Griplines: Introduction/Part One

by BJ Carlson

INTRODUCTION:

I suppose that if I'm going to tell you the whole story, it'd be best to start smack dab in the middle. I know, that sounds crazy - just the thought seems out of balance. After all, aren't tales normally best told from their very beginnings?

Well maybe most are... or at least most *seem* that they should be. Unfortunately, in real life, it's rarely that simple. Time's just too eccentric to run in a straight -edged line, and justice may be blind, but she's not without a sense of humor. The truth of the matter is that in some circumstances, reality seems to birth itself backward. It's the ultimate paradox - a bizarre kind of coil - where the past exists, but remains locked in stasis.

So are you confused yet? There's no need to deny it. In truth, if you claimed to understand, I'd ask you to leave. That kind of foresight just doesn't come without a high price, and to be perfectly honest, the rest of us aren't sure we're ready to stop hoarding our savings yet.

See, there are folks in life who just find their niches.... those born knowing what to do, and sensing just when to duck. But then there are those like me - and my whole family for that matter. We're the ones who've been left with nothing but in this world but love...we act on necessity, and, when in a pinch, pray for luck.

But listen to me babble...I'm sure that this makes no sense to you... And frankly if it already does, then this story's not worth your time. For those of you who are intrigued, though... feel free to pull up a chair and sit back. Maybe together we'll see whether knowledge actually enlightens, or if it simply destroys your mind.

******

To everyone else - the busy travelers who saw it only in passing - it seemed a fairly unimpressive family grave site. The tombstones were spartan - matching stones of gray granite. Their gently rounded corners were starting to crumble. The grass was coarse to the touch, and in need of a careful trimming. For that matter, the whole plot needed care. Even the flowers that had been placed by the markers reflected this air of aestheticism: for while they were freshly cut and pungent in their aroma, the roughly clipped handful of daisies seemed no less than unremarkable in their simplicity.

There was something different there, though, that always made him want to stop and look closer: a quiet state of dignity that seemed to demand respect. Perhaps it was the matched dates of two lives that had been snuffed out together, or maybe it was the simple engraving. <Jai'maena and Karysha,> he assumed they must have been foreign - it was one of the few sites that had been dug before he'd taken up the cemetery's nightwatch. They could have been sisters...or perhaps mother and daughter.

The simple truth was that he didn't know.

He snuck another glance at the man kneeling down on the grass - the lone visitor who came, at best, one or two times a year. Over time he'd learned most regular mourners were willing to share their grief and their stories if prodded, but he'd never been able to bring himself to approach this silent stranger.

He didn't know quite why - couldn't explain with words. It wasn't superstition nearly as much as awe. After all, he'd watched over this graveyard for over two decades...

Long enough to recognize a man on holy ground.

*****************

"Well here I am, ladies... for my usual visit. Don't worry...I promise not to stay too long." He smiled at the stones wobbly, tracing the indented grooves with slim fingers. "And I promise, I'm not going to cry this time." He swallowed convulsively, rubbing his eyes - giving a strangled laugh as he reconsidered the words, "Well, okay... maybe I am. But it's just one day a year. So let's just pretend that neither of you noticed, all right?"

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out two letters - holding them up almost as if for inspection. "I'm on strict orders to deliver these to you - Em and Dresden had business. She said to tell you she'd stop for a visit just as soon as she gets back, okay?"

The plain envelopes looked desolate against the grass. He fingered them awkwardly for a few moments before finally leaning them up against the headstones. "I really wish you could see her... you'd be so proud, Jai'maena. She's so much like you at times, that it hurts." A smile tugged his lips, "But then you probably knew that - for that matter you're probably laughing your head off." The thought made him shake his head. <Twenty years, daughter - only *you* could still be affecting my blood pressure.>

The pain was dimming now, replaced with real laughter. His voice strengthened as he forced himself to continue. "I'm still breathing, girls - still going just like I promised. But I miss you - don't you dare think that will ever change." He pushed himself upright, staring down at the markers for another long minute. "Well I better get out here - Emily will be calling. Keep walking the light, loves. I'm not far behind you."

The tombstones didn't answer as he reached out to touch them one more time in blessing. They didn't speak as he turned and walked away. For the past twenty-two years, they'd kept their vigil in silence.

But then ghosts know better than any living being how to wait for the chance to get in the last word.

*******

It was really remarkable to her, sometimes - just how much *hard work* it took to get drunk.

<A high alcohol tolerance may be good for beer and poker night with the boys...yes,> But honestly - what did it take for a girl to get smashed these days?

Her shot glass was staring at her. <Or at least I could swear it is.....> When she squinted hard enough, she could almost make out a pair of condemning eyes. There was only one option, <Better break out the Jack Daniels.> A few more rounds, and she wouldn't care if the tumbler decided to take up the cha-cha.

The TV was booming. <What was it that I was watching?> And while she was on the subject....when had she turned it on? <Oh yeeeeah,> the alcohol *was* working... far better than she'd thought.

But who in the heck had redecorated never-never land without telling her?!

The small hotel room was nothing less than shabby. <Definite flashback to the late seventies....> All it needed were a set of pea-green throw rugs. <And who turned the lights up?> After she'd already gone to all the trouble to close the window shades. Looked like she'd have to turn off the bedside lamp, too...assuming, of course, that she ever found her feet.

April 19. The best day of the year. <As long as none of it's spent sober, anyway.> But then that was the point... <Everyone needs a day to get stoned and knock themselves senseless.> It reaffirmed her monthly sponsorship check to the Betty Ford clinic.

<If Nate could see this mess.> She snorted at the image of his dark reaction. <Actually I should have invited him along...just to tick him off.> She sighed and fell backward - landing with a thump on the limp mattress, bouncing on the covers with a distinctly rude snort.

<Nah, the last thing I need right now is a lecture. And even if I *were* talking to Mr Anal, I'd get that in spades.> All grudges and other growing affections aside, Nate had never known how to butt out and let some things rest.

So this was definitely more of a Wolverine type event.

*Logan* would get this. She KNEW that he would. And he wouldn't get all tight strung and disapproving about it either. <Course the whole healing factor would make the 'drunk' part rather pointless.> But maybe even that was good...at least she'd have someone to help her untie her shoes and pull the coverlet off the bed when it was over.

Her stomach was heaving, <Damn room won't stop spinning.> She cursed herself for foolishly taking that last piece of pizza as she rubbed her protesting belly. <Definitely got to invite Wolvers to this party next year. I mean who better to take with on a weekend cruise through Hell?>

----

PART ONE:

Contrary to most of his friends' mutual consensus, his morning temperament was not dependent solely on his pre-contact intake of coffee. <Oath...until I came to this time, it's not as if I even knew what the blasted drink *was* ...> And considering the fact that the woman who'd given him his first cup was Moira McTagert, it was nothing less than an act of the Bright Lady herself that he'd developed a liking for the beverage at all.

But the members of X-Force didn't realize that fact - and on days like this, he didn't mind availing himself of the deception. At this moment, he didn't care if they thought he required straight crude diesel fuel - just so long as it guaranteed him a few uninterrupted minutes of *quiet.*

<Some days it can be helpful...maintaining a bad reputation.> He'd joked with Domino about it once, during an early training session with X-Force. "These kids defeat themselves - play against their own stereotypes. And the ironic part is that the charade is more effective then my real threats - all you have to do is never deny their assumptions."

Yes, he admitted he liked coffee - and he liked it a lot. But then he also liked Keats, long walks and big guns. None of the above were necessarily required for him to become a rational human being, however. <And even if the first were, there's the question of dosage...> They hadn't invented a coffee cup yet that held up to *that* task.

Public word around the warehouse today was that Nathan Dayspring was feeling less than 'social.' That meaning to everyone else who happened to know him that he was even more foul-tempered than usual. What was worse, his spirits didn't appear prone to change anytime soon - his dark mood showed no signs of lightening. The temper he held in such careful check was finally beginning to swelter, and not even the mug in his hand could adequately combat that.

<I should have accepted the invitation to visit Jean and Scott in Alaska.> Seeing his parents would have been preferable to his present state of wallowing. But there was something strange brewing at X-Force's new headquarters, and despite his growing unease with his life at the present, he knew better than to overlook his own intuition.

Everyone on the team had been out of sorts, lately. They were worn out and...edgy - as well as uncharacteristically withdrawn. Even the boisterous Tabitha had been hauntingly quiet for the past week. Which, when he looked at things honestly - in a historical sense - was more then enough of a signal to burgeoning trouble.

<What's the term that Dom always used to describe it?> Ah, yes ... the 'blindside effect.' She'd coined the phrase -only half jokingly - back during her first months with the Six Pack; likening the feeling to being stuck on a war plane somewhere in mid-flight, just seconds before it was shot down.

<Listen to yourself, Dayspring ....> He sounded like one of those flonquing 'psychic friends.' In fact, if he hadn't known better, he'd have said he sounded superstitious. As if the world they lived in wasn't unsettling enough without precognitive musings... <What is, is, Akan'i'son - feeling a little jumpy today? Since when did you stop believing your own blasted rhetoric?>

The rationalist in him tried to blame the slip on frustration, a bad headache and a nearly bone-deep fatigue. But in the end, he knew it came down to a simple question of numbers:

An all too familiar question of unlikely probabilities...

<If it had just been Logan...then *maybe* I would have bought it.> He might have been able to convince himself that all was well. Though he and the gruff senior X-Man had never been on excessively friendly terms, he'd never begrudged Wolverine the right to visit his foster daughter.

And what was more in this case, he'd been almost... well... happy. He'd been dangerously near relieved to see his partner's old mentor appear on their doorstep. Dom'd been out of sorts for months - ever since the Grayzanova incident. Her wounds were still seeping, <Well emotionally if not physically.> And nothing he'd been able to do had seemed to help her recover.

<But there was a reason for that,> a part of him grudgingly acknowledged - assuming that he was willing to stop nursing his own pride long enough to admit it. It was the same reason he was meditating a lot more than usual lately, and why he kept firmly reminding himself it was petty to be envious of one's own team.

<You were bested by teenagers...> The thought was neither logical nor literal. Regardless though, it was hard not to think of it in that way. Rationalization did little to help here - especially when it didn't get paid overtime, and in view of the facts, there wasn't much more he could honestly assume.

Why had she come to them? <Though technically, you could say they went after her.> In truth, the issue wasn't nearly as much about why she'd met up with them as it was about why she'd actually *stayed.*' The woman had ditched him without a word after almost *dying* in New York, only to accept X-Forces offer of lodgings without hesitation?

Flonq it all, he *was* jealous. And damned angry too. Problem was, a part of him was also feeling a kind of strange relief as well. At least with the kids here, their surface relationship was 'bandaged': he had his 'partner' back in the training field - if not in the mind.

There wasn't the total ache he'd felt ever since Egypt.

<And if that's not the REAL issue> He acknowledged with a disgusted sigh. <There's a...gap... in our heads, and what's worse, I think that she knows what's causing it.> Their Psi-Link was being blocked. Nothing there but static numbness. And worst of all, in his mind, was that he didn't know *why.*

He'd thought at first that he'd sorted out what happened, while recuperating from his most recent battle with Apocalypse. A few cold, if enlightening, days with Jean and Scott at his Great Grandparents in Alaska had been all it took to fill him in concerning the wave that had torn apart the psi-plane.

<And it just made such complete sense - it all fit so neatly.> He should have known not to trust anything that reasonable. He'd assumed then, naturally, that their psi link must have been shorted out in the backlash; and he'd assured himself it would come back, as would all of his other powers. He'd told himself it was all a matter of time.

But he was back up to snuff now - had been for almost four months. His teep gifts had returned - until the full arsenal was at his disposal. He had his other skills re-polished too - by necessity while he'd been healing. He had everything back that he thought he need for things to return to normal. Everything but a sardonic - if sorely missed -hum, taking up residence in the back of his mind.

And he'd wondered about that mystery, until three months ago - just a few rainy hours into Christmas day. Alone in LA on a layover while en route home from Alaska, nostalgia had led him to locate his old team's new base. He'd been anxious for familiar faces...and perhaps for the old times. <Hell, maybe I was just anxious for some spirits with a little more optimism then mine.> So he'd tracked down his 'children' - with one sole purpose for the house call. It had been time to polish their skills on reacting 'ambush visits.'

<Unfortunately, though, nostalgia does nothing for caution.> And even less for those foolish enough to go in over-confidant. He'd made it through the first security line yes, but his ease in completing the task had left him sloppy.

Sloppy enough to be caught by X-Forces' Mama Bear in residence.

The thought made him chuckle, in spite of himself. <I honestly don't know what's more memorable about it: Seeing the kids' startled faces when she hauled my sorry carcass inside and dropped me in front of that tree, or seeing Sam realize she really intended to shoot me.>

Luckily, for him at least, Gutherie hadn't let it come to that. Instead, the blond southerner had come bearing egg-nog peace offerings. He'd been offered a chair beside Berto in the kitchen, and unceremoniously drafted by a squeamish Tabitha into to de-gutting the newly-thawed turkey.

And so went the story: a nostalgic peeping Tom had been convinced to help with the security blueprints for X-Force's latest roost while filling a dead bird with half-cooked sausage stuffing. By that evening, he'd been roped in - and Sam and Terry had gloated. Whether they were needed for guidance or whether they were being 'guided' themselves, the members of X-Force had retrieved both their errant 'parents.'

And he'd discovered something else of note on that day: the link - though badly blocked, it appeared, *was* still there. In fact, from the occasion flashes of emotion she'd been unintentionally broadcasting lately, he was beginning to suspect she'd gotten *stronger* behind those walls.

Of course he couldn't verify that, or even begin to speculate why. Domino was mentally sealed up like a drum. He hadn't missed the fact that outside of work she did her best to avoid him - it wasn't exactly a environment conducive to demanding answers.

<Damn this whole flonquing mess!> He was sick of the distance. And to make matters worse, this change in the link had only whetted his curiosity. <Something *big* happened to her...> And it had happened recently. <How in the world did a non-teep develop such strong shields?>

Questions without answers: the kind that made him absolutely crazy. Everyone knew telepaths were genetically required to know *everything.* His patience was stretching dangerously far...he'd come with in inches of *shaking* her yesterday morning.

And then, surprise, surprise, Logan had appeared at their door.

Coincidence? Maybe. For those who considered their lives normal. But then he'd never trusted in 'normal' much either. He might have been able to chalk it up to paranoia...with some effort on his own part.

But the call he'd gotten from GW last night had pretty much blown that from the water.

**************

Anyone foolish enough to believe that full grown German Shepards didn't sulk, obviously needed a proper introduction to her companion She couldn't see him, of course, but there really wasn't need. Even if she couldn't have sensed his mordant brooding through their link, the simple fact that she was making him do actual *work* today fully explained his sullen disposition.

^Just take it easy, boy...all you have to do is sit there and pretend to be a bored dog, so I don't know why *you're* getting so indignant.^ She dropped her hand and began rubbing his silky head comfortingly as she continued ^I know, I know... you want to go home...and we will soon, I promise. I just want to give Tana about ten more minutes.^

Her only response was a low pitched whine as Dresden wuffed gruffly and shifted his warm bulk against her feet. She continued stroking his head appeasingly, scratching behind his left ear with one hand while absently reaching up to shift her sunglasses on the bridge of her nose with the other.

<Tana's most likely just holed up somewhere, staying out of sight.> She didn't want to consider any other possibilities. When she got back to the safe house, though, she was gonna have to send a transmission; hopefully Liz could track down some more assuring answers concerning the safety of her friend and the details about what had happened.

<She won't like this at all...Tana's not the type to idly break cover,> and besides, Liz *hated* blind-side alerts. The woman's personal commandment was: "'Though shalt not cause me crisis!'"

And that only stood double on a day like today.

<Damn it all.> She didn't like this...didn't like it one bit. Every precognitive sense she had was practically bellowing. Of course that was partially to be expected; this was network business, after all. And if long time experience with the family trade had taught her one thing, it was that the code words 'HK' were synonymous with a migraine.

"It's your call, Emily," Elisha Copeland had counseled her last night, and the young courier hadn't missed the strain in the older woman's voice. "You know that the security level is gonna require you or Chance: it's gotta be serious - there's no other way Mallory would break silence."

<It's *more* than just serious.> The Tana she knew had steel guts - there wasn't another Tracker out there who'd have stood up and volunteered for the job that she had. If she wanted a face-to-face, then things were beyond complicated...

Most likely, they were nearer to 'extremely messy.'

"Are you sure that you don't want to at least *tell* him what's happening?" It had been a purely rhetorical question, of course. As Elisa had said herself, once: Chance Danton was without doubt the best Networker in the business. But the man endured life with a stress level that would flattened an elephant, so hell better be in deep arctic freeze before you called him in.

"On this day of the year, Liz, " Emily had squandered no words for politeness in her answer. "You don't bring him anywhere *near* that particular subject." She didn't care what anyone else thought...she would *not* put him through it. <And you better not let anything slip if you see him, Elisha...cause if he finds out about this before tomorrow, I'll GUT you.>

He'd be livid when she told him tommorrow, <Heck, his head will implode.> At the very least, she'd be on the receiving end of a fifteen minute lecture concerning taking 'stupid' risks and following network protocols. But she'd consider it penance - the man was dead bent on saving the world, and if she had to exercise the family bullheadedness to protect him from himself sometimes, well then what else were shared gene pools for?

<Funny, I suspect Da would probably go catatonic, if he ever heard me say that in quite that manner.> He already commented frequently on how much she had her mother's talents for chaos. <And of course we both know that she probably learned it from *him*, and not just Grandma.> Though it was too fun of a sparring match for her to call him on it.

Smiling, she tipped back her head to catch the last few drops of liquid from her bottle. Then reached for her coat, pushing herself upward and away from the table as she slipped it on. ^Go find us a taxi, Dres,^ She needed to charter a flight home from LA. <Maybe with any luck, we'll make it home in time to make dinner.> Chicken and Dumplings would go a long way in pulling her Grandfather out of his post-graveyard slump.

Dresden had gained his feet, giving a sharp bark of delight at finally being allowed to move out of the crowded cafe. She smiled as their link gleamed with his approval, ^Get us a ride out of here, Dres...and if you're nice to the driver, there may even be an actual steak in it for you, tonight.^

It was funny, she mused, as her hand found her guide's grip-lead, how out of character she felt playing the 'blind woman.' The telepathy that had emerged around the time of her fifteenth birthday had modified itself so effectively around her handicap that her spacial-aural sense was probably *sharper* than most people's regular vision.

That was probably also why, she grudgingly allowed, her long time canine companion was also out of practice with this particular guise. He was obviously less than thrilled with his recent demotion from furred, part-time bodyguard to what was - in his opinion - a stereotypical and absolutely useless pseudo-guide-dog

<Most people would laugh if I told them a dog could have a ego.> Dresden, however, never ceased to amaze her. <An oversized German Shepard with an inferiority complex to match...how on earth did I ever get so lucky?>

She didn't have long to dwell on her own sardonic query, however, before she felt her psi sense blaze up in forewarning. Alongside her on the sidewalk, Dresden began barking desperately, as he tugged roughly against the leader. Unfortunately for both of them, though, her partner didn't move swiftly enough: rapidly oncoming shoes thudded against the pavement. "Get out of the way, Lady!!" A moving body careened into hers. The weight sent her flying with a loud yelp of surprise - off the ground and into something large and metallic.

"Purse snatcher!" Someone screamed, the sound echoing from somewhere behind her. The ground beneath her was rough under her raw-skinned hands. She felt Dresden's hot rush of worry, and sent a strong pulse of reassurance back at him, ^Get him, boy...I'll be okay...just go bring him down.^

Moving cautiously, she tested her head and neck for injuries - hoping against hope that she hadn't been knocked in the street as she did so. No broken bones as far as she could tell, but her face was sticky when she reached up to touch her forehead. <Oh just great - a scalp wound - and I'll probably need stitches. Thanks a lot, you idiot - I *liked* that pair of sun glasses.>

The pain was finally pushing its way in past the shock. Her palms were throbbing in counterpoint to her head's insistent pounding. <Come on Em - don't pass out on me. Just pick yourself up and call for help.> A tidal wave of dizziness swamped her as she ineffectually tried to find her feet. <Then again maybe I better just stay sitting down.>

"Ma'am, are you all right? No, don't try and move -you're bleedin'..." She gasped at the strange voice, and then the gentle touch of unfamiliar hands against her shoulders. <Prince Charming with an accent?> She faintly hoped she was just hallucinating. This was the WORST possible way in history to find someone who thought chivalry wasn't dead.

But the warm touch continued supporting her as something soft was pressed against her forehead. "It's okay ma'am...Ah'm a friend...you're safe, Ah promise."

<He's a MUTANT.> Was her last thought, as her sense powers tagged his psi shadow. And there was no doubt now - Da was going to *kill* her.

**************

"All I can say, old man, is you better be packing codeine -or at the very least offer to take me out for breakfast. 'Cause if I found out you tailed me all the way out here 'for my own good', then it doesn't matter how many times you've saved my life, Wolverine - I'm afraid that I'd still have to de-man you."

His dark haired friend's comment would have been far more reassuring if she'd been able to focus on his face as she spoke the words. As it was though, her gaze was fogged, and the room stank of liquor. <Oh Darlin' - what happened to gettin' past this?>

"You're a heap of trouble to track down, ya know that?" He growled at her softly, pushing his way past her into the dim room. "I brought ya one of Beast's home-brewed hangover remedies: it'll help some with the headache - get you back on your feet. Assuming of course that you manage ta down enough of the stuff without your stomach pukin' it all right back up."

She grimaced at him openly. "I think I'll do with out, thanks - It's against my better judgment to drink something *that* green." Her gray pallor heightened even more as she looked at the plastic container of liquid he held out for her. "Besides, I've spent the last two hours trying to keep down plain water. So you can just go and find Hank another guinea pig."

Logan narrowed his eyes at her forced stone expression. <Sorry, Girl - but ya don't get off that easy this time.> Her acerbic tongue didn't fool him: he knew her to well. She forgot that he'd known of her from almost the day she'd come into Madripoor. When she was still trying to *learn* all those smart-mouthed lines.

<Ya knew I'd be comin', Gal - heck, I even *called* ya.> And yet she'd actually tried slinking off before his plane could come in. <No dice on the escape Neena...you're not the only one who's bullheaded.> She should have known he'd just go out and look for her if he had to, <'Cause even if I couldn't have smelled the pain reakin on ya right through the phone line, we both know you're the one who taught me the art of buttin' in.>

"So how did you find me? I didn't even take the jeep." And she'd paid cash for the room - hadn't used any of her credit cards. "Oh I know...it's your new job. The local MADD squadron hired you as their resident stalker. A little bloody isn't it, Logan...just to keep those drunks of the street?"

He didn't bother to reply vocally to the biting statement, just cocked his head to one side and raised an eyebrow. Mirroring her own posture almost perfectly, he then shrugged his shoulders - gracing her with the almost identical smug smile that she'd bestowed on him all those times he'd come in from a late night.

She'd never realized until now just how *annoying* that look was. <I'm surprised he didn't punt me across the room more often then he did.> But then again, Logan had needed someone around to prepare the coffee when he couldn't work up the coordination skills, <And besides...I was a kid...so I must have been cuter then him.>

"Look, stay here and stare at the walls if you want." She pursed her lips, "As for me....I'm going to take a hot shower." Heaving an exasperated sigh she began to collect a fresh change of clothing. "There's orange juice and muffins in the mini-bar - both fresh. Help yourself. We can keep not-talking when I get out."

Apparently deciding she'd given him enough of her time for now, the young woman silently gathered the rest of her toiletries from beside the bed. They both knew he wouldn't leave: but she refused to grant him the dignity of an argument - instead choosing to retreat to her corner of their makeshift ring, where at least she could be stand-offish with the door shut.

<Serious bar you got stocked here - pretty heavy artillery.> He'd begun an examination the room as soon as she closed the bathroom door. He shook his head and frowned deeply, reaching for one of the bottles piled atop the low night stand. <Oh Neena, what are ya doin', Darlin'? I *know* ya hate malt whiskey.>

Bridge must have been right...her and Cable weren't doing well. He hadn't seen her this bad in almost ten years. And to top it off now, her drinking choice showed she'd couldn't be content with just the hangover - apparently she had to torture herself through the *whole* blasted event.

His basic impulse was to go take it out of Cable's hide. <Never liked the Tinman much to begin with.> That wouldn't be entirely fair, though - for all his vices, Nate Dayspring had been good for his first foster daughter. <Haven't even had to *think* about this for almost ten years...> And even if Nathan Dayspring didn't *know* it was the case, it was mostly thanks to him.

<Well it looked like that break's over. Wonder what ripped this back open...?> Though, honestly, he doubted that the thing had ever really healed completely. A low growl rumbled in his chest as he fought to compress his frustration. <Truth is Logan, ya should have pushed her on this a long time ago.>

He still remembered his first introduction to her annual 'celebrations.' That bizarre night about five months after they'd started traveling together. <I'd told myself that I'd gotten ta know ya...that we were friends who could talk 'bout things. I thought nothing ya did could possibly surprise me.>

He gave a gruff snort as he dropped the empty bottle in the trash can, <Well Neena, I could never say ya didn't stretch my world.> He'd found her in living room of their hotel suite with the main door standing wide open. Barely more then fifteen, and halfway drowned in a bottle of tequila.

It was the first time he'd ever seen her fly out of control: a rare situation he could say he'd observed only as many times as he could count on one hand. <From the day that I met ya, girl, ya always seemed ta be livin' held up by some fine wire.>

Best as he could tell, those nights were what happened when the line snapped.

So he'd tucked her into her bed, and gotten rid of the liquor. Then proceeded to take up guard duty while she slept the next 36 hours straight though. And when she'd woken in the morning, he'd given her aspirin and taken her out to breakfast. She hadn't give him any kind of explanation, though, for an entire year.

"We all mourn the dead - some of us just do it living." It was the only thing he'd ever heard her say on the habit. He could still see her taut face, now...not explaining as much as informing. She'd apparently remembered his shock over what had happened the last time, and actually asked if he'd be more comfortable if she rented a separate suite for the evening.

'Your life is your own girl...do what ya got to ta keep breathing. If ya need ta talk, though...I'll be here....' There just hadn't been anything else to say; she'd always her own solitary person. Besides, he'd done enough similar things in his own life that condemnation would have left him with a bad taste in his mouth.

<So I impounded your car keys - and got a glare for my troubles.> He'd ordered supper from room service and pulled out a beer from the cooler. From that night on it had become a tradition: a night watching TV and playing solitaire. It wasn't exactly thrilling, but he'd always taken up sentry duty. It had been the only thing he'd know how to do for his friend.

<I never asked you for more than that, of course - figured it would only drive ya back ta runnin'.> Even that early on, Dom had been nearly fanatical when it came to guarding her privacy. <Still I shoulda pushed ya at some point -especially as the years moved forward.> He'd spent too long standing on this side of the door.

<Enjoy your shower, Darlin.> She'd get her breakfast from him, all right. But then they were going to have a talk, even if he had to get her fighting before she'd do it.

He'd been afraid in the beginning, to know what ghosts she was fleeing. But now he was more afraid that she didn't even know herself.

[next part]

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