. She's mine, and I'm keeping her.
Summary: The Cylons believe that God has a plan. There are others who believe the Gods have a plan. And prophecy never lies, right?
Pairings: Lee/Kara
Author's Note: I really, really, emphatically hate this time of year. It is a bad time of year, and if I was still working retail, I'd have to kill myself. Not that I don't have enough reasons to hate this time of year without holidays since it looks like death comes calling in real life and in fiction. Fun. Anyway, here is chapter. Not all is as it seems, but it never is.

Return the Color of Red

“That book is not for your eyes to see,” Egeria began as she walked into the room. She looked at the man across the room, his hand moving over the book of Alastrina like some sick parody of a lover, his lips curved into a smile that she found both revolting and infuriating.

“This book? A charming fairy tale, but highly impractical.”

“What would you know of fairy tails or even practicality?” she countered as she continued towards him. Her hand moved down to unhook the strap holding her sidearm in its holster. She was prepared to take his life if that was what it meant, if that was what was necessary to protect the book. It was her responsibility, and she would not back down from it. She would do what she must. If his life ended here, that was his choice. He would give her the book. There was no alternative.

“More than you might think, little one. But if you've come for your book, you'll be disappointed. “I haven't finished reading it yet.”

“The words are not meant for you. For the guide and the Avatar and a select few who aid him. You do not qualify as any of those.”

“How do you know that I couldn't be of assistance to the Avatar?”

“Because I know what you are.”

She needed a fix. Badly. She didn't want to be standing here, with Zarek and the lieutenant from Galactica, waiting to learn what had killed Admiral Cain. They had stood over her as her body was examined, mutilated beyond dignity and without any form of mercy. She had been cut open and revealed for all that she was, all that she was not. She was painfully human in the end. She was human, mortal, her legend ended before its time, in such a manner... No, Shaw had trouble believing that Cain would have met her end in such a way. She would have faced it head on, without flinching, but this had been a coward's work, someone not prepared to face their enemy properly.

Zarek had mentioned the rumors about Captain Adama, about his strange abilities. They were not as rampant on Pegasus as they were in the rest of the fleet, though they seemed to grow in number now that Cain had died. Shaw knew that Cain had kept the rumors down, but Fisk seemed to encourage them. Shaw knew he had his own reasons for it. She was not sure what those were, yet, but she watched. She waited. She listened.

Now that the rumors had become public knowledge, Shaw had heard plenty. She had her doubts about the truth in them, though she had been with Cain when Adama had announced that he controlled the ships. She had seen the ships stop on the screen, had heard the pilots cry in frustration and confusion. That much had been real. His ability as a healer she had no knowledge of, but she had seen the fleet that Adama had destroyed. He was capable of a great number of things.

Murder, though, she doubted was among them. No, she didn't like him, that was not why she said it. But she knew what he was, and she knew what he wasn't. A man with that great of power had no reason to fear a woman like Cain, no matter how intimidating a legend or what army she commanded. She was the leader of one ship against a man who could control fleets. What reason would he have to kill her? And like this? In a way that seemed to point just to him? He might not have been the most intelligent man in their ragtag fleet, but he was not stupid, either.

If Adama had killed Cain, he would not have done it like this. He could easily have arranged an “accident.” He could have seen to it that she died in a manner that put no blame on anyone. It could have been a short in a wire, an explosion that devastated an entire deck or just her quarters. There was no need for her to have died so suspiciously.

“You've been pretty quiet,” Zarek observed, looking at her.

“You have said more than enough for all of us,” she told him coldly. Gaeta looked like he was trying not to laugh. “It seems to me you would let this death be on the shoulders of Commander Adama's son. The Avatar.”

“And why not? She died in a closed room and not from natural causes. Who else has that ability?”

“Anyone, actually,” Cottle corrected as he came back into the room. “Anyone with access to a black market, at any rate. She didn't die of some mystical mumbo jumbo. No fancy power did this. Just an ordinary, usually rare, poison.”

“Which we would never have seen if Cottle hadn't made us test for every possible poison and toxin known to man,” the other doctor grumbled. “But he's right. She was poisoned.”

“She ingested it?” Shaw asked, watching the doctor carefully.

“Had to have been to get this much in her system,” Cottle explained. “If she breathed it in, she could never have gotten this much in her system, and her body shows no signs of injection or chronic use. She was poisoned in her food or drink, something that would cover it up and mask not only the taste but the chemical itself.”

“And someone gave it to her, because there was no sign of any glass or other dishes in her room when she was found,” Gaeta said. “It was murder.”

“And it was not done by Adama,” Shaw said. “Gods have no need of poison.”

Bright red drops fell to the floor. A splatter, a puddle, a river, the ocean, the end...

“You have to move, Kara.”

“You try it, and you're dead,” she warned him, swallowing hard. She really didn't want to do this. She liked Anders. She had liked him for a long time. She had given a dog tag to him. She had thought perhaps she loved him.

It was all over. It was all a lie. She hadn't felt more than a need to frak him and lose herself for a few minutes. She wanted to believe she was worth something after Lee got pissed at her, and she had used the first man who showed an interest in her. Anders had been there. He had been convenient. She had used him. That was all it was. He thought it was more. He was wrong. She could have married him, and it would have still come back to Lee, her and Lee.

“You have to move, Kara.”

Wait a minute. That hadn't been from Anders. She turned to look behind her, just in time to hear a gun go off. She had to stop for a second to breathe, make sure that she was in one piece, even as she looked over Lee. He was fine. She was fine. Then... Anders had missed? Or was it... Wait. Lee had a gun. She remembered putting one next to him, just like the one that she had put next to her. He wasn't awake, though, was he?

She looked back at Anders. He was on the ground, hissing and cursing in pain as he tried to stop the blood from flowing out of the wound on his knee. She looked back at Lee, who was now sitting up, still looking rather weak. She put her hands on her hips as she shook her head. “What the hell are you doing?”

“You know there's more to your...power than ripping people apart, right?” he asked, leaning against the wall weakly.

“Who needs any other powers when you're awake and alive and shooting people?” she asked as she sat down next to him.

“Kara, no offense, but if you want me to stay awake, alive, and able to shoot people, you have to get him out of here. I don't want to heal him, but he's draining me anyway,” Lee told her, and she hopped over to Anders, dragging him out of the room. She wondered how far she would have to haul his damn butt before she could ditch him. She didn't want to kill him, true, but she didn't want to help him anymore. She wanted him as far away from her as possible. She couldn't stand looking at him anymore. He was disgusting.

She figured that she should dump him near sickbay if she wanted him to live. She wasn't really sure that was what she wanted, not anymore. Anders had tried to kill Lee. It was unforgivable. She should kill him for trying. And the frakker had wanted to go through her. She should kill him.

She dropped him, kicked him for good measure, and headed back to Lee as fast as she could run. He was still awake, barely, and he didn't look very good. She shook her head. “I should smack you. You nearly killed yourself.”

“One of us had to survive.”

“You're not allowed to make it me, you frakker,” she said, sitting down next to him. “I don't want to be left behind without you. I can't frakking do this on my own.”

“You can do a lot more than you think.”

“Save the motivational speech for someone else, frakker.”

“You love me.”

“Frak you.”

“And what is it you think I am? A Cylon?”

Egeria looked at him. She couldn't give in to him, allow him to distract her. The important thing was to get the book. It was not something that could be left in his hands. It was not for his eyes, and he could not be allowed to see more than he had already. He was not trustworthy. She knew what he was. The prophecy had spoken of this one.

“Give me the book.”

“I know you have a gun. Are you planning on shooting me, little one?” He laughed a little. “You're already too late.”

His conviction disturbed her, and she knew, then, what this moment was. She had said she had made peace with this eventuality, but in the face of her own mortality, all of that preparation failed. She was not ready for this, not ready to die.

“I have to say, this wasn't exactly what I was expecting,” Roslin said as she looked over the results that the committee had compiled. Bill had to agree with her. He might have been hoping to exonerate his son in the eyes of everyone, but he wasn't really expecting to find this kind of proof.

“Admiral Cain was definitely murdered. The killer tried to cover what he—or she—did, and it would almost have worked,” Gaeta reported, looking nervously at the others. Zarek had to be wondering how he could turn this information to his advantage, but Bill had no idea what was going on inside the head of Kendra Shaw. That made him curious.

“Naturally, the investigation isn't finished,” Roslin went on. “We still don't know who killed the Admiral.”

“We've acquired the logs of all deliveries and transports that came and left the Pegasus in the time it would have taken, but it's hard to be certain exactly when the poison was given to the admiral,” Gaeta admitted. He looked over at Zarek. The killer shook his head as well. “There is a relatively short shelf-life on this poison... It would have been undrinkable within a day, but only if the container had been opened. If it was sealed, it might have been there for a lot longer. Technically, it could have been given to her or someone else before the colonies were destroyed.”

“That hardly narrows down the list of suspects,” Roslin said with a sigh, removing her glasses. She looked over at Bill, but he had no assistance to give her.

He studied Kendra Shaw again. “You have a thought, Lieutenant?”

She watched him for a moment, assessing him. He'd heard a bit about her, that she was Cain's protege, and he doubted she thought very highly of him, but she knew something, and he wanted to know what that was. He knew she had insights that the others lacked because they had not served with Cain, had not been aboard Pegasus. Bill also knew that she might be guilty of participating in the slaughter of the civilian fleet Pegasus once had. She had to be watched, monitored, and could not necessarily be trusted.

“I believe I may know who killed Admiral Cain,” she began, quickly gathering everyone's attention. “However, it is not an accusation I can make without proof.”

He looked at Roslin, and she nodded. “Mr. Gaeta, Mr. Zarek, please wait for Ms. Shaw outside. She will rejoin you shortly.”
Zarek watched them, always trying to find and use some sort of angle. He was dangerous, but at least they knew the danger he presented. He could be used. Gaeta, good man, but he was out of his depth here, and it did show. It showed more than it should have. Bill focused his attention back on Shaw. He wondered if he would surprise her at all with his next words. “You believe the killer is Commander Fisk, don't you?”

The woman's eyes flickered with a brief moment of appreciation, and she nodded. “I do.”

“As do I,” Bill agreed, folding his hands in front of him. Roslin watched them both with amusement and surprise. “You are correct in saying we will need proof for such a claim.”

“Fisk was involved in a black market before the civilian fleet was... eliminated,” Shaw said with a shrug. “I believe it would not have taken much for him to have ingratiated himself to those running the same operation in your civilian fleet. He would have had access, now and then.”

“It's one thing knowing that he was involved in the black market,” Roslin said. “It does not prove that he killed Admiral Cain.”

“But there might be a way to get him to tell us if he did.”

If she had the gun, then she had no reason to fear him, wasn't that true? He was unarmed. Surely he was not going to escape injury or death when she had a weapon, and he did not. If he was truly threatening her, he would have threatened the book. He would have burned it. Was she even so certain that this man had it? He might not. His words might be a cruel jest, laughter at her expense. She had thought perhaps the interloper had done it, had taken the book in his anger and hatred of Captain Adama, but the interloper had gone to Thrace, who had dispatched him. It was not the interloper. This one... He could have done it.

“You haven't come for your little book yet,” he went on, smiling again. “Afraid you can't take it from me? You have the gun, don't you?”

“You have no fear of my weapon,” she observed. “That is insanity, foolishness, or knowledge. You have something planned, do you not? You have been waiting for me.”

“Of course.”

“Why did you save her, anyway?” Kara asked as Lee looked at his mother across the room. He didn't dare walk any further into the room, not with as many sick or injured people as were there. He was the Avatar, a hero, and an idiot, to hear Kara tell it, but he wasn't suicidal. Not anymore. He had a purpose, and he knew that he wasn't done yet. If he was going to die before it was over, then it would have happened when they were dealing with that fleet. It should have killed him. Should have ended it all there. So he needed to talk to Jitterbug, find out why the frak he was still alive.

“My mother?” Lee shrugged. “She might be... a bitch, but she's my mother. Some bonds don't break no matter how hard you try to break them. Look at me and my dad. You and me.”

“I suppose you have a point. But the fleet really doesn't need your mother,” Kara said, making a face. “You, me, your dad, yeah, the fleet needs us. Needed us even before the freaky god powers. But her? No.”

Lee laughed a little as he shook his head. “It isn't... I don't know. I know I chose to save her, and I wouldn't change my mind about doing it even though it nearly killed me, despite the way that she treated me afterward... And she is who she is... For better or worse, good or bad, she's my mother. I chose to save her, and maybe I have a reason that I don't even know myself. There's a reason.”

“Is that why you had to come down here? Because you're searching for some frakking reason?”

“Maybe. Why does this upset you so much anyway?” he asked as Kara started to pull him back through the halls.

“Because she didn't frakking deserve it, and I don't like when people mess with you. Remember, I'm your big, bad protector.”

“Hmm,” he said, knowing this would piss her off, “some protector you were. I saved myself. Again.”

“Frak you, Lee. I would have dealt with him. I just didn't want to kill him. Though, the more I think about it, maybe I did want to kill him. Maybe I do want to kill him. I should, because he tried to kill you. Us. I should go back and kill him,” she said, shrugging. “I really don't think you should have gotten up yet. You look all pale and shit.”

Lee shook his head. “I don't want to spend all of my time in my dad's quarters.”

“A couple more hours wouldn't have hurt,” she muttered under her breath as she continued to push him back towards the commander's quarters. “I didn't even finish telling you about everything that happened. You were out a long time, Lee. Things have gotten a little crazy around here.”

“Things were crazy when I was awake. What now?”

“Cain's dead. Murdered. They're looking into it.” Kara dropped her voice to a whisper. “You didn't... dream about killing her did you?”

“No. Did you?”

“No. So, Cain's dead. Guess that makes your dad the admiral now,” Kara mused as they got closer to his father's quarters. “And... I know this won't matter as much to you, but Sharon's dead. Helo's Sharon. The one with the baby. They couldn't save her after what those frakkers did to her.”

Lee shook his head. “It's a good thing they're already dead.”

“Come on, Lee. She was a machine. One that looked exactly like the one that shot your father.”

“Yeah, but I know how Helo felt about her,” Lee said. “Where is he? Have you seen him? You told me they got free, but you didn't say how they were.”

“Jitterbug is just as preachy and sanctimonious as usual,” Kara said, shrugging. She looked up at the people going through the corridors. “Speaking of Helo... Karl. Agathon. You in there somewhere?”

Helo looked up, still slightly dazed. “Lee? You're... awake.”

“And someone needs a drink,” Kara said, shaking her head. She pushed Lee into his father's room and Helo in after him. Lee frowned. “Stay put, boys. I'll be right back.”

Lee looked over Helo. He didn't think alcohol was really going to solve the other man's problems, but he knew that was one of Kara's two coping mechanisms. Three, actually. She drank, fought, or frakked. Sometimes she even combined two or more of them. She could go find alcohol. He would talk to Helo while she was gone. He didn't know that it would help, but he would try.

“You heard?” Helo asked, and Lee nodded.

“I'm sorry.”

“So everyone keep saying. Well, not everyone. A lot of people think she was just a machine. Even Jitterbug just thought she was a machine... But then she said she wasn't...”

“She was human to you,” Lee told him. “That's what matters.”

Egeria knew there was not two of him. There could not be. Yet she felt that someone was behind her. With a calm that was not hers, an acceptance of the destiny that she could not deny, she moved forward. She had to reclaim the book. That was her only option. She could not wait, could not linger. Whatever he had planned for her, she could not afford to hesitate and let someone else join them. If she left to seek assistance, he would burn the book. She could not allow that to come to pass. Her memory was not enough. It was not what the Avatar needed.

She reached out her hand, placing the one not on her sidearm on the book. “Let go.”

His smile curved wickedly, and a sharp pain stabbed through her side. Perhaps it had even been there for a while, and she had not noticed. She could see blood on the floor. Red. A splatter, a puddle... She was a fool. She was in shock, and her focus had been the book. She should have noticed how her hand shook holding the gun. She should have realized that it was not fear.

“Is your precious book worth your life?”

“I will not let you destroy it,” she told him as she fired. He fell back, and she grabbed the book weakly, collapsing to the ground. She would protect it until she was gone. Someone would see it safely to Captain Adama...

Helo was tempted by Kara's offer of alcohol. He'd like to forget. Oh, how he wanted to forget. He didn't want to remember any of it, not the past year, because if he did... No, he didn't want to think about it. Everything he'd been through with Sharon. He'd loved her before Caprica, loved her after Caprica. He should have known it would never last. His child, their child. It wasn't meant to be. It couldn't be. She couldn't be.

A drink sounded good about now. Lots of them, enough to forget just how frakked up it all was. He didn't know what the hell he was doing anymore. He'd tried to figure it out, but he didn't know what it was or what to do anymore.

“She's been gone a while.”

“Two minutes. It passes longer than you think,” Lee told him, and Helo winced. He shook his head. This was messed up, frakked up, the whole damn frakking universe. “You ever think the lucky ones died in the attack?”
“Doesn't everyone think that, every day?”

“Oh, I'm sure they do,” Lee agreed. “No one can tell you it will be all right, especially not out here, not after everything we've been through. I... I suppose I owe you an apology, more than anyone. I mean, I know I said I was sorry, but I wasn't saying it—”

“You can't heal everyone.”

“Does that really make it easier to accept? Does it make you less angry with me? If I'd been here, if I hadn't been off playing with our—my—god powers, your wife and baby would be alive, right?” Lee asked, and Helo turned to him. Damn it, did he really have to do this now? He didn't want to go over this. He didn't want to think about this.

“She wasn't my wife.”

“She was, in every sense but one. Quit dodging the question and face me. I'm offering you a chance, Helo. I shouldn't, and you don't have long because Kara will get pissed if she finds out, but if you're angry at me, then... hit me, take it out on me now. It's the only chance you'll have,” Lee told him, and Helo found himself laughing.

“I couldn't do it. I am pissed, but I got that anger out of me already. Hit Anders a few times. Felt good. Too good. Finally stopped. Now... I'm just... numb.” Helo shrugged. He picked himself up and started to pace a little. “I don't know what to do.”

“No one can tell you that.”

“Says the man who has a frakking prophecy.”

“I don't have a prophecy. Jitterbug has a prophecy,” Lee corrected, and they both smiled at that. “I should talk to her, actually. I don't know what to do now, either.”

Frak. Helo had pushed Jitterbug away earlier. He had no idea where she was, but he'd meant to find her and apologize. She'd been there for him, and he owed her an apology. And hell, he didn't know what else to do. “I'll send her along after I talk to her. I need to... She was there, you know? She was with me when I found out.”

Lee nodded, and Helo headed out. He really didn't know where Jitterbug would be, but she had to be around somewhere, and the longer it took to find her, the longer he would have a purpose. That was okay with him. He started going room by room. She didn't usually go where she wasn't stationed or where a lot of people were. It shouldn't be hard to find her, but she wasn't in her hiding spot, on the flight deck, or in her rack. She was gods knew where.

He was walking down his fifteenth or sixteenth corridor; he'd lost track, when he heard the gunshot. It echoed against the bulkhead, and he knew that couldn't be good, no matter who had fired it. He ran towards it with the others, seeing blood on the ground and pushing past everyone as he reached the room. “Oh, frak.”

It couldn't be real. Not twice in a row. He couldn't do this. He couldn't... But he went closer, closer than the others who only stared. “Go get some frakking help. Get Cottle. Get Lee. Go. Now, right frakking now.”

“Helo,” Egeria managed to say, and thank the gods she wasn't dead, he had to think as he knelt next to her, putting a hand over the wound in her stomach. Gods, she wasn't the one who was shot, so what the frak was she doing bleeding like this? She shouldn't be bleeding like this. “Helo... the book...”

“Shh. You're going to be okay,” he told her. He had to believe that because he couldn't lose everything in one frakking day. Not again. He couldn't do this.

“Give...it... to... Captain...” she struggled for the words, and he pressed a finger to her lips. She wasn't allowed to do it, no dying words or admissions or orders. No last requests because she was not frakking dying. It wasn't allowed to happen.

“You're not dying. You hear me, you are not frakking dying on me.”

Normally, There Wouldn't Be Two in One Day...

2009-12-15T22:35:01Z

New Chance, Old Dance
Chapter Two
Word Count: 3,506
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I can't own anything. The pygmies and debt collectors own me.
Summary: Philadelphia is the past for some, the present for others. Not everyone can let it go.
Author's Note: This is a crossover with Cold Case, because I've watched every episode that's aired now, and I love it, and all my latest ideas are Cold Case related. Basically, this is my first time writing for Cold Case because I haven't finished anything else yet, but I think I've done justice to the Cold Case characters. It seemed obvious to me, after watching an episode with a murdered marine that NCIS and Cold Case would make a great crossover, and then I remembered that Tony used to work in Philadelphia, so I twisted that into my story. This will be a gen story for Cold Case (there are sadly not enough of those), and Tony/Abby (eventually) for NCIS.

So, today people get a bit spoiled. Mostly because I'm posting this mainly for NCIS (Tabby) people, and since the first chapter was mostly Cold Case, here's a reward for reading through it if it's not your thing. :)

Any Port in a Storm

“I'm looking for Nick Vera.”

“Well, isn't that a shame,” Kat muttered as she walked past. Not that the white boy was really her type, but he had a nice ass. She could definitely appreciate that. He was rocking a nice suit, too, better than the ones around here. Had to be a fed. Shame about that, too. Two strikes against this one. “Vera's out on a call. Something we can help you with?”

The visitor shrugged, looking around the room. She got the feeling he'd been here before and was marking the changes in it. Maybe he was another loved one coming in with new direction on a cold job. Happened a lot around here. But coming to Vera was a bad choice, and why would a fed really need Vera to help him? She shrugged it off as she picked up the necessary paperwork and went into the lieutenant's office, knocking on the door. He looked up from the large stacks and smiled. “Miller. Something you need?”

“Veronica's got a school trip next Tuesday. I need it off.” He nodded, then frowned as he looked out at the squadroom.

“Sure thing, Miller. Let the others know so they're prepared to cover you. Anything else?”

“No, sir, I'm good,” she said, turning to leave. Something held her back, and she stopped, watching her boss for a moment. This case must have been big if it was weighing on the lieutenant like this. “Everything okay with you... sir?”

“I'm fine,” he said, coming back to the here and now. He looked back at his desk and sighed. “Ask DiNozzo to come in and see me, would you?”

“DiNozzo?” she looked back at the stranger in the other room. Had to be him, right? No one else around, and Stillman seemed to know the guy. She nodded and headed over to the suit, who was checking his watch. “You're DiNozzo, I take it. Boss wants to see you.”

He shrugged again, but headed into Stillman's office without a word. She went back to her desk and sat down as Jefferies came back with the team's lunch. She took out the money for her part of it and passed it over to him. He pocketed it with a smile. “Who's in with the boss?”

“He called him DiNozzo. That someone you know?”

“Sounds familiar,” Jefferies said, leaning back with his food. “Seems to me that we had a detective by that name once. Think he was Vera's partner. He came up the way most of them do, just did it faster. Hot shot undercover cop, did a big bust and moved over to homicide.

” “What happened to him?”

“Not sure. He didn't stick around long, I know that much.”

“Couldn't hack it?”

“Don't know about that. Seems like he was here one day and gone the next.” Jefferies answered with a shrug. Valens and Rush came back from the latest interview and picked up their food quietly. Something must have gone wrong in the last interview. Vera was the same, but he'd been bugging on this case from the word go. All he could think of was getting Jones, and it was starting to cause problems. He snatched a sandwich without a word. “I don't run a charity. Pay up.”

“Vera,” Stillman called from his office. “Come in here for a second.”

“Oh, come on, Boss. I was just letting off steam,” Vera protested as she headed into the office. Kat looked at the office again.

“He's still taking it awful hard,” Scotty commented as he dug into his meal.

Lilly caught a loose piece of lettuce and nodded. “He's convinced that Jones did it, but there's no physical evidence. And the case really messed up his partner and he transferred out.”

“Really? Kind of an odd coincidence that he came back two days after the case was reopened,” Jefferies observed, and Kat looked over at him. She hadn't realized when he said DiNozzo had been Vera's partner that he had been the partner that worked this case.

“Doesn't sound like a coincidence to me,” Valens said, taking a bite and following it with a sip from his drink. Lilly shook her head as she used a napkin.

“I don't think it is. Vera said he used to get letters from this guy while he was in prison,” she said, looking over at the office, trying to see what was going on with Vera and Stillman, maybe get a look at DiNozzo. “DiNozzo's in there?”

“Yeah. He came for Vera; Boss asked him in,” Kat answered. She finished her food and threw away the garbage. “Funny. I figured him for a fed. He had a nicer suit than most feds, but he had that look.”

“Vera said that DiNozzo was the one Jones talked to. Anytime Vera was in the room, the guy clammed up, but if he was alone with DiNozzo, he just kept talking, about everything. Gave the guy his whole life story and didn't stop after he went up, kept sending letters even after DiNozzo transferred,” Lilly said, and Kat knew she was trying to figure out what made this DiNozzo so special. She had seen the man, and she had no idea. “He probably let DiNozzo know the minute he got out.”

“A couple days before, actually,” DiNozzo said, shrugging a little as he left Stillman's office. He was a bundle of energy, ready to move at any moment, but his smile was almost too friendly for the circumstances. “Guy's real full of himself. He knew he was going to get out, and he let me know, too.”

Lilly frowned as she took the picture that DiNozzo held out. “This isn't Martie.”

He shook his head, shrugging again. Kat had lost track of how many times he did that. This, she thought, was a man who played up an “aw shucks” act to disarm people. He was good at it, too. “No. That's Abby. She's a friend of mine. I know it's a threat, but I have no proof that Jones sent it.”

“You drove up here from Baltimore because he sent you a picture?”

DiNozzo looked over at Valens, the smile and good buddy act vanishing quickly. “If you had talked to Jones and gotten a picture of your partner over here in the mail, you wouldn't be asking me that. But no, actually, I'm not here just because of a picture. I have official business elsewhere in Philly.”

“Oh, yeah?” Valens pushed, and Kat figured there was a testosterone war going on in front of them. She exchanged a look with Lilly, who was trying not to laugh. DiNozzo's phone rang, and he answered it, ignoring Valens.

“What? I already got it. Look, Magoo, contrary to your opinion, I don't need my hand held during an investigation. If Gibbs is pissed, Gibbs can tell me himself,” DiNozzo rolled his eyes at the person on the other end. “Yes, McGeek, since you're so curious, there are women here. Beautiful ones. With handcuffs and guns.”

He shut the phone and Valens snickered while Jefferies lifted his eyebrows. Kat looked at DiNozzo, waiting for him to dig himself further into a hole. Lilly shook her head. “We're not keeping you from anything, are we?”

“Only the wrath of a former marine with a stare that should qualify as a weapon,” DiNozzo answered with a smile. “I'll be in town for the next few days. Vera knows how to reach me.”

“What about this Abby? Where is she?”

“Hanging out with an ex-Mossad assassin.”

McGee was starting to think they should never investigate a case in town where Tony had a past again. Then again, Tony had a habit of disappearing when he didn't have a past, so it probably didn't matter. Still, since they got to Philadelphia, Tony had disappeared. He'd barely been around long enough to find out what their case was before he took off, supposedly to talk to old contacts here that might know something. It wasn't like he had a bad idea or that he shouldn't, but no one had seen or heard from Tony in almost a day, and it looked like Gibbs was getting worried—if that anger counted as worry. It was hard to tell with Gibbs.

“Nice of you to join us,” McGee muttered as Tony walked in the door, and the other man smiled like it was nothing. The office seemed smaller, but then it wasn't much more than his old cubbyhole in Norfolk. He should feel right at home, but he didn't. Tim sighed. He didn't know why Tony got away with half of what he did. Sometimes he was a menace, sometimes he was an idiot, and sometimes he solved the case.

“I was doing my job, Magoo. I know, it's not something you recognize without a computer—kind of like your women—but some of us know what it's like to have a life outside of Dungeons and Dragons.” McGee gripped his pen tightly. He wished Ziva was here, instead of back in DC, testifying for one of their other cases. She and Abby were both on the stand today. Gibbs and Tony had already testified, and Tim didn't have to because he had been out sick for most of that one. Still, if Ziva was here, he wouldn't have to deal with Tony's crap alone. There was probably some girl involved, though it was surprising that any of Tony's exes still spoke to him.

“Gibbs was looking for you,” McGee told him.

“He say why?”

“You need a reason, DiNozzo?” Gibbs asked as he came into the room. The boss was on his fourth cup of coffee today, and the commander of the ship the dead ensign served on was stonewalling them, blocking the investigation at every turn. Normally, Gibbs' reputation alone was enough to make everyone cooperate, but this one had been at sea too long. He didn't really fear Gibbs, not like he should.

“No, Boss, of course not,” Tony answered. He smiled widely. The smile said that everything was fine, but of course it wasn't. Nothing was, not with the team split, Tony disappearing and hiding something, Gibbs—well, McGee was pretty sure that Gibbs knew what Tony was hiding, but neither of them were talking. It bothered him. Things had been awkward ever since he came back, but things were worse now. The tension was thick. Someone was going to end up leaving.

“What about the leads you were tracking, Tony?”

He looked over at McGee, shaking his head. “Dead end. Nothing came of it. So, what did the geek squad come up with?”

“I tracked the ensign's movements through his leave. I found that he was in these different places according to his cellphone GPS, credit records, and traffic videos.”

“Sounds like your computer screwed up, McGeek.”

“Or maybe the ensign never left the boat,” Gibbs said, and McGee frowned at the simple yet genius explanation. Tony shrugged and picked up a paperweight from the desk. He turned it around in his hand and shook his head.
“Gonna take a long time to search that ship, Boss.”

“Then you'd better get started, shouldn't you?”

Tony took out his phone and checked it again. No calls. It was hard to keep his mind on the search when he knew that Jones was out there, walking free. He could go after Abby, and she didn't know that he was after her. Tony should warn her. It was the right thing to do. Tell her, tell Gibbs, tell Ziva. Abby could handle herself most of the time, and there was no way that Ziva or Gibbs would let anyone hurt her, wouldn't let anything happen to her. Even Magoo would help. But Tony hadn't told her—hadn't told any of them—about Jones. He couldn't.

“We could be twins, you know,” Jones began, leaning back in his chair. He tapped his fingers on the table and smiled. “You can admit it now that jumbo's out of the room.”

“Excuse me?” Tony looked up at the door, wishing that Vera would come back through it. He'd sat across from far worse than Jones—he'd eaten with them, done things when he was undercover—but this kid was something else.

“You're the rookie, right? Shouldn't he have sent you for the drink? Oh, no, you see, he sees what I see. You and I, we're the same. Underneath that suit and badge, there is another me,” Jones said, looking Tony over. It was... disturbing. Tony wished he'd never picked this guy up or looked over his file. “How do you stand it, coming in here, everyday, working for these people? I couldn't do it. My family was rich. So damn rich. I should have been able to shut this place down with a snap of my fingers.”

“Your family is rich. You are not. You think that makes you entitled?” Tony asked, unimpressed. He knew better than anyone that money only mattered as long as a person had it. Coming from money didn't do any good if the money wasn't there to back up the hot air. “So... If you hadn't been cut off, you would have been able to buy Martie?”

“Oh, they all lie and say they're not for sale,” Jones laughed. He leaned forward across the table. “We know better, don't we, Tony? Enough money buys anyone. After all, my mother's death was supposedly a suicide. He bought that, bought the lie, the silence.”

Tony shrugged. “Maybe your mother didn't love you enough.”

“Is that what you wonder, Tony? If your mother just didn't love you enough?” Jones laughed. “I have no doubts. My mother was murdered.”

“You use her death to excuse what you do... Or was she your first?”

“My first? What a charming phrase. My first what, exactly? First kill? Or did your mother use you like no boy should be used? Is that the sense you're asking about? Hmm. I lost my virginity to a maid. Pretty, foreign little thing.”

Tony shook his head. The conversation was going around in circles. It was in Jones' control, and there was nothing that Tony could do to change that. He could try, but he didn't know how to change it. He was losing to Jones. They were too similar, and though it turned his stomach, he could see where the man was coming from. “Martie. She wasn't foreign.”

“But she was pretty, wasn't she?” Jones grinned. “Admit it. You would have hit on her. It could be you sitting on this side of that table.”

Abby walked into her lab with a smile. She had missed this place. She always did when she was away for court. No matter how many times she gave evidence in a case, she never got used to testifying. It always made her nervous, and it didn't help that her team was up in Philadelphia while she was doing it. Usually, if things got a bit bad on cross, if the defense started attacking her, she could look to Gibbs and Ziva for quiet support, McGee and Ducky for encouragement, or Tony would do something to make her want to laugh and forget all the stress. Today it had only been Ziva, and she wasn't enough. Abby couldn't shake the feeling that something truly hinky was going on.

She took off her suit jacket and dumped it on her desk as she kicked off her shoes and reached for her favorite shirt, getting rid of the dress blouse. She hated that suit. And the pink one, too. Career Girl Barbie. Dang, she really missed Tony. He always made her feel better about wearing the ridiculous suit. She crossed over to the phone, picking up Bert and giving him a squeeze as she hit the speed dial for Tony. He picked up right away. “Abs. Hey. How are you?”

She gave Bert another squeeze, right next to the phone, just so that he could hear it, and when he laughed, she felt a bit better. He sounded off, and she didn't know how she knew that because he'd barely said anything, but she'd always been pretty good at figuring out Tony's moods. “I'm fine. I missed you though. And you know what, you missed a chance to see Career Girl Barbie?”

“Damn,” Tony said, right on cue, but something was still off about it. She could hear him shift around as he adjusted the phone, picturing the grin that usually followed with a little emptiness in his eyes. “Did you picture the audience naked?” She shook her head, ignoring the image of Tony naked that always popped in her head when they had this conversation—or any conversation about court because it always led to having to picture the audience naked and that always made her think of Tony in the audience, and Tony naked was not a bad thing to picture. “You weren't there. What was the point?”

“You really did miss me,” Tony said, and this time his smile was genuine. “But Ziva was there. Come on, that could have been interesting, you and the former assassin...”

“Tony,” Abby said, trying not to laugh because he was just saying that to distract her. “How's the case going? What's it like being back in Philadelphia? Have you seen a lot of people you know? Visit any of your old haunts? You had haunts, right? You had to have haunts.”

“Slow down, Abs,” he said with a weary sigh. “Gibbs has us searching an entire ship because he thinks that the ensign never made it on dry ground. So far, we've managed maybe half a deck. It's not fun. McGee's being a pain in the ass about me tracking down leads on my own. I haven't really had time to find any of my old... haunts, as you put it, or talk to anyone I used to know.”

Now she knew he was lying. And she didn't like it. If she'd been there, Tony would never have tried to lie to her. He knew that she saw right through him. “If I came up there, would you introduce me to any of them, or are you keeping secrets? Did you break a lot of hearts in Philly before you left?”

“Please. I always do,” Tony answered with a false smile. “I'd introduce you to a few people, I guess, but not many because I like having my Abby to myself. Even if I share you with McGee, Gibbs, Ducky... Not so sure I'd mind sharing you with Ziva. Are you sure you didn't picture her naked?”

“If I did, you know I wouldn't tell you about it,” Abby told him with a smile, though she barely had the heart for the teasing when she knew he was holding something back from her. She looked at Bert, and she knew he agreed with her. Tony was hiding something. She wasn't going to find out what it was over the phone, either. “I never did tell you where Kate's tattoo was.”

“And you owe me for that,” Tony agreed. “Hey, any chance I can talk you out of that secret or a few others when I get back in town?”

“Cafe Atlantico's still there,” she reminded him, but if he really thought he was going to get away with hiding something from her until he got back, he was completely wrong.

“If you wear that black dress I like so much.”

“Deal.”

“Good. Look, Abs, I gotta go. Whole ship to search and all,” Tony said awkwardly and hung up before she could say anything else. Okay, that settled it. She was going to Philadelphia. With Bert.

Wow, Way to Forget the Subject Line...

2009-12-15T21:45:51Z

New Chance, Old Dance
Chapter One
Word Count: 3,118
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I can't own anything. The pygmies and debt collectors own me.
Summary: Philadelphia is the past for some, the present for others. Not everyone can let it go.
Author's Note: This is a crossover with Cold Case, because I've watched every episode that's aired now, and I love it, and all my latest ideas are Cold Case related. Basically, this is my first time writing for Cold Case because I haven't finished anything else yet, but I think I've done justice to the Cold Case characters. It seemed obvious to me, after watching an episode with a murdered marine that NCIS and Cold Case would make a great crossover, and then I remembered that Tony used to work in Philadelphia, so I twisted that into my story. This will be a gen story for Cold Case (there are sadly not enough of those), and Tony/Abby (eventually) for NCIS.

Familiar Chills

May 2, 1998

Martie walked down the stairs, the shoes causing her to stumble. Heels were a bad idea, but she couldn't resist. She was determined to be the best that she could. This night was special. She was going to have a great time, the best, make the night one to remember forever. She caught sight of the car from the window and smiled as she stopped beside the hall mirror for one more check.

She twisted a curl tighter, tied to push down a few stray hairs, pushing them behind her ears so that the designer earrings showed, and quickly redid her lipstick. She looked good, but she wanted it perfect. Everything should be perfect tonight.
She heard Karen singing along to music in the other room and shook her head. Someday this night would come for her, and Martie knew that Karen would make an even bigger deal out of it. After all, she was the one that wanted that whole dream: husband, kids. She wanted the career, too, didn't really know how it would work, that something always got sacrificed in the end. Still, even if marriage wasn't for her, Martie was looking forward to seeing Karen in that big white dress, veil on her head and flowers in her hands.

She crossed quickly to the door and leaned inside. “Hey, I'm heading out now.”

She doubted Karen had heard her. She was too busy dancing around happily and singing at the top of her lungs. Martie shook her head with a smile and headed for the door. She put her hand on the doorknob and stopped, cursing under her breath as she realized that she had forgotten her purse. She kicked off her shoes really quick, ran up the stairs and grabbed the bag off her bed. She pulled it over her shoulder and ran back down. She sat on the bottom step and put her shoes back on. He was going to be so mad...

She rushed out the door and to the car. “I'm sorry. I almost forgot my purse.”

He just looked at her, putting the car into gear. She sighed and looked out the window. This night was supposed to be perfect. They were supposed to be perfect. She had already screwed it up. But it would get better. She would make sure that it got better. Nothing was going to ruin this night.

“I'm glad you asked me to come tonight,” Martie told him. “I know that you weren't going to go at all, and you really didn't have to go for my sake.”

He reached over and took her hand, running his fingers over it. She smiled at him. He was something else. He made her feel special, even tempted her to dream like Karen and her mother. If anyone could get her there, it would be him. She was just happy to be in his company. It sounded so corny, and like one of those lies that she scorned when her mother used them, but she was. She was happy, so happy...

* * *

An empty shoe sat on its side at the edge of the alley. Continuing down the alley, was another shoe, standing straight up like it had just been stepped out of. Next to it, carelessly dropped, was a woman's purse. The air seemed cold as it circled around, around the body further on down the alley. Her face was so battered that she was unrecognizable. The golden curls were stained with blood, an earring missing.

The end of a perfect night.

March 4, 2009

In a back alley, a place marked with trash and filth, known as a dumping ground for many bodies over the years, a shoe sat by itself, not the type that usually fell off, but someone had taken the time to unlace it, leaving it sit on its side. Dropped, maybe by its owner, maybe by a vagrant who intended to steal it but got spooked. The shoe was a short distance away from a sock covered foot, attached to a leg in a khaki uniform.

The leg stuck out from underneath a tarp, a hat just out of the man's empty hand. Shoes polished, uniform pressed, the young ensign had been well ordered before his death. Beaten and unrecognizable, his dog tags were missing.
Just another in a long line of bodies.

March 2, 2009

“I can't believe this. That scumbag is going to walk,” Vera said, kicking the trashcan against his desk angrily. He gave it another kick, and Lilly winced as it ricocheted into her desk. Jefferies stepped out of its path and shook his head as he sat down. Vera continued to curse, over and over, as Stillman came out of his office.

He looked at Lilly, and she nodded. Someone had to calm Vera down, and it looked like she was the one up to bat. “Vera. What happened?”

“DNA. Overturned a conviction for a crime in ninety-five, which we only got before because the scum didn't want to go down for what he did in ninety-nine. Sick bastard. Still turns my stomach, the way that he went on and on about that girl... Doubt she was his first, and she's sure as hell not going to be his last, not if he's out,” Vera pounded on his desk. Everyone in the squadroom looked at him, but he didn't seem to notice or care. He was back in ninety-nine, about to watch this guy walk again.

“We can go over the case from ninety-nine,” Lilly offered quickly. “Maybe there's something there that we can use to get him now. It's what we do, remember?”

Vera pounded the desk again, but he nodded. She rose from her seat and crossed to him, patting him on the back. She pulled him gently by the arm. “Come on. Walk with me. We'll take a look at the boxes, and you can tell me about the case.”

“Never forgot this one. Couldn't. None of us could. I was glad he at least went down for a little while, even if it wasn't the life in prison that bastard deserved,” Vera muttered, mostly to himself, as they headed down to the records room. “I know he killed that girl. He all but said it to my partner. Damn punk, but he could get almost anyone to talk. He had a unique charm. Claimed it was an Italian thing.”

“The killer or your partner?” Lilly asked in confusion, trying to figure out which partner this would have been. Funny. She didn't remember this one. Vera was usually rather talkative when it came to almost anything. She had heard him complain about almost every partner he'd ever had. No mention of an Italian, and she couldn't remember any Italian detectives that she'd known working homicide or with Vera. “You haven't mentioned this one before.”

“He didn't stick. Think he was in Philly a year when he made it to homicide, transferred out after this one, actually,” Vera shook his head. “Not sure I blame him. Sicko really got to him. Told him they were the same, and they had enough in common to freak the kid out.”

“Like what?” Lilly asked, genuinely curious. Vera seemed to respect this former partner of his, underneath all his gruff. So what impressed him so much? Was it something to do with the case or something else.

“They were both from rich families, lost their mothers young, fathers disowned them, went to the same prep school, lost a professional athletic career to an injury in college,” Vera shrugged. “Was like the bastard got a hold of my partner's file and used it against him, only as far as we could prove, it was all true.”

Lilly frowned. She couldn't help but find it suspicious. Had Vera's partner been targeted, was he in on it, or could it really be a coincidence? This was definitely something to look into. “What about your old partner? Does he know this guy's getting out?”
“I'd bet on it,” Vera answered, and she looked at him. He shook his head, as if denying her suspicions. “The sicko used to send him letters from prison. Heard they even followed him to Baltimore.”

Lilly nodded. Whoever this killer was, he had a way to reach the outside. It could be that he was working with Vera's partner. If not, then they needed to find out who it was feeding him information. Vera stopped in front of a box. Christensen, M. He took the box down slowly and opened it. Without a word, he handed two pictures to her. One was of a beautiful girl, smiling happily at the camera, full of life, and another was from the crime scene. The only similarity between the two pictures was the hair. The second woman was unrecognizable, barely human after the beating she'd taken.

“Her name was Martie. She was twenty-one. Found her beaten to a pulp after being assaulted. Guy who did it—and I know he did it—was smart enough not to leave any DNA behind. We had nothing physical to tie him to her murder. Harry Jones,” Vera said, passing her another photo, this time of a young man with a devastating smile. “Doesn't sound like the name of a twisted killer, does it? But he did it. We put him in a room, and he talked. Not about killing her, but about everything in his past, in my partner's past, and the crime they now say that he didn't do back in ninety-five.”

“Let's take it back to the beginning. We'll get this guy.”

Time for a new case, another chance at an old dance, Jefferies thought to himself as he watched Vera and Rush came back from down in records. Rush had a folder in her hands, and Vera was carrying a box. Will wondered if there was anything new to find, or if the scumbag that Vera was so upset about was even the one who had done it. The man had been convinced before, and he'd been wrong. These cold jobs had an odd way of going around in circles and surprising everyone in the end.
Valens and Miller came with lunch, distributing it around before anyone had a chance to ask about the new box on the desk. Few minutes couldn't hurt, and he could use some food. He opened his sandwich and started eating.

Vera was quiet. Big change from earlier, when he was kicking around trashcans. Not that it was any better, but it was different. These cases, unsolved ones, they never let go. Each one was more than a blot against a record. It was a life left unresolved, grief for the family, a hole that would never be filled. When the killer seemed obvious, when it seemed like he was taunting the cops investigating the case, it was worse. The killer had gotten away with it. That ate away at a person until there was nothing left.

“What's the new case, Lil?” Jefferies asked.

She stopped chewing for a moment. “Martie Christensen, twenty-one. Bludgeoned to death after a concert. She was supposed to go with one Harry Jones. No one knows what exactly happened between them, but he never took her to the concert. He took offense to her going without him. She was found dead the next morning. He didn't have an alibi, and that was just the start of it. He went to jail for a manslaughter charge instead, and this case cooled off fast.”

“You're sure he did it?” Scotty asked, looking at Vera, who grunted as he nodded.

“Sure or not, if we're looking into this case, we're going it from the ground up,” Stillman said as he came out of his office. “I don't want us to miss anything because of prejudice, and I don't want this chance to get this guy to slip through our fingers because someone's temper is running high. We do this by the book, investigate every possibility, understood?”

Vera shrugged. Stillman shook his head, taking a sandwich out of the stack. “Where are you planning to start, Lilly?”

“I was thinking I'd go back to her mother and then her roommate, get a feel for what was going on with her the day she died. The original investigation never turned up a reason for the split between Martie and Jones, so we don't know what changed her mind or who she went with. I figure it's a good idea to start there,” she explained, and Vera grunted again. “Someone will have to talk to Jones again.”

“I'll do it,” Vera said. He looked over at Scotty and motioned to Lilly with his eyes, shaking his head. Jefferies figured that he was probably right. Given the violence they suspected this man of, and the time he'd spent in prison, no way Lilly should go near him, though she wouldn't appreciate their sentiment. “I'm going to go through the interviews we did with him back in ninety-nine, get myself prepared to deal with his crap.”

He got up and went over to the other desk, grabbing the tapes from the box as he left the room. Stillman looked over at Will. “I want you to go with him. Try and keep some semblance of peace. Odds are, this guy is the doer, but we're not going to catch him by letting Vera's temper run wild.”

Will nodded. He was willing to run interference if need be. He knew Vera well enough to know the signs. He would know when he needed to intervene. With Rush and the others on this case, he knew they'd get Jones, if he was the killer. They would find the person who killed Martie Christensen. It was what they did.

Time to put on the dancing shoes.

Back to the beginning. The beginning was good with Lilly. She liked to get the feel for a case for herself, and Vera's instincts had been wrong before. She wasn't saying they were now, but if they were, then the boss was right. It needed to start back at the beginning. She was curious about Jones and his relationship with Vera's partner, but she also wanted to know who the other man in Martie's life had been, and why he had never come forward. What did he have to hide?

Scotty knocked on the door, and both of them smiled warmly at the woman who answered it. She had the same curls as her daughter, but with less color and more gray. Still, it was clear where Martie had gotten her good looks from. “Mrs. Christensen? I'm Detective Valens. This is my partner, Detective Rush. We're here to talk to you about your daughter.”

“I heard they let that animal go,” she said, opening the door and letting them inside. “I couldn't believe it.”

“New evidence disproved the confession he gave about what happened in ninety-five,” Lilly explained as she and Scotty sat down on the couch. Mrs. Christensen took the armchair. “We want to take a look at your daughter's case again, find a way to catch her killer.”

“It would put my mind at ease to know that Harry Jones was back in jail,” Mrs. Christensen agreed. She took a deep breath and shook her head. “There never really was any doubt in my mind that he was the one who killed Martie. Sometimes I wondered if I should have doubts. My husband did. He used to say that if there was someone else in her life, we should have known about it. But we never met the man, don't even know his name. And he was with her before she died. Karen said she was happy before she left, and I'm glad.”

Lilly remembered that from the notes. Karen Wilkes was Martie's roommate, and besides the other man, the last one to see her alive. “You spoke to your daughter the day she died?”

“I did. It was early that morning, before she had class,” Bobbie Christensen said with a faint smile. “It was just... We talked over the same old things. I never thought it would be the last time I spoke to her...”

Bobbie put the phone on her shoulder, stopping to pick up the laundry basket. Her hands full, she started downstairs to the laundry room. “Martie? I can't hear you.”

“You could if you weren't carrying yet another load of Dad's clothes downstairs.”

“Contrary to popular opinion and feminism, a woman can be happy as a housewife,” Bobbie said with a laugh. It was an old joke between them. She was happy at home, and she wasn't just a housewife. She made her own living, not as a part-time salesperson, but as a children's author. Illustrating them was her real love, but her perfectionist streak got the better of her most of the time. Her latest book was six months overdue because the colors weren't right.

“You just say that when you're behind on a book.”

“What about you? You haven't chosen a major yet.”

“I've still got time.” Bobbie could hear her daughter shuffling papers. During her homework with only a few minutes before class, like always. Bobbie smiled. She did enjoy the routine.

“You can't procrastinate forever,” she warned.

“I know, Mom.” Bobbie heard a horn blare over the line. “I gotta go. Harry's here, and we need to talk.”

So... My Art... Fails Me...

2009-12-11T02:47:30Z

I've been wanting to redo the header of my livejournal for a while now. And I wanted to have a custom mood theme. I was going to make it just pygmy pictures because my attention span for various fandoms has been waning, and I didn't want to pick a custom mood theme that was only for one fandom because it's not fair to the others...

I was going to draw some pics for it, make the moods... But I sat down and only managed half a sketch of the rabbit and a semi-okay one of the owl. Sigh. I could try to search for pics, but they wouldn't be "my" pygmies.

Never was that good at animals. Maybe I should consult my friend who does amazing animal pics.... Wonder if she'd mind doing a hundred some pictures for me of goats, owls, slow loris, and one evil rabbit...

So I Could Pull This Story Down... Would That Be Simpler?

2009-12-02T09:12:22Z

Part Thirteen: Everything Ends in Betrayal
Word Count: 5,018
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I can't own anything. The pygmies and debt collectors own me. Well, I created Jitterbug, and I like her. She's mine, and I'm keeping her.
Summary: The Cylons believe that God has a plan. There are others who believe the Gods have a plan. And prophecy never lies, right?
Pairings: Lee/Kara
Author's Note: I'm not going to give excuses this time around. I will apologize for not responding to the reviews for the last chapter. It's not that they're not appreciated. They are. I think it's well-established by now that I'm not the most responsible author, but this chapter has temporarily settled my debate over whether or not to pull the story down until such time, as ever, I finished it. I give a new chapter... Such as it is.

Everything Ends in Betrayal

“I was wondering who they'd send,” Kara began, looking at her “guest” with scorn. She stood up slowly, keeping herself in front of Lee while he continued to sleep. “I figured Cain or Fisk or someone would get to someone on Galactica eventually.”

“This isn't what it looks like—”

“Isn't it?” she laughed a little as she shook her head. “You're in here, with a gun, thinking you'll get past me and kill Lee Adama, isn't that right? You're here to do Cain's dirty work. Oh, I'm sure you have your own reasons for it. You probably even think they're good reasons for it. But can you really shoot me with that thing? Because I'm not getting out of the way.”

“You have to move.”

“What, when I get really tired of standing up?” she mocked, shaking her head again. “Look, thing is, Apollo's pretty good healer. I might have been almost dead a few hours ago—not really sure how long it's been actually—but he pulled me back from that, and I'm feeling good enough to kick your ass, so I dare you to try it. Come on, prove you've got the balls.”

“Get out of the way.”

“No.”

“This is a mess,” Adama observed, looking down at the body and shaking his head. It didn't make sense, not really. Oh, sure, they'd talked about this, they knew it was inevitable, but seeing it was something else. Admiral Cain was dead. She had been found in her quarters only a short time ago, with no witnesses, no obvious sign of death. That would not be good, not when the fleet knew what Lee was capable of, and they knew that he could easily have done this from Galactica. It didn't matter if he was still asleep, still near death from what he'd done for Kara.

No one knew what he'd done for Kara. Just Bill and Laura, and it wasn't like they could afford to tell anyone that, not yet. It was too early to know who to trust. Kara and Lee, of course, or they'd risk something far worse than what he knew Cain could do them all. Jitterbug, to a degree, since she was the one who had seen the entire prophecy, though Bill wasn't sure how much he really trusted her because he knew that she wasn't telling him all that she could. Helo was another possibility, mostly because Lee and Jitterbug seemed to trust him. He was a liability now, though, with his grief. Tigh, too, was a liability, with Ellen and the drinking. It was a very small circle.

“At the very least, we will have to start an investigation,” Laura agreed. “How did she die?”

“Can't tell from here. We'll have to have a doctor examine her. Both of them, actually. Neither of them is going to like it, but I don't want to tell Cottle to do it and be accused of a conspiracy or partiality. If there was a civilian doctor, I might ask them, but there really isn't,” Bill said with a grunt. He didn't want to be in this position. He'd known that Cain had to die, but if the gods were kind to them, they would have made it look like an accident, not like the work of an Avatar.

“We can also appoint a commission to look into her death, civilian and military, from both Pegasus and Galactica.” Laura went on. She shook her head. He knew she was thinking the same thing. That Lee or Kara had done this. Bill didn't want to believe it.

It wasn't that he didn't want Cain dead. It would have been nice to have the burden of command lifted off his shoulders, but not if it meant giving it to her. She was too hard, turned and corrupted by this war. She had lost the very humanity they were fighting to save. Bill didn't really want her, as a woman, dead, but he wanted the threat she posed, as an admiral, ended. He hadn't wanted Kara or Lee to do it, didn't want that blood or suspicion on their hands. Not everyone would be so willing to accept that this was the will of the Gods, and he did not want a mutiny or for the two Avatars to feel that the only way to keep peace was to rule as tyrants.

“I recommend Lieutenant Gaeta from Galactica,” Bill began, knowing the young man was one of integrity, and his removal from the pilots—Kara and Lee, specifically—would be for the best. His was a CIC officer, loyal and smart, and he would be an ideal choice. “Commander Fisk, do you have a suggestion for the representative from Pegasus?”

“Myself, of course, but if you would prefer I selected someone else?”

“I want to avoid any excuse to claim this is a cover up from on high. Select another officer, one that would find the truth in this matter,” Bill told him, watching his frown with suspicion. He didn't like where his mind was going. This was a bad situation all around. It needed to be resolved, quickly. “For the civilian member, I'd like to hear your recommendation, Madame President.”

She shook her head, clearly not liking her own choice. He had a feeling that he wasn't going to like it, either. “I can think of no person less likely to support any attempt at a cover up than Tom Zarek. His complaints against your leadership and mine have been well documented. If he could find something to use against us, he would not hesitate.”

“As much as I dislike the man personally, I have to agree. Commander, have you selected the member of the Pegasus crew that you would recommend?” Adama asked, waiting with more patience than he truly had. He knew this had to be settled, fast, or they risked yet another civil war. The Pegasus was still the heavier armed, better equipped ship, but Galactica would hold her own, and she had the Avatars on her side. For now.

“I'm not really sure,” Fisk began slowly. “I know Cain had a protege in Kendra Shaw. She might be a good candidate, but I have my concerns about her as well. With Captain Taylor... Well, we've got a bit of a shortage around here.”

“Assign Shaw for now, then,” Bill said, hoping he wasn't going to regret this. “Let's get them here and get this started. I don't want this to wait any longer than it has to, and I want them involved in all parts of this investigation.”

Felix Gaeta had never been involved in a murder investigation before. They weren't calling it that, but that was what it was. He knew that. Cain was dead, and they didn't know why, and it was probably murder because she was who she was. He didn't know what he was supposed to do. He didn't know why he was here. He looked at the other members of his... team and shifted uncomfortably. He knew why they were here. Shaw was the one from Pegasus, here to make sure that it wasn't a Galactica conspiracy, and Zarek... He was here for that, too, only he was the civilian one. Gaeta knew that he'd worked with Roslin before, had helped her escape and go to Kobol, but that alliance seemed to be gone now. Great. It wasn't that he wanted Roslin to work with Zarek, but he didn't want to be stuck in the middle of this, either.

There had been rumors going around about Cain and what she'd done since the day the Colonies were destroyed, and they weren't good. It was hard to have sympathy for the admiral. Gaeta knew that the decisions weren't easy in command, but killing an entire civilian fleet? There was no justification for that. He knew that they'd had to fire on one of their ships, the Olympic Carrier, but that was different. The ship had nukes on it and was a threat to everyone in the fleet. They'd had no choice.

“Are we ready to start?” Cottle asked, lighting up a new cigarette and looking over at Pegasus' doctor, who nodded. They'd taken pictures of the body, of the room, with Zarek telling them what to do, for the most part. Gaeta just watched, and so did Shaw. After that, the body had been brought down to the Pegasus infirmary, and Cottle and the other doctor had been waiting to get started. Gaeta wasn't exactly looking forward to this. He knew that it had to be done, and that he had to watch it, but it wasn't going to be pleasant.

“Subject is female, no apparent cause of death,” the other doctor reported. “Subject is in good health. Previous records indicate no physical disabilities or chronic illnesses.”

“Says the doctor who should have caught it if there was one,” Zarek observed, earning a glare from the man. Cottle grunted.

“Leave the commentary out of this,” the grumpy older doctor said, glaring pointedly at his much younger colleague. "We assume nothing until we find cause of death, that's the way it works, or maybe they didn't teach you that before they rushed you out of medical school.”

“I'm fully qualified—”

“Enough, all of you,” Shaw snapped. “How did the admiral die?”

“We'll need to run tests, see if there is any sign of drugs or toxins in her blood,” Cottle said, and Levin moved to draw the blood. He was still unhappy about Cottle running the show, but Gaeta didn't think the man had ever done an autopsy before. He'd probably been posted on Pegasus right after graduation, and yeah, the war was tough, but it wasn't the same as the experience Cottle had. The older doctor walked around the body, grunting and making observations, and then he settled in with his scalpel, making the incision into Cain's chest.

It would be so much easier, Gaeta thought, if it was just a Cylon who had done this. If Cain had died in battle or something. But she hadn't. She'd died alone, as far as anyone knew, in her room, for apparently no reason. There was an explanation for it, since the whole fleet knew that Apollo had gotten some kind of weird... gift. Power. Whatever you wanted to call it, it was real, and it could do incredible things, and if Lee Adama had wanted to kill Cain, even from the commander's quarters on Galactica, he could.

Gaeta almost hoped there was something in the blood to say otherwise. He knew that Cain was a danger to the fleet, but Apollo's new gifts were hard enough to accept without knowing that he might have used them to kill the admiral. Could he have done it? Did he do it? Would he do it to anyone who disagreed with him? Those were hard questions, and there weren't good answers for them, not yet.

Gaeta just hoped that the admiral hadn't been killed by Apollo. If not...

“Lee, I can't frakking do this.”

He sighed. Kara was the smartest, bravest woman he'd ever met, but she lacked that same confidence and bravado when it came to herself. He knew she doubted herself as much as he did, that her mother had made sure that she felt worthless all her life. It wasn't true. She was smart and beautiful and more than capable, and if he had a thousand years, he'd never convince her of that. He had to work a lot faster because they didn't have that kind of time. The Cylon fleet would find them soon enough, and this had to be quick, regardless. Sure, they were Avatars. They had powers of gods. But they were still human, and they would easily die if they were attacked. The Raider could defend itself, but not against an entire Cylon fleet.

“I know you can do this, Kara. You have to, and you're much better at it than you think,” he assured her, running his hand over hers. “No one prepares you for having god powers. Nothing could. So here you are. You've got a choice, and you've never been one to run from a fight.”

“But I don't know what the frak I'm doing.”

“Neither did I. All I knew was that I had to stop the Vipers from destroying each other, and they did. They stopped. So...” he paused, trying to figure out how he'd do it himself. “If you want to destroy a ship, I guess, just picture it ripping apart in your mind, and see if that works.”

“Are you frakking insane?”

“Yes, I believe I am, but you know you can do this,” he told her. “It'll be fun until the pain hits. I mean, who wouldn't want to rip apart Cylon ships with their mind?”

She laughed. “I guess you have a point, there.”

They looked over the dradis, examining the Cylon fleet as Kara settled on a target. “So, which one first... How about a nice basestar? Or maybe not. The resurrection ship is important to them, and we can't have them waking up in new bodies while I'm destroying the fleet.”

She smiled at him, took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. He wrapped both of his hands around hers, not daring to touch her any more than that. He knew it would be hard enough to let go when he needed to. He'd gladly give his life for hers, and she'd hate him for it, but at least one of them would survive this. He wanted to use his healing ability to calm her nerves, but he knew he'd need it for the rest of this.

“Okay, here goes nothing,” she muttered, and he looked over at the dradis to see that one of the dots had split into several smaller pieces. “Holy frak. I did it, didn't I? I ripped a whole ship apart...”

“It was great, Kara, it really was, but you have to hurry. Grab a basestar and do the same thing. We don't have long before they jump out of here,” he urged, and she nodded. She closed her eyes again, and this time he actually felt something, a pain ripping through her that went all the way into him. “Frak.”

She fell back, trying to pull away and grab her head, but he held onto her. “Don't. You can't stop. Just trust me, Kara. Ignore how much it hurts, and go for the next ship.”

“I don't think my brain knew which of the basestars I wanted,” she whispered, and he would agree with that. He snuck a look at the dradis, feeling weak himself. “Okay, next one...”

“Stop talking,” he told her, leaning down to kiss her forehead. She nodded again and more pain washed over him. He could barely hold onto her hands. Gods, this was killing him. He didn't know how she was able to keep going. She was incredible; she really was. He was really proud of her, and if he survived this, he would tell her.

He wasn't so sure he would. As much as it drained her, the fact that it was draining him already meant that it was taking a lot more than she had to do this. He wasn't going to be able to hold out much longer. His vision was already fading, and he was going to lose consciousness any second. He just had to trust that she would take care of them all before she stopped. She would do that. That was what she did. He closed his eyes and let the pain wash over him as he was completely drained.

Egeria walked through the mess hall in a strange state, feeling at odds with herself. She knew that she had changed, somehow, significantly in the last few hours. Whether it was captivity or the knowledge of how Helo's loss had affected him, she was different, altered. She had said that a machine was alive, and she had meant it. That was not something she would have expected of herself. She did not particularly care for it, either. She needed to be free of such entanglements to do what she must, to help bring resolution to the prophecy. She could not afford to see the enemy as anything close to human.

Perhaps that was their greatest betrayal. It wasn't that they looked human, or that they acted it. It was the emotions that they could evoke in others. They could make people love them. And if they loved them, not only were they betrayed by the machine, but by their own feelings.

She should not dwell on that thought. She had much to do. It was time to consult the prophecy again, and she had to retrieve it from its place of safekeeping. She was fortunate in that she had not taken it with her when she was captured. She knew that she wouldn't have taken it when she went to see Helo, to warn him. She was not so foolish, but she was concerned. The prophecy had been out of her sight for too long. She had a larger portion of it memorized, yes, but it was not the same. She needed to make sure it was safe.

When she reached Captain Adama's office, however, she found the hatch open, the papers and files strewn across the floor. She had considered this place a sanctuary. It was the CAG's office. Captain Adama was the commander's son, and Starbuck was the terror of the fleet. They were the only two people with a right to this office. It should have been safe by those facts alone. Egeria had not expected such a betrayal. She would not have thought anyone would violate Captain Adama's space like this.

She stepped inside, trying to avoid the papers that were on the floor. He would not see this, when he wakened. She would make sure that he did not. She could clean it, straighten it all up before he roused from his necessary slumber. She could do that much for him, as soon as she saw to Alastrina's words.

She went to the spot where she had secured the book, only to find it missing. Panic overwhelmed her instantly. The book was not to fall into enemy hands. She had failed. She had failed in her role and duty as a guide. She would have done anything to protect that book, to protect the Avatar. She turned and ran, headed towards Adama's quarters. She had to make sure that the Avatar was safe.

She didn't answer anyone as she passed by them. She could not wait or stop. Let them think she was crazy. They already did. They would not understand. She knew that. She couldn't wait. She only stopped when she hit a formidable human wall. She stopped and looked up at Commander Adama.

“Lieutenant Trip. I wanted to speak to you.”

“I—Yes, sir. If we can see Captain Adama as well,” she said. “Something has happened, that I must speak to him about as soon as possible.”

Adama guided her along by the arm, herding her where she had already started to go. She did not protest. She would let him lead as long as it took her to the Avatar. She had to confess her sin, her negligence. She had to speak to him.

Adama opened the door to his quarters and stepped inside. Lieutenant Thrace was there, leaning back in his desk chair. She looked up at him. “Commander. Jitterbug. If it was anyone else, I think I'd have to hurt you.”

“He still sleeps, doesn't he?” Egeria asked.

“Yeah,” Thrace agreed. “He's starting to worry me.”

“Close the hatch, Lieutenant. We have things to discuss.”

His head was a flood of information that he couldn't seem to process. He couldn't accept it. Sharon was dead. The baby was dead. His daughter was gone, and so was a woman that for all intents and purposes was his wife. He knew that people didn't get that. They looked at Sharon and saw a machine. But she wasn't just a machine. She was so much more, and with her had died their child, a child that had never had a chance.

It wasn't right, what they'd done. It wasn't fair or just. They had killed an innocent child. Sharon had been a Cylon. She was what they saw as their enemy. But her child—his daughter—was not the enemy. She had no choice in being created, even if that was what the Cylons wanted all along. So she was a pawn. It didn't mean she deserved death. Even Sharon hadn't deserved that.

He didn't know how long he'd sat there on the floor, bawling his eyes out. He didn't know how long Egeria had held him. He hadn't really realized she'd done it until he pushed her away. He should find her and apologize, but he didn't know where she was or where to look or even what to say. Sorry wasn't right. It didn't fit. He wasn't sorry. He didn't know what he was.

“I heard your Cylon bitch died,” Helo heard from behind him, and he turned to see Kara's latest frak standing there. Anders. The man still left a bad taste in Karl's mouth for what he did to Egeria. “Can't say I'm sorry.”

“Leave me alone, Anders.”

“Why should I? You think you deserve time off to grieve? You were frakking a Cylon. A Cylon. Did you miss the memo that they were our enemy?” Anders pressed, leaning into Helo's face, alcohol on his breath.

“I'm telling you, Anders, lay off or you'll regret it,” Helo warned. He didn't want to do this. He knew if he was Starbuck he'd be spoiling for a fight. He'd seen her when she thought she'd lost Lee. Karl was different. He didn't know how he felt right now, but he wanted to be alone. He really did. He wanted to make it go away. He wanted to make himself go away.

He'd failed Sharon. He'd tried to protect her, but he was too late. He'd let her down, let her and the baby down, and it was all he could think about now, that they were gone. He didn't know how to cope. He couldn't face it.

“What are you going to do to me, huh? You're just a Cylon lover,” Anders said, pushing a finger into Karl's chest. Finally, Helo snapped. He grabbed the Pyramid player's finger and twisted it around.

“You think you're some bad ass because you led a pathetic little resistance against the Cylons? You are pathetic. Your little group didn't accomplish anything. We were out here fighting and dying, and you wouldn't have accomplished anything by the time you died, and you would have died if Starbuck hadn't been stupid enough to promise to come back for you,” Helo told him, shoving him away. “Face it, you'd be dead if she hadn't fallen for your crap. And you know what the sad part is? You still think you're more than a notch in her bedpost. I may have been with Sharon, but at least she loved me back.”

“You son of bitch,” Anders said, coming up and swinging at him. Helo ducked and returned the punch. His connected solidly with Anders' jaw, and he went down.

Helo gave the jerk a kick in the stomach and then forced himself to stop before he killed the bastard.

“So, what is it, exactly?” Kara asked with a huge yawn. “What do you want to discuss?”

“Admiral Cain is dead,” Adama announced, looking over at Lee with a frown. Jitterbug didn't seem to react at all. Kara didn't know what to make of that. Maybe the prophecy said that Cain would die, so Jitterbug was expecting it. Or maybe it wasn't like that at all. It was hard to tell with Jitterbug. She was that kind of a freak.

“And, what, you think we had something to do with that?” Kara demanded. She shook her head. “Lee hasn't woken up once since we got back here. I'm not sure he will. I was asleep for most of the day, and though I know my mind could have killed her, I wasn't dreaming about killing Cain, believe me.”

Adama nodded. “It's going to be ugly, and we're going to need to prove it.”

“Prove what? That I'm innocent?” Kara laughed. “No one would ever believe that. Besides, they don't know about me. They'll blame Lee for her death. Not me.”

“The damage is still the same,” Adama said, shaking his head. “The fleet can't believe that its heroes, its Avatars, will turn on them and kill anyone that disagrees with them. There's an investigation running, but if it doesn't come back with someone else, the rumors will turn the fleet against you.”

“Then we high-jack a Raptor and we leave,” Kara said. She frowned and looked over at Jitterbug, who was still standing there, quiet. Funny. The woman usually had plenty to say when it came to the subject of Lee. “What about you? Shouldn't you be butting in with some mumbo jumbo from your great and grand prophecy?”

“What the commander fears could come to pass,” Jitterbug answered in that damn detached way of hers. Kara felt like smacking her. Then again, she almost always felt like smacking Jitterbug. “Not every detail is set out word for word in the prophecy. As Captain Adama will have told you, there is room for choice. There is a path that may occur, but then there are many paths—”

“Cut the bull,” Kara interrupted. “What does the prophecy say about all this?”

“Everything ends in betrayal,” Jitterbug answered. “The specifics are no more revealing than you would imagine, and not every detail can be known in advance. Ask Helo if he disagrees. You expect me to tell you everything when there is not something so simple. If it said that you were to take this path, and that you cannot deviate from it, would that really make you happy? Some events are unavoidable, but the paths we take to them are different.”

“You have a lot of double talk, Jitterbug. I've always known you're full of crap, but this is a new level of low. Do you even know what you just said?”

“You can choose the path you wish. Some are easier than others, and some have the same inevitable end. For instance, if you chose to walk into a Cylon ambush or a fly into one, your death is equally as likely. Some events cannot be changed though the approach to them is different,” Jitterbug answered. “I must go. If I don't retrieve the book, the fleet will do as you fear, Commander.”

“Book? What book?”

“And the one comes, Lieutenant. You will be ready for him, or you won't. How you deal with him... It is your choice.”

“I won't get out of your way,” Kara repeated. “I won't move. Are you prepared to kill me? Because you'd better be if you want to get to him.”

“Listen to me, it's not... I have to do this.”

“You're so drunk you can't hold the gun straight. You won't hurt me. And if you hurt him, I'll kill you. You won't have a chance. I could kill you right now, if I wanted to,” she told him. “I don't want to do it. Really, I don't.”

“I thought you came back for me,” Anders said, shaking his head. “I thought... I thought you meant it. You promised. We had something special. But ever since we got back here, you've ignored me. Everything's been about this... this freak. He didn't heal Ten-Point. He let my friend die, Kara. He's a murderer, and you chose him over me.”

“Lee's one man, and he can't heal everyone. Go on, Anders. Go sleep it off.”

“I'm not done.”

“You called Lee a freak. What if Lee wasn't the only one with god powers, would that make the other person a freak?” she asked, folding her arms over her chest. She could have ended this the minute he walked into the room. He was drunk and stupid, and she knew his type well. She should have stopped putting those notches in a long time ago. But she didn't want him dead. She didn't hate him.

“You saying you've got it, too, this freakish ability?”

“I don't have what Lee has. It's not the same, not exactly. But the thing is, there has always been something between me and Lee. Even when we're with other people, even if I'd chosen you, it wouldn't matter. It wouldn't make what we have any different. The bond between us wouldn't die. It doesn't change. If I'd been with you, Anders, somehow I would have found my way back to Lee.”

“You still chose him.”

“Every damn time. It might have taken me a long time to figure it out, and I might have put us both through hell doing it, but I would have picked him eventually.”

“Then this has to happen.”

She shook her head. “Don't do this, Anders. I don't want to kill you.”

“You have to move, Kara.”

“You try it, and you're dead,” she warned him, swallowing hard. She really didn't want to do this...