Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Daddy's got to Go to Work
Fandom(s): The Rundown/Furious 7
Started: April 2015

Beck shifted on his hospital bed, too restless to sleep. He’d stopped taking the pain medication right away, not wanting it to affect his reaction time. The second best thing about his identity as Hobbs was that he was no longer a criminal, but he still had enemies. He had lots of them, in fact, and Beck couldn’t afford to be impaired any more than he had to. The television wasn’t an ideal distraction, but would have to do since the superior distraction was currently curled up asleep on a chair next to his hospital bed.

Travis Walker was, hands down, the best thing about Beck’s identity as Hobbs. They’d become a couple when Beck still used his own name and identity, but Beck’s past as a strongman-for-hire and the continuing pursuit of vengeance from Travis’ father meant that they existed mostly in the shadows. That wasn’t the quality of life that Beck wanted for his boy and so when Beck had been given the opportunity to work for the DSS and put his past behind him, he’d jumped at the chance. Beck had shed his name and dubious reputation gladly, but the one part of his former life that he refused to let go was Travis. The young man wasn’t just Beck’s past, Travis was his future and one that Beck intended to hang on to with both hands. Whether he called himself Beck or Hobbs was secondary to that fact.

As though he was privy to Beck’s musings, Travis stirred in his chair, murmuring softly. Beck sighed. This was the worst injury he’d had since joining the DSS and Travis had taken it hard. The younger man had joked about drawing dicks all over Beck’s cast while Beck slept, but it hadn’t taken much to see through the teasing to the concern underneath. That was part of why Beck didn’t call his boy on the threat of mischief, Travis tended to act out when he was worried. If they were home, Beck knew exactly how he’d settle him down, but they were in a far too public and insecure place to give Travis the kind of care that would do the most good.

Beck’s fingers itched to stroke through Travis’ hair until the younger man quieted back into a deeper sleep, but the bed wasn’t big enough to hold them both and Travis was too far away for that kind of touch. Beck settled for reaching over and putting his hand on his lover’s knee. The simple contact was enough and Travis quieted. Beck suppressed a growl at not being able to do more. He hoped that Toretto put Shaw in a world of pain before taking him down, the scum deserved that and more for the worry-frown on Travis’ face.

It didn’t help Beck’s mood to acknowledge that the Big Bad that’d done the damage hadn’t even been after Beck; it stung that he was simply collateral damage.

Deckard Shaw had been after Toretto’s gang, but Beck didn’t begrudge getting hurt in an effort to protect them. He owed Toretto and not just for his help in bringing down Shaw’s younger brother, Owen. Several months after that case closed, Beck had discovered that he had a mole. Since he couldn’t trust any DSS resources with Travis’ safety while he rooted the traitor out, he’d left Travis with Toretto. Dom hadn’t even hesitated, just offered a sanctuary for Travis while Beck took care of business.

The memory made Beck grin. He’d left Travis with Toretto’s crew for a week; a very long week for a young man who had too much excess energy to begin with and had the added worry about his lover’s life to agitate him. Travis must have been a royal handful for “Uncle” Dom; the normally stoic man had been downright twitchy by the time that Beck had returned to retrieve Travis. After that, Beck liked to think that Toretto looked at him with a little more respect.

A flash from the television screen pulled Beck’s attention away from his musings and he frowned when he realized what it was showing. Shaw’s battle with Toretto’s crew had come back to Los Angeles and the city was taking a pounding. Wounded or not, Beck couldn’t sit it out.

“Travis.” His voice was soft, but Travis’ eyes blinked open almost immediately.

“What is it?” Travis didn’t sound irritated by being awakened, but Beck could tell by the frown on his face that the younger man was definitely worried. Typically, Travis covered his concern with banter. “You finally come to your senses and decide to take pain meds or do you need me to rescue you from another sponge bath?”

“I wish it were something like that,” Beck nodded towards the television. “Shaw.”

Travis’ eyes got wide when he saw the scenes of destruction. “Holy shit.” He glared at Beck as the older man started extricating himself from the bed. “No way.”

“Watch your language, boy.” Beck got up, stifling a wince. Now was not the moment to show Travis that he was in pain. “Daddy’s got to go to work.”

Beck flexed his muscles, causing his cast to crack. It was the most expedient way to get the thing off, but his bravado served another purpose. He shot a sly look Travis’ way.

The younger man was sitting on the edge of his chair. His eyes were dark and, as Beck watched, Travis licked his lips. “Man, that was hot.”

Unfortunately, the distraction didn’t work for long. Travis shook his head as if to dispel the image and his jaw got a stubborn set to it. "I’m coming with you.”

Beck brushed the last of the plaster and dust off of his injured arm.. “The hell you are.”

“You think I’m letting you go out there alone?” Travis scoffed. He got up so that he was right in front of Beck, eyes flashing with anger and worry. “You’ve got a busted leg and arm. What are you gonna do to Shaw? You already took your cast off, you can’t even smack him with it.”

What Beck wanted to do was take Travis into his arms and just hang on to him until everything was back to normal. That would soothe his frayed nerves as much as it would Travis’, but it just wasn’t practical. Travis needed to be settled down the old fashioned way.

“Watch the attitude, little boy,” Beck growled.

The tone and the nickname cut through Travis’ concern. The younger man seemed to implode, shoulders hunching as he looked down. “Yes, sir.”

That wasn’t exactly the reaction Beck was looking for. He wanted his boy to obey, not to break. “Hey, come here.”

Beck wrapped a hand around the back of Travis’ neck, pulling the shorter man close enough that they could touch foreheads. “It’s me we’re talking about. Who’s the biggest, baddest Daddy out there?”

“You are,” Travis said, but so quietly that Beck could barely hear him.

“Damn straight,” Beck acted as though Travis had answered a lot more enthusiastically. “So, here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to go help Toretto’s gang shut Deckard Shaw down. You are going to wait for Elena and, when she gets here, go with her to the safe house.”

“I am?” Travis pulled back a little, looking rebellious as he did.

“You are,” Beck dropped his hand down to Travis’ ass and pulled his boy back closer. “And when I get done with Shaw, I’m gonna come back and deal with you.”

“With me?” Travis protested, squeaking a little when Beck squeezed his ass. “What did I do?”

“What have I told you before about your mouth?” Beck prompted.

Travis’ eyes slide away from his. “I don’t remember.”

“Uh-huh,” Beck squeezed again and then let ago. “When I get back, we’ll see if my hand applied to your ass will help that memory of yours.”

“Oh, come on, Daddy,” Travis said in a hoarse whisper, after checking that no one was within hearing distance. “I wasn’t that bad.”

In truth, Travis hadn’t been that mouthy and, even if he had, Beck was inclined to allow it, given the strained circumstances. The threat of a spanking was more a distraction than anything else and, from Travis’ reaction, it was working. He let the younger man babble while he quickly pulled on some clothes.

“I tell you what,” Beck interrupted Travis’ latest excuse as to why he didn’t deserve a spanking. “If I get a good report from Elena that you go to the safe house with a minimum amount of fussing, the spanking is off.”

Elena was a good friend as well as a top-notch officer She didn’t know the exact nature of Beck’s relationship with Travis, but she knew enough to be aware that the best assistance she could give her boss was to take care of what he loved the most. She’d protect Travis with her life if need be

“I gotta go,’ Beck turned back to his lover when he finished his preparations. Travis stood nervously, arms wrapped around himself. “Hey.”

Beck approached Travis and the young man immediately opened up, more than willing to replace his own embrace with Beck’s. Beck bent and kissed the top of Travis’ head. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

“Yes, Daddy,” Travis was still a little subdued, but the twinkle was back in his eye. “And if you need to spank anybody, spank Shaw?”

The hopeful tone in his boy’s voice made Beck laugh. “Oh, Shaw’s gonna get an ass whuppin’ of a lifetime, that I can guarantee.”

“Good,” Travis leaned up and nipped Beck’s chin. “Go get him, Daddy.”

Beck didn’t entirely trust his boy’s change of heart, but decided to take it at face value. He kissed Travis chastely, gave him one last pat on the ass, and made his way towards the door. Before he left, he turned for one last look. “Behave.”

“Come back safe,” Travis said, instead of answering.

“I always do,” Beck promised. “And I always will.”

It was an effort to walk out and leave Travis behind, but Beck told himself it was only temporary. He’d help Toretto’s gang finish taking down Shaw and get back to Travis.

Daddy had to go to work all right, but he’d finish it quickly and then get back to what was the most important. Namely, Travis.

~the end~

Chapter Text

Fury had Phil Coulson set up the meeting and lay out the information. That was wise of him. Finding out that SHIELD, under Fury’s direction, had been using the Tesserect to create weapons of mass destruction had shaken Steve’s faith in SHIELD and, by extension, Fury himself. Phil, on the other hand, he trusted and not just because the agent had come so very close to losing his life in opposing Loki. Phil was just that kind of guy; intrinsically trustworthy.

“Thank you for coming, Captain.” Despite Steve’s best efforts, Phil still refused to call him by his first name. “We appreciate your time.”

Steve nodded absently, so distracted by the reason Coulson had called for a meeting that he didn’t even acknowledge the presence of someone else in the room. “You said a way had been found to help Bruce.”

It wasn’t exactly a question and Phil followed Steve’s lead by coming to the point. “Yes. Dr. Chen is with SHIELD medical. She believes she may have the answer.”

Over the months since the Avengers had been formed, Steve had gotten to know Bruce well enough to drop the ‘Dr. Banner’ and be more casual. He wasn’t as close to Bruce as Tony was, but had come to appreciate the man as a friend in his own right and not just as the friend of his lover. More surprisingly, Steve found he respected not only the quiet scientist, but also his alter ego. The Hulk had been called on with increasing frequency to help the group deal with super-powered villains. The ‘other guy’ may have broken Harlem in the past, but he worked surprisingly well in a team. Maybe it was because Bruce trusted the other Avengers so much – or maybe it was because the Hulk was invariably given his favorite order. Namely, to smash.

Unfortunately, Bruce’s frequent transformations into the Hulk brought about an unforeseen complication. The more Bruce ‘hulked,’ the harder it was for him to ‘un-hulk.’ The difficulty was taking a toll on Bruce’s body, as both himself and the ‘other guy.’ It was obvious that Bruce and his alter ego were declining; if something weren’t done and done quickly, they’d likely lose them both.

Bruce was always conscious when he hulked into ‘the other guy,’ but the same was not true when he made the transition back to his normal self. At least as part of team, Bruce had someone to watch over him as he transformed back. Over the last several weeks, however, Bruce was experiencing extended periods of unconsciousness after hulking out. It had gotten bad enough that Bruce, at Steve’s insistence, had been taken off the active roster.

Steve was no scientist, but neither was he a dumb jock. He waited patiently for Dr. Chen to go through her overly technical explanation and then succinctly summarized it. “So what you’re saying is that my system is stable because of the vita-rays that Erkstein had Howard Stark use on me with the serum, but the gamma rays that Bruce used created this up and down affect that’s related to his anger level.”

“That is correct.” Chen looked annoyed at having her fancy words translated into layman’s terms. “The serum created a balanced system within your body.” She lifted one hand and moved it in front of herself, slowly and smoothly. “While it’s true that you do exert yourself physically, the serum only needs to maintain an already heightened system. With Dr. Banner, his entire physicality changes.” Now her hand carved out sharp peaks and valleys in the air in front of her. “His system is anything but stable, experiencing as it does monumental highs and lows. It is too much for Dr. Banner’s body to take and thus we are now seeing his unstable system breaking down.”

She continued without any detectable sympathy for Bruce’s condition. “We believe that using an infusion of the original serum with a short burst of vita-rays will stabilize Dr. Banner to the point that his transformation is no longer triggered by an anger surge. This will in turn stabilize his enter system and should allow his body to function under more normal parameters.”

“He won’t become so weak after de-hulking? No more comas?” Steve wanted to make sure he understood correctly. “And you’re saying that Bruce will have complete control over when he becomes the Hulk – and when he transforms back?”

Dr. Chen opened her mouth, no doubt to spout off another round of techno-babble, but Coulson cleared his throat before taking over the conversation. “That’s exactly what she’s saying.”

Steve looked from one to another. Dr. Chen looked eager. Smug, even. Coulson, however, didn’t look at all comfortable. “It sounds almost too good to be true. If it were this simple, why didn’t anyone think of it before?”

“Because you weren’t available before.” Dr. Chen sounded defensive as she responded and even ignored Coulson’s glare. “Your body, containing the only remnants of the original serum, was buried in the Antarctic for 70 years.”

“Captain America is well aware of that, doctor.” Coulson’s voice was as smooth and implacable as steel. His expression, however, as he turned back to Steve was much warmer. “Dr. Chen’s process is dependent on you and the reason it wasn’t brought up before is that there’s a complication to using it. Frankly, before Dr. Banner became so ill, no one thought the treatment worth the price.”

Steve thought of Bruce’s warm smile and gentle demeanor, comparing it mentally to the deathlike stillness from the latest coma. His thoughts also turned to Tony, who’d become almost frantic as his best friend began to succumb to an ailment no one had been able to cure. Steve knew something of loss and, even if he wasn’t so invested in saving Bruce for Bruce’s sake, he’d do it twice over if it meant that Tony wouldn’t lose yet another person he cared about.

“I’ll be the judge of the price,” Steve stated plainly, looking first Coulson and then Dr. Chen in the eyes so that they would know how serious he was. “Tell me.”

And so they did explain the treatment’s price and Steve discovered, to his regret, just how steep it really was.

~and that's all I wrote~

The price was that the treatment would revert Steve back to his original condition. Why didn't I finish? Two reasons. First, there are some great de-powered Steve stories in the Avenger fandom and I didn't think I was adding anything new and, second, I wasn't sure what direction I wanted to go.

One direction the story could have taken would be that, once he got over being angry that Steve didn't tell him, Tony finds he actually likes being the physically bigger, stronger one in the relationship - until he realizes how sad it makes Steve.

The other direction the story could have taken would have been for Steve to eventually become like Bruce, living as his unpowered self most of the time, but morphing into Captain America when adrenaline hits.

And, lastly, the story could have taken a tragic turn and have Bruce die anyway, have Bruce survive but Steve die, or to have both of them die.

Heh. perhaps it's better I left it unfinished.

Juli

Chapter Text

The ambulance arrived at its destination in a flurry of red lights and wailing sirens. As soon as it pulled up, medical personnel swarmed out of the hospital to greet it, tense instructions being called out by the doctor in charge. Though the ride to the hospital had seemed to take forever, once they’d finally got there, the gurney was out and whisked inside in the blink of an eye.

Gibbs followed more slowly, although not out of choice. As much as he wanted to stay by Tony’s side, he knew that his lover’s best chance for survival was with the doctors. Even so, he hurried after them, determined to keep the gurney carrying Tony in sight. Unfortunately for Gibbs, though, someone else had a different scenario in mind.

“I’m sorry, sir, you can’t go back there.”

The man standing in Gibbs’ way looked to be a nurse. He was Tony’s height, but was nearly twice as wide. Moving him would be a challenge, but it could be done. Gibbs started gathering himself for the attempt. The nurse’s eyes widened momentarily, but then he squared his shoulders. Obviously, he wasn’t going to be a pushover, but that was no matter. A red haze descended over Gibbs; he’d been wanting to lash out ever since Tony was shot and with the emotional state he was in, he didn’t much care who he lashed out at. Gibbs clenched his fists in anticipation, causing the nurse to swallow heavily.

“Jethro!”

A familiar voice cut through Gibbs’ desperation. He turned his attention away from the nurse and saw a small group of people walking towards him rapidly. At the front was Ducky and he had an expression of determination on his face that rivaled Gibbs’ own.

“How is Anthony?” Ducky asked as soon as he got close enough. He walked right up to Gibbs as though there wasn’t a pending confrontation with the nurse. Ducky was far too observant not to have noticed.

“His heart stopped twice on the way here,” Gibbs stated baldly. If Ducky could ignore the nurse, then Gibbs could too. “They almost didn’t get him back the last time.”
Ducky took in the information calmly enough, although there various noises of dismay from the others. Well, most of the others. Abby gasped and McGee gulped, but Ziva remained stoically silent.

“Our Anthony is a strong man, both in body and spirit.” Ducky patted Gibbs’ shoulder as he attempted to comfort him. “I’ll see what information I can obtain from his doctors.”

Gibbs watched with interest as Ducky turned towards the nurse. He expected the older man to get the same treatment that he had, but in that regard, he was disappointed.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Ducky was as polite as ever, “I have an interest in a patient that was just brought in.”

“Sure thing, Dr. Mallard.” To Gibbs’ surprise, the nurse immediately stepped back to let Ducky through.

Before Ducky disappeared into the depths of the ER, he turned towards the others. “Timothy, why don’t you help Jethro find a washroom where he can clean up.”

“Duck. . . .” Gibbs growled, but his old friend wasn’t the slightest bit intimidated.

“Go, Jethro.” Ducky reiterated. “You cannot assist young Anthony at the moment. You must take care of yourself now so that you can take care of him later.”

Ducky didn’t move until Gibbs nodded once. Then, after giving his friend a reassuring smile, the elderly medical examiner followed the nurse deeper into the hospital.

“Come on, boss.” Gibbs felt a hand on his shoulder. When he turned around, he saw Tim McGee looking at him with compassion on his face. “Ducky’ll look after Tony. I think I saw a bathroom over here.”

It was tempting to lash out at McGee the way he almost had with the nurse, but one look at the kindness in the young agent’s face and Gibbs unclenched his fists. As he did, he felt some resistance and he looked at his hands. They were covered in blood that had dried just enough to become tacky. Gibbs had to make an effort to spread his fingers and even then, they separated with a sickening sucking sound.

“This way, boss,” McGee gestured towards one of the corridors. The young man’s face was pale, but his expression determined.

With McGee’s guidance, Gibbs soon found himself in the men’s room. McGee acted the valet, standing back while Gibbs brutally washed the blood off his hands, but stepping forward to hand him a paper towels when he was done.

“Tony’s going to be fine.” McGee managed to sound convinced. “Nothing ever gets him down.”

Gibbs could have argued the point. He knew Tony better than anyone else and knew all too well that lots of things got the seemingly brash man down. However, there weren’t many people that Tony allowed to see that part of him. He and Gibbs were a lot alike that way, although they covered their vulnerability in very different manners.

“You’re a good man, Tim,” Gibbs mustered a hint of a smile for the younger agent.

Gibbs might lead the team, but Tony was its heart. Gibbs wasn’t the only one greatly affected by Tony being so seriously wounded. It spoke volumes of his character that McGee’s thought was to reassure Gibbs, when he probably was in need of similar reassurance himself.

Feeling marginally better, Gibbs headed out of the bathroom, McGee close behind. They quickly made it back to the area where they’d separated from Ducky. Ziva beckoned them from a doorway a short distance away. When Gibbs reached her, he realized that it was a waiting room.

“Ducky has not yet returned.” Ziva was pale when she reported to him, but her gaze was steady. “I believe that is a good sign.”

She was probably right. The longer Ducky was gone, the less likely it was that Tony had died.

“Gibbs, Gibbs, Gibbs.”

Gibbs barely had time to nod at Ziva before Abby launched herself into his arms. He automatically pulled her in for a hug and immediately felt better for it. Gibbs loved Abby every bit as much as he did Tony, although in vastly different ways.

“He’s gonna be okay, Abs.” Gibbs looked over his shoulder at his junior field agent and gave the young man a slight smile. “McGee said so.”

“Well, he has to be.” Abby pulled back and Gibbs could see that her tears had caused her mascara to run. He gently brushed away the streaks before kissing her on the forehead.

Gibbs led Abby to the chairs lining the room and sat down next to her, where she immediately wrapped herself around one of his arms. That was okay with him, he found himself craving human touch. Movement at the door to the room raised his hopes, but it was just Jimmy Palmer and Leon Vance joining them.

“Any news?” Vance’s words were clipped, but his eyes were even darker than normal with concern.

“Not yet - . . . .” Gibbs started to reply, but stopped as further movement caught his eye. This time it was Ducky and Gibbs gently shook Abby off as he rose to his feet.

“He’s alive.”

For once, Ducky had gotten straight to the point and Gibbs closed his eyes in relief. “Give it to me straight, Duck.”

Ducky stood directly in front of Gibbs, but his words were projected loud enough that all of the waiting NCIS personnel could hear. “As you know, Anthony was shot three times. Two of the wounds are all but inconsequential; one was a graze to the arm, the other a through and through at the hip.”

“And the one to the chest?” Gibbs didn’t let his gaze drop from his old friend’s.

“The good news is that it didn’t directly hit his lung.” Ducky informed him. “But it did ricochet off of a rib, thereby hitting the lung and causing it to deflate. By then, however, the bullet had slowed enough that Anthony survived the initial wound.”

Gibbs wasn’t the only one that heard the emphasis on the word ‘initial.’ Abby had grabbed his arm again and was clutching it tightly. “The prognosis?”

“Tony is headed to surgery, where the wound will be repaired and the lung re-inflated.” Ducky took a deep breath and Gibbs could tell that his old friend was working hard in order to continue to project a professional demeanor. “As you know, Anthony has scarred lungs from his bout with the plague. If he survives the surgery, it will hamper his ability to recover.”

If, Ducky had said. ‘If’ had to be the shittiest word in the English language.

“How long?” Gibbs demanded.

“For the surgery? It will be hours, I’m afraid.” Ducky’s eyes swept around the room. “I suggest we settle ourselves in for a bit of a wait.”

Gibbs allowed Abby to coax him to sit down again, where she all but climbed in Gibbs’ lap. Gibbs knew that he owed the rest of his team comfort, but as he watched with dull eyes, he could see them pulling together. McGee sat next to Ziva, who immediately reached for his hand. Next to Ducky, Palmer was the one with the best idea of what Tony was up against. To Palmer’s credit, though, he didn’t rely on Ducky for reassurance. Instead, he fussed with Ducky’s coat and getting the older man settled. Vance stood at the doorway, watching them all with that expressionless face that irritated Gibbs so much.

As though sensing Gibbs’ observation, Vance looked at Gibbs and nodded slightly. “I’ll see to it that you have this waiting room to yourselves. You won’t be disturbed. Right now, don’t worry about anything but DiNozzo.”

Gibbs didn’t bother to reply; he didn’t need Leon Vance to tell him that Tony was his number one priority.

Sitting back in his seat, Gibbs wrapped his arm around Abby, absently kissing the top of her head as he prepared himself mentally and emotionally for a long wait.
McGee and Abby were right; Tony was going to be okay. He had to be.

***

Tony opened his eyes and discovered he was in a movie theater. There was nothing unusual about that; movie theaters were his home away from home. Something was wrong, though. Tony didn’t remember having any plans to see a movie and, besides, wasn’t he supposed to be at work?

There was no one in the theater with him and Tony hoped he wasn’t there to see a comedy. It was the one film genre that was enhanced by seeing it with a crowd; Tony didn’t like to laugh alone.

Movement drew his eye and Tony realized that someone else had entered. It was a woman and Tony admired her lithe figure and bright red hair as she climbed the steps while managing to balance a tub of popcorn. He loved Gibbs and had no urge to wander, but Tony could still appreciate beauty when he saw it and this newcomer was a looker.

Despite the fact that the theater was empty but for the two of them, the woman chose the row that Tony was sitting in and, in fact, plopped right down in the seat next to him.

“Hey there, handsome.” She grinned at him cheekily and held the tub out to him. “Popcorn?”

Tony normally didn’t like sharing food with people. At least, not once the other person had bitten into it. Gibbs was the sole exception, but then, Tony swapped all sorts of body fluids with his lover. Popcorn, however, was a food group all into itself. Although he didn’t know the woman, he gladly dug into the offered snack and grabbed a big handful.

“Do I know you?” Tony asked. He tilted his head back and popped a kernel into his mouth.

She shook her head, eyes dancing. “Nope.”

Tony frowned. “You sure? You seem familiar.”

“I can absolutely guarantee that you and I have never met.” Her smile turned a little sad. “And that’s a damn shame.”

If there was one thing Tony knew, even more than movies, it was flirting. As far as he was concerned, it was part art form and part sport. Gibbs didn’t mind when Tony indulged; he knew who DiNozzo was going home with. Even so, Tony didn’t feel like reciprocating at the moment. Almost absently, he rubbed his chest. It didn’t itch, exactly, nor did it hurt, but like the whole theater thing, it felt off.

“Hey, none of that.” The newcomer grabbed Tony’s wrist and gently pulled it away from is chest. “Stop it, Tony.”

Tony’s hand stilled, but not because of the grip the stranger had on him. “I didn’t tell you my name.”

The woman slowly pulled back. “No, you didn’t.”

“I know that I know you and you obviously know me.” Tony liked puzzles, especially when presented by pretty women, but he’d enough strangeness for the time being. “What’s going on, lady?”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t have to find out.” She seemed sincere and Tony had no problem believing her. “I should have known better; you’re not just a pretty face or Gibbs wouldn’t have you on his team.”

Hearing his lover’s name helped jogged something in Tony’s brain and he looked at the woman in wonder. He knew exactly who she was. “You’re Shannon.”

She nodded. “Guilty as charged.”

Tony’s eyes darted around the theater. Nothing made any sense. How could he be talking to his lover’s dead wife? Unless. . . .

“Am I dead?” Tony asked. He lifted his chin as he stared at her, afraid of the answer but determined to meet it heads-on.

“No.”

Tony closed his eyes in relief, but it was short-lived, thanks to her next statement.

“You’re not dead.” Shannon repeated. “But you’re not exactly alive at the moment either.”

***

Experience told Gibbs that he’d been in the waiting room for hours, not days, but it didn’t feel that way. Gibbs was seated on something that, had it been in his living room, would be called a loveseat. Abby curled up next to him, her head on his shoulder. The others distributed themselves around the room, none more than a chair away from the other.

Gibbs could be patient. He didn’t like it, but he could do it. After leaving a terse message with Anthony DiNozzo Sr.’s answering service, he’d been still. Gibbs didn’t pace, leave to get coffee or make any trips to the head. In fact, the only movement he had made was the gentle, rhythmic stroking of Abby’s hair. Occasionally one of the others would try to engage Gibbs in conversation. He would nod or shake his head, whichever was more appropriate, and then return to staring to the door, as though his focus alone could make the doctor appear.

Not all of his companions were so stoic.

“What is taking so long?” Ziva got up from her chair and started pacing. “I do not like this game.”

McGee’s forehead bunched up in a frown. “A game?”'

“The waiting game.” Ziva all but spit the words out. “It is not amusing.”

Normally it was Tony that corrected Ziva’s misuse of pop culture references and American idioms. No one had the heart to take his place and so her mistake went uncorrected.

“No news is good news in this instance, my dear.” Ducky stated. In other words, Tony hadn’t died. “But I’ll admit that I, too, am weary of waiting.”

With impeccable timing, a woman dressed in scrubs walked through the waiting room door. “I understand you’re waiting for Special Agent DiNozzo?”

They were the only people in the waiting room, something that Gibbs was pretty sure that Vance had taken care of. The director had made several phone calls during their wait, but had left the room to do so and Gibbs didn’t know what they were about. The doctor didn’t seem surprised by how they’d monopolized the space, so perhaps one of those calls had been Vance making those arrangements.

“We’re his family.” Gibbs stated. Next to him, Abby sat up and Gibbs rose to his feet. “How is he?”

The doctor waved Gibbs back to his chair and then took the one opposite from him. The woman looked tired as she swept the surgical cap off of her head.

“He survived the surgery.” She got to the most important face first, for which Gibbs was grateful. “We lost him once on the table, but Special Agent DiNozzo is a strong man and we were able to get him back.”

Ducky leaned forward, no longer the genial friend, but a keen-eyed professional. “How much of the lung did you remove?”

Not if they’d removed any, but how much. Gibbs swallowed heavily at that.

“The GSW was to the right lung, lower lobe.” She answered. “We stapled it off while we did repairs, but we didn’t have to remove it. The lung was then successfully re-inflated. Special Agent DiNozzo is on a ventilator for the time being, but if he responds well, we’ll be able to wean him off of it, hopefully within a matter of days.”

Gibbs nodded. What he’d heard so far had eased some of his concern, but he knew the doctor wasn’t finished yet. “And?”

The doctor nodded at him, not offended at Gibbs’ brevity. “The admitting physician in the ER forwarded Dr. Mallard’s warning about the condition of Special Agent DiNozzo’s lungs. The injury is worrisome on its own, but given the previous damage done to them, his recovery is likely to be complicated.”

It took effort not to put a fist through a wall. How long was Tony going to have to pay for Hanna Lowell’s insanity?

“I’m assuming you’ll be consulting with Dr. Pitt?” Ducky asked. “He was the physician that treated Tony for the Y. pestis.”

The surgeon was nodding before Ducky stopped speaking. “Dr. Pitt has already been notified. He’ll be checking in on Special Agent DiNozzo within the hour.”

“Tony.” Abby corrected her. “His name is Tony.”

“Abby.” Despite the warning in his tone, Gibbs wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulder.

Abby’s jaw firmed, much as Gibbs’ own did when he was particularly put out with someone. “She’s going to be taking care of Tony. Tony’s a person and he’s our friend and he’s important. She needs to care about him. Calling him Special Agent DiNozzo is too formal for that.”

“My apologies, Dr.-. . . . “ Ducky’s voice trailed off as it occurred to him that the surgeon hadn’t introduced herself.

“Nolan.” She smiled ruefully. “Your reputation precedes you, Dr. Mallard. I’m relatively new to staff or no doubt we’d met already. I know that my mentor at Johns Hopkins always spoke very highly of you. And no need to apologize, I can see that Specia-. . . Tony is a very special patient.” She looked at Abby. “I assure you that he’ll receive the very best of care that we can offer.”

Abby sat back, mollified.

“I want to see him.” Gibbs knew that Ducky would oversee Tony’s treatment and make sure Dr. Nolan was following through on providing the best. Gibbs just wanted – needed – to see his lover.

Dr. Nolan stood, her weariness clear to see. “He’ll be in recovery a little longer; I’ll have the nursing staff notify you when he’s moved to ICU. I’ll warn you, though, that Tony will be kept heavily sedated. We can’t have him fighting the ventilator.”

“Understood.” Gibbs was actually glad that Tony wouldn’t have to be aware of having a tube down his throat. Given how much he loved to talk, Tony’d hate that.

With a final nod and a round of thanks from the NCIS personnel, Dr. Nolan left the waiting room. There was silence for a few moments after she left. Then, almost as one, the others turned to look at Ducky.

“It is a very good sign that none of the lung was removed.” Ducky assured them. “And the use of the ventilator is purely routine; nothing out of the ordinary, given the nature of the injury.”

“Why did she mention Tony’s previous illness?” Ziva asked. She knew about Tony’s bout with the plague, enough that sometimes it was hard to remember that it took place before her time with NCIS.

Ducky sighed. “Tony’s lungs were scarred from the illness. While it hasn’t been an impediment to his physical performance in the field, it has left Tony more vulnerable to infection.”

“That’s why Tony’s always the first in the office to get sick.” McGee stated.

And why Gibbs gave him hell if Tony didn’t dress warm enough in cold weather.

“Precisely.” Ducky nodded. “And right now, an infection could have very serious complications for Tony. I’m afraid the poor boy is in for a long fight.”

“Which is why the rest of you are going to go home.” Gibbs stated in a tone that was intended to be firm and unquestioned. It didn’t exactly work that way.

“Home?” Abby had a dangerous glitter in her eyes. “You’re kidding, right?”

Ziva looked equally unhappy. “If you are, Gibbs, I do not find it funny.”

“You heard Duck,” Gibbs told them. “Tony’s gonna be in here for a while. Go home and rest, so you can come back later.”

“Jethro is correct.” Ducky backed him. “I will stay, of course, to continue assist monitoring Tony’s condition, but we will need to marshal our strength, if we’re to be of assistance to Tony – and Jethro - in the long run.”

Abby looked ready to protest again, but Gibbs got support from an unexpected quarter.

“We’re all concerned about Agent DiNozzo,” Vance stated. “But NCIS isn’t going to run itself.”

His glare worked where Gibbs’ hadn’t. The junior staff grumbled, but they got ready to leave. Gibbs took a look at his watch, surprised to realize that it was early afternoon. He’d been monitoring the time, but only with regards to how long Tony had been in surgery; he hadn’t connected it to how much of the day was gone.

“We will return,” Ziva promised as she headed for the door.

“I’ll get a schedule going, Boss.” Tim’s face was serious as he moved to follow her. “You and Tony’ll always have back-up, I promise.”

“Never doubted you, Tim.” Gibbs gave him a smile. He hoped it didn’t look as tired as he felt.

Abby wasn’t satisfied with verbal promises. She practically throttled Gibbs with another hug, clinging to him tightly for a moment before letting go. “Don’t worry, Gibbs, I’m going to call Sister Rosita and ask her to pray for Tony.

~~ and that's all I wrote ~~

Why did I not finish this story? I started it in January 2012 and NCIS aired the episode "Life Before His Eyes" the month after that. In that one, Gibbs has a near-death experience set in a local diner. Frustrated, I put my story aside. Eventually I decided that there were enough differences between the episode and my story to work on it again. Unfortunately, shortly after that Criminal Minds aired an episode where Hotch has a near-death experience and interacts with his dead wife and greatest enemy at a movie theater. At that point I decided that the universe was telling me that the story was not meant to be, so I put it away for good.

Chapter Text

“Ah, Mr. Besht. How nice of you to arrive. . . and only 20 minutes late.”

Sam winced. This was the second interview he’d scheduled with his new academic advisor; he’d missed the first one because he ran late running an errand for Mr. Balagan. Unfortunately, that was the same reason that he was late for the rescheduled meeting. His original advisor, Dr. Lindsay, was a generous person and understood that there was more to life as a graduate student than just school. Unfortunately, she’d had a stroke a month ago. Her replacement, Dr. Bingham, was not nearly so flexible.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Bingham.” Sam’s apology sounded lame to his own ears. “It won’t happen again.”

Dr. Bingham lifted one eyebrow in thinly veiled skepticism. “I doubt that. You have a reputation, Mr. Besht.”

The professor was about Arkady Balagan’s age, but all similarities ended there. Bingham was dark-haired, where Balagan was blond. The chess master was about Sam’s height, but Bingham was much taller and broader too. Most importantly, while Mr. Balagan could be exacting, if not downright demanding, with his requests, there was usually a hint of mischief in his eyes when he made them. Not so with Dr. Bingham. Sam hated the way the man looked at him, although he couldn’t really describe why. Most of the time, Bingham glared at him like he didn’t really like Sam at all, but every once in a while he’d catch Bingham giving him an appraising look – as though he liked what he was seeing all together too much.

“And just what were you doing that was more important than discussing your academic future, Mr. Besht?” Bingham demanded. “If I understand your situation correctly, you’re at the university on a full scholarship. That’s why you don’t have a teaching or research assistant position.”

“No, I don’t.” Sam admitted. He couldn’t claim a paying job, either. His scholarship covered the basics of room, board and books too, although sometimes Sam had to stretch his budget so far that it squeaked. “I was doing research.”

“For your thesis?” Bingham demanded. “I saw you speaking to a young lady outside of a local bar. That hardly seems to fit in with your topic.”

Sam blushed. “N-no. I was helping Chess Master Balagan with one of his puzzles.”'

Arkady Balagan had quickly become the center of Sam’s world. It wasn’t just the chess, although that was a big part of the man’s allure. Sam was also fascinated at how Balagan’s mind worked. . . and Sam had a feeling he’d never get tired of trying to figure him out. It didn’t hurt that Balagan was attractive too, with piercing blue eyes. . .

Bingham interrupted Sam’s reverie about Arkady Balagan with a healthy dollop of sarcasm. “I see. And you’ve changed your thesis to the study of chess, have you?”

“I wish,” Sam blurted out before he could think. When he realized what he’d said, he blushed deeper and ducked his head. “I mean, no. But I do love the game and Mr. Balagan is the world’s best player and if I help him out, he’s willing to play against me. I’ve learned so much from him. . . .”

“Mr. Besht, need I remind you that you were given a substantial scholarship to learn at this university. If that is no longer your primary interest, perhaps the opportunity should be given to a student that appreciates it more fully.” Bingham did not look like he was kidding.

Sam swallowed heavily. Without the scholarship, there was no way he could afford school. “No, I appreciate the scholarship, I really do.”

“Then I suggest you begin giving your studies more of your attention than this Mr. Bologna. “ Dr. Bingham looked at him sharply as Sam opened his mouth. “You were going to say something, Mr. Besht?”

“No, sir.” Sam shook his head. He’d been going to correct Dr. Bingham’s pronunciation of Mr. Balagan’s name, but a sense of self preservation had kicked in at the last minute and kept him quiet.

“Good, I think your studies would benefit tremendously from having your undivided attention.” The pointed glance he shot Sam’s way made it clear that Ultimate Frisbee was also now a thing of the past. “And, in fact, being new to the faculty, I find myself in need of an assistant. Of course, Dr. Lindsay’s assistant will continue with her research until she gets back on her feet, but in the meantime, I need someone to help grade student papers and the like. You’ll benefit from that. There’s no budget for it this semester, but do well at the tasks I assign you and I should be able to swing something for next semester. Is that agreeable?”

It wasn’t exactly a question, but Sam nodded his head anyway. “Yes, sir.” From the professor’s expression, Sam hadn’t expressed enough gratitude, so he added, “And thank you.”

“I’m a difficult task master, but I’m fair, Sam.” Apparently, having succeeded in getting Sam to become his unpaid assistant, Dr. Bingham felt relaxed enough to use Sam’s first name. Sam knew better than to expect that the opposite was also true. “You’ll learn far more from me than a chess player, I can guarantee you that.”

Sam half-heartedly listened to a list of his new duties. He didn’t bother to correct the professor, but he knew in his heart that Dr. Bingham was dead wrong; Sam had learned more from Arkady Balagan than he had all of his college courses combined. He was heartsick at the thought of his time with the chess master being so severely curtailed. Sam’s lips thinned as he made an internal decision; he’d find a way to work with Mr. Balagan. Maybe not as much as before, but he wouldn’t give it up completely.

But how was he going to explain it to Mr. Balagan?

*
*
*

“No, Mr. Balagan, those are not for you!”

Arkady snatched his hand back, as though the cookies on the plate were still hot from the oven. “But they are in my room, why else would you bring them if not for me?”

Alcinda was implacable. “They’re for Sammy. That boy hasn’t been eating enough.”

Hearing Sam’s name stung. The young man’s defection was most irritating; Arkady had been forced to rely on Pipa and Danni for help solving his puzzles. They were each good at investigating in their own way, but didn’t have Sam’s knack for it. Arkady had solved a couple of puzzles since Sam had reduced the time he was able to spend helping, but they hadn’t been cracked as quickly and the resolutions hadn’t felt nearly as satisfying.

Arkady also missed the chess games with Sam, although his mind shied away from thinking too much about that.

“Then his professor should feed him.” Arkady defiantly took a cookie off the plate and ate half of it one bite.

Alcina ignored his antics without so much as an eye roll. “I am worried about that new professor. He works Sammy too hard. Now that poor boy does chores for two demanding men who don’t pay him.”

It took a moment for Arkady to realize that he was one of the demanding men that she was referring to. “I pay Samuel.”

“In chess games, Mr. Balagan.” Alcina put her hands on her hips as she spoke to him. “Now, I ask you, how is a young man like Sammy supposed to keep himself fed with chess games?”

Arkady took a last bite of his cookie and swallowed with satisfaction. “Chess is food for the soul, Alcina. Samuel would have it no other way, trust me.”

Having enjoyed the taste of the first one, Arkady reached for another cookie. Alcina, however, quickly grabbed the plate out of reach.

“I told you, these are for Sammy.” This time, Arkady’s attempted theft earned him a glare. Oddly enough, that made Arkady feel better. Negative attention was better than no attention.

The point of their contention took that moment to walk through the door to Arkady’s hotel room. Sam took a couple of steps inside, then seemed to sense the tension and came to a full stop. “Um, hi?”

Arkady darted forward and retrieved the plate of cookies from Alcina. “Alcina brought me a treat, but I am willing to share. Cookie?”

“Mr. Balagan.” Alcina’s voice was exasperated, but the fondness she had for the Russian came through. She stepped forward and took the plate back before offering to the young man. “The cookies are for you, Sam.”

Obviously uncomfortable, Sam’s gaze shifted between the two of them. “For me? But it’s not my birthday.”

It hurt Arkady’s heart a little that Sam didn’t think he deserved a treat unless it was a special occasion. From the expression on Alcina’s face, she felt the same way.

“Of course they’re for you; you’ve been working so hard,” Alcina explained. “You deserve a treat.”

Just like that, Arkady’s sympathy for Sam went up in a poof of mental smoke. “Work hard, yes, but not for your long-suffering mentor.”

Sam frowned. “But Dr. Lindsay had a stroke.” Arkady made a noise of frustration.

~~ and that's all I wrote ~~

This story was supposed to be long, with Sam's new adviser going farther than just taking advantage of him academically, to using his position to try and pressure Sam into a sexual relationship.

Endgame might be the most obscure fandom I've ever written in. I watched in on Hulu, which I no longer have access to. It only had about a dozen episodes and with no way for me to re-watch them, I just lost steam. It's too bad, because I remember Arkady being an arrogant man with a heart of gold and Sam being an absolute sweetie. Ah well.

Chapter Text

Will lay quietly in the aftermath of their loving. He could feel Hannibal’s seed trickling from his body. Not for the first time, he wondered at the duality of the other man. Hannibal Lecter was a predator, a psychopath who viewed most other human beings as either nothing more than a canvas that breathed or a culinary delicacy yet to be exploited for his own pleasure. To put it in Disney terms, to Hannibal Lecter, humans weren’t friends; they were food.

And yet. . .

As much as Will knew he should be wary of Hannibal, frightened of Hannibal, disgusted by Hannibal. . . Will couldn’t help but feel exquisitely grounded when he was with the other man. Safe in all ways, even from the vagaries of his own mind.

“You’re thinking too much again,” Hannibal murmured, his normally clipped voice softened by satiation. His arm tightened, pulling Will even closer to his warmth. “You should rest.”

Will turned to Hannibal like a flower did to the sun. Without his glasses, the other man was a little out of focus, but that was all right. Will had long since memorized every nook and cranny of Hannibal’s face.

“I’m thinking of you,” Will stated simply.

Sans glasses as Will was, Hannibal’s smile was a red gash that opened suddenly and widely against a pale background. “I should hope so.” Hannibal’s hand dipped, playfully spreading the wetness of the leaked semen across the skin of Will’s thighs. “I would be rather offended if you weren’t.”

It would be easy to tease the other man for being vain, but given the circumstances, Hannibal had uttered the truth. Will instead kissed the skin of Hannibal’s broad chest and then pillowed his head against it. The rhythmic lub-dub of his lover’s heart was soothing, but not enough to lull Will to sleep.

Not when he was surrounded by the dead.

Like Hannibal himself, Will’s empathy had two sides. The one that he admitted to was the way it let him view a crime from the perpetrator’s perspective. That talent could be chalked up to a combination of imagination, psychology and forensics. Will knew it was more than that, though - had always known. In fact, he’d chosen his course of study and career primarily to mask the true nature of his gift. If his abilities made him valuable to the various law enforcement agencies, all the better; Will was willing to serve.

The flip side to his empathy wasn’t so easily explained by science, so other than a few misplaced confidences when was younger, Will didn’t try. He was labeled as being strange often enough without claiming to see the dead.

Even now, Will didn’t know if the dead he saw were ghosts or something other, but the term ‘ghost’ seemed to fit as much as anything. They didn’t speak and so he couldn’t ask. Will didn’t even know if he would want to hear the answer even if they could communicate. He did know the dead were everywhere, mostly as a separate, self-contained entity, but sometimes as a shadow lurking in another person’s eyes. It was one reason why Will tended not to look other people in the face; he simply didn’t want to see what – or who - was haunting them.

Most of the time, the dead were willing to fade into the background and Will had long since become inured to a silent, ghostly audience. Their hollow eyes tracked him, but offered no judgment or commentary on how Will chose to live his life. Crime scenes were an exception; they were always crowded with dead. Far from being placid ghosts, the dead that were present at the site of a murder were agitated, their eyes still empty, but seeming to stare at Will with mute accusations anyway. Oddly enough, the visage of the murder victim was never present at these times. Will hoped that they were still making the transition from living to dead and not that their souls were stuck in a body that was already decaying, even at the freshest of scenes.

Will had known from the first instant he met Hannibal that the other man was a magnet for the dead. Hannibal wasn’t just surrounded by ghosts, he was virtually swimming through them. Like everyone else that Will had met, though, Hannibal seemed unaware of their presence. At least, that was the impression Will had at first. Now that Will knew Hannibal better, he wasn’t quite so sure of that particular ignorance. Oh, Hannibal wouldn’t see them, not like Will did, but Will could easily imagine Hannibal assuming that they were there. Of course they would be, Hannibal Lecter had slain them and owned those deaths more than those who had died.

At first Will had assumed that the dead that followed Hannibal were drawn to the man’s powerful presence, like moths to a flame. As he he’d gotten to know the other man, though, Will’s suspicions had grown. These weren’t random dead and that, even more than the other clues that Will had slowly added together, made him realize that Hannibal was a killer. Not just any killer, either, but the Chesapeake Ripper, just to name one of Hannibal’s well-earned sobriquets.

Will had fallen in love with him anyway.

Hannibal Lecter was the kind of man who was in charge of everything that touched even tangentially on his life and, apparently, that included one Will Graham. Will wasn’t even sure how he’d managed to fall in love with the singularly most inappropriate person in the world, but he had. Will had started out his relationship with Hannibal with skepticism, but it slowly, inevitably grew to first friendship and then into something more. Even as his relationship with Hannibal morphed and deepened, however, whatever odd rapport Will had with the dead remained the same. They remained passive, objective observers.

That changed when Will took Hannibal as a lover.

After he’d had sex with Hannibal for the first time, Will had come back to himself to find the face of a dead woman glaring at him from over Hannibal’s shoulder. Her eyes were still hollowed, but gleamed with a dark fire and her lips were pulled back in a snarl. Will had been startled and flinched away. Hannibal had misunderstood the younger man’s actions and immediately pulled the younger man into his arms, whispering encouragements about the future of their relationship. To his embarrassment, Will had clung to him; the dead had never given him cause to fear before.

It was only the beginning.

It seemed as though the more entangled he got with Hannibal, both physically and emotionally, the more agitated the dead became. They’d always observed Will, but now there was a vibe of disapproval coming from them. They watched him when he was alone, they lurked as he did his job and they appeared hostile when he was with his lover.

Will did a good job of ignoring them. After all, he’d been practicing all of his life. He told himself that Hannibal was a good man, that the dead were jealous that Will finally had someone who understood him as thoroughly as the dead seemed to. He convinced himself that they weren’t exhibiting hatred towards Hannibal, but rather jealousy. In way, their negative attentions towards his lover cemented Will’s desire. Nothing was as tempting or as satisfying as the forbidden fruit.

~~ and that's all I wrote ~~

Why didn't I finish? For a while, I was really taken with the idea that there was a supernatural aspect to Will's empathy and that he saw the dead. When it came down to it, though, I just couldn't figure out where I wanted the story to go. Did Will resist the dead's anger and stay with the man he loved? Did the ghosts convince Will that Hannibal had to be stopped? Did a ghost possess Will in order to kill Hannibal? Too many choices and none of them felt right. I'd already put the story aside by the time the show was canceled, but the cancellation was just the nail in the coffin.

Chapter Text

Sam Winchester was in trouble with both his commanding officer and his father. The fact that they were actually the same person didn’t help in the least.

“What the hell were you thinking, Corporal?” John Winchester was right in Sam’s face as he demanded an answer. It was intimidating, but since he’d grown taller than his dad, Sam found that it wasn’t as bad as it used to be. “You were told that the unfriendlies were all birthed humans. Your hesitation with that last one could have caused damage to the team . . . and you.”

It was that last bit that bothered his father the most, Sam knew. It was probably why John was so angry. He also knew better than mention that tidbit, however.

“She said she was an ELF, sir,” Sam defended himself. Luckily for Sam, the ‘sir’ was appropriate, whether he was addressing John-the-father or John-the-Colonel. It cut down on the confusion of having his dad as his CO. “I felt I should give her the benefit of the doubt until proven otherwise.”

John wasn’t impressed. “She said she was ELF?” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “And I suppose she’s the only piece of scum that’s tried to save her skin like that.”

Sam’s lips thinned. “With all due respect, sir, it is standard operating procedure to subdue suspected splicer operatives whenever possible and only shoot to kill when given no other alternative.

“The kid has a point,” a voice drawled nearby.

Sam turned his head to look. Bobby Springer was sprawled on a nearby chair, not in the least intimidated by John Winchester. Nor did he have reason to be. The two men had been friends for years and, even though technically John was the superior in rank, Bobby was equal to him in cantankerousness. Bobby was the only one who could talk back to John Winchester under any situation and get away with it. John didn’t take it at all well, but he also valued his own ass. Not only had Bobby saved it a number of times, but he also wouldn’t hesitate to shoot John’s off if he thought John went too far over the line – and John knew it. The rest of the members of the unit, including Sam, had too much respect for both men to assume that they could get away with the same kind of behavior.

“It’s kind of hard to question the bad guys if you’ve killed all of them,” Bobby continued. “As much personal satisfaction as it might give you to wipe each and every one of them off the face of the universe. You’re never gonna find the Demon that way if you kill everybody that could lead us to him.”

John Winchester clenched and unclenched his hands several times. Sam halfway expected things to degenerate into a fist fight, but instead, his father just turned on his heel and strode out of the conference area where they’d gathered to discuss the success of the latest operation. Sam sighed, along with a couple of others, at the immediate easing of the tension in the air.

“Don’t think I don’t have a few choice words for you, you ijit,” Bobby glared at Sam. “The next time someone working for a splicer surrenders, you put them in restraints right away. Don’t be checking out their belly until they’re controlled. That little bitch could have cut your balls off and maybe we should have let her.”

Sam winced. Bobby had a point. The team had raided a known splicer convoy and it had involved some bloody hand-to-hand fighting once the Impala’s crew boarded the splicer vessel. Sam had cornered one who was seemingly weaponless, a young woman with long blonde hair. She’d ran from him, tossing all sorts of debris into his way in an attempt to slow him down, until she finally had nowhere left to go. She’d turned then, tears in her eyes, and claimed she was an ELF.

That’s when Sam had noticed she looked like Jessica.

Against protocol, Sam had given the woman a chance to prove she was an ELF before he‘d secured her. It had almost been his undoing. As she’d started to raise her shirt to expose her bellybutton area, she grabbed a knife she’d had concealed all along. Sam had no chance to raise his weapon, her movement towards him was so fast. Luckily, Jo had followed and managed to shoot the woman before she could reach him. Unfortunately for Sam, John had witnessed the whole thing.

“I know,” Sam ran a finger through his already messy hair. “It’s just. . . .”

“Jessica’s dead, son,” Bobby said in an unusually gentle tone. “I don’t care if that gal today had hair like her’s or, hell, was even her exact twin. Jessica’s gone and ain’t nothin’ gonna change that.”

Sam nodded his head, but kept his eyes glued to the floor. He wasn’t sure he could stand Bobby’s sympathy at the moment. “I know.”

“Good.” Despite the praise, Bobby’s voice sounded anything but pleased. “Now that we’ve got that settled, I’m thinking that cleanin’ all of our weapons might smarten you up some. Come on, everybody, Sam’s got some work to do.”

The others trooped out of the room. Most looked sympathetic, but Jo smirked at him while she walked out. Sam kept his face expressionless until everyone was gone and then he let his nose wrinkle in disgust. Jo would be a good hunter eventually, but was still new enough to be cocky. Sam didn’t think he’d ever been that green; John had seen to that.

Resigned, Sam headed down to the weapons room and got work. He never thought of questioning the order; Bobby might not be in charge of the unit, but his word was law to everyone but John Winchester. It wasn’t that bad. Cleaning the weapons and checking to make sure they were fully charged was mindless, repetitive work, but the routine of it helped Sam sooth his thoughts. By the time he was finished, he was a lot calmer and ready to see the day’s events in a more objective light. The weapons room, however, was not the place for that kind of thinking. After checking to make sure he had everything done to his father’s high expectations, Sam headed out.

The Impala was a small ship, built for speed and power rather than intended to dominate by size. Even so, she had an observation deck of sorts and that’s where Sam liked to retreat, especially since his crewmates tended not to use it. He sat on the worn leather of a padded bench and watched the stars streaking by. On a star chart somewhere, Sam supposed the pattern of the stars made sense, but it eluded him. He snorted as he realized that applied to his father too. Somewhere, at some time, someone had understood John Winchester, but it certainly wasn’t his eldest son.

“Somethin’ funny?”

Sam didn’t turn. “Not really, no. Sardonic, maybe.”

His dad sat on the bench next to him and silently handed Sam a beer. Sam looked at his father then, but John didn’t appear to be angry anymore. If anything, he seemed tired. John took a long pull from his bottle before speaking.

“Sardonic, huh?” There was no heat in the comment. “You and your brother both, using fancy words. I guess I need to download a dictionary into my personal padd.” He slid a glance at Sam. “Have you heard from Adam lately?”

Sam nodded, although he told himself to temper his enthusiasm with caution. His younger half-brother, Adam, could be a volatile subject for their dad. Even so, he couldn’t avoid the subject. As the captain of the ship and the unit’s CO, John was well aware what messages Sam had received – and from whom.

“Yeah. He’s excited about the new semester, although it sounds like he’s got a killer load of classes.” Sam reported. He was the main information link between John and Adam. “He said to say ‘hey.’”

John snorted. “Don’t lie to me, Sammy. Adam hates me.”

“Adam doesn’t hate you, Dad,” Sam retorted, daring to be informal. John’s use of ‘Sammy’ instead of ‘Sam’ was a clue that he was speaking to John-the-dad at the moment and not John-the-CO. “His mother hates you.”

Sam’s mother, Mary, had been a hunter, just like John. The work was dangerous, the hunters searching for splicers and splicer customers in environments where a small, mobile group would be able to infiltrate better than a typical UED unit. Hunters were a cross between scouts and combat soldiers. They worked under the auspices of the UED, but outside the normal command structure. Traditional UED troops both admired their success and feared their tactics; splicers just tried to kill as many as possible, in as painful ways as possible.

Mary and John Winchester had met and married while part of the same hunter unit, but once Sam was born, they’d been careful to not go out on missions at the same time, so that there would be no chance that Sam would be an orphan. Sam had a feeling that his father had never expected the plan to be necessary or maybe he’d just expected to be the one to die. In either case, John Winchester had been ill-equipped to raise a four year-old on his own. Sam had spent most of his childhood shuffled from one place to another, first family friends and later boarding schools. He’d spent time with his father in between John’s missions and knew that the man loved him, a lot, but the bulk of John’s attention had been finding the splicer who’d given the order for Mary and her unit to be eviscerated. So far, he hadn’t even found out the splicer’s name, only that he went by ‘the Demon.’ The reports of the atrocities carried out on the Demon’s behalf made it clear that it was a very fitting name indeed.

Even though he was obviously and obsessively still grieving deeply for Mary, Sam found out that his father had hardly remained celibate. Seven years earlier, John had been contacted by Kate Milligan, informing him that a child had resulted in their brief liaison and that he had some back child support to pay for the now twelve year-old boy. Sam had never seen his father so discombobulated in his life. John immediately began sending some of his pay to Adam and his mother. That was to be expected; John Winchester was a hardnosed grunt, but an honorable one.

What Sam hadn’t expected was that John would bring Adam into their life. Or, at least that he would try.

Nearly a teenager, Adam had not been happy to be forced to see John and his mother was even less enthusiastic about it. The Milligans didn’t have a choice, though. Once John started contributing financially towards Adam’s care, he had a right to see the boy. As surreal as the whole situation had been, Sam knew that Adam was his brother as soon as he saw how resistant Adam was to any overture that John made. Adam’s last name might be Milligan, but his stubbornness showed he was a Winchester through and through.

Unlike his feelings towards John, however, Adam had taken to Sam right away - and vice versa. Raised an only child, just like Sam had been, Adam clearly was as fascinated with the idea of a sibling as Sam was. To John’s credit, he insisted on continuing the awkward visits with Adam, making sure that the brothers were able to develop some sort of relationship. John’s contact with his youngest son had ended a year ago, when Adam reached the age of his majority, but Adam continued to communicate with Sam.

“Sammy, for what it’s worth, I wish your life could be more like Adam’s.”

Sam gaped at him, not believing his ears. He opened and closed his mouth a few times as he tried to formulate a comment. “You were plenty mad at me when I went off to school.”

John winced as he lifted his beer bottle for another swig. He swallowed before he answered. “Yeah, I was, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t proud of you for sticking your ground. . . or sorry that Jessica died.”

It was Sam’s turn to flinch, but not because of the memory of the huge argument that had taken place between him and his father when Sam announced that he was going to college. Blow-ups between the two of them had been commonplace. No, it was because of the mention of Jessica. She’d been dead for a couple of years and it still hurt.

“I’m glad it’s different for Adam,” Sam stated. He sometimes felt jealous of his little brother, that Adam’d had a stable home and little heartbreak, but mostly Sam was grateful that at least one Winchester was successful at having a conventional life.

John nodded, but remained thoughtful. “I just hope being sheltered doesn’t come back and bite Adam in the ass one day.

Sam snorted. “Only you could see being normal as a liability.”

It wasn’t the wisest thing to say, but instead of getting angry again, John just shrugged.

“The universe needs civilians, there’s not arguing that, but it does leave them more open to getting hurt by what they’re not prepared for,” he gave Sam a pointed look. “And I don’t like to think of either of my boys being vulnerable.”

The reference was obvious to the mistake Sam had made during the boarding operation. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

John’s smile was sad. “I know that, Sammy. You’re too smart to be that stupid more than once.” He got to his feet and turned to leave. At the last minute, John put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “I used to look for your mom’s face on every blonde woman I saw. It’ll fade, Sammy. Eventually. Just try not to let it get you killed in the meantime.”

And then John walked out.

The words stunned Sam. That the infamous hard-nosed John Winchester was willing to admit any sort of weakness, let alone one connected to his dead wife, was unthinkable. Unsettling, even. Sam resolutely drained his own beer before returning to his contemplation of the stars streaking by. . . . but although he stayed in the observation for hours, for once it didn’t bring him any peace.

*
*
*

Mary Winchester had died in the field, gutted by a splicer that had nailed her and the rest of her team to the ceiling of structure before setting it on fire. The blaze hadn’t lasted long, but that was almost worse. There was enough left of the bodies to tell that they’d been alive when the fire started; the twisted position of the corpses showed the agony Mary and her teammates had felt as they’d tried to escape the flames.

Sam hoped that Jessica’s death had been easier. She and some friends had been on their way to a pleasure trip, a girls-only vacation at a spa planet. Their vessel had never arrived. Weeks later, it had been found, dead and powerless in space. Jessica and her friends were equally dead, with marks on their bodies showing that their DNA had been harvested. Splicers were known to do that and rarely left witnesses behind that could identify their faces. Sam didn’t know if Jessica had known what was going on or if she was frightened. Wondering what her last hours had been like still haunted Sam.

Oddly enough, it had been his estranged father that had brought Sam though that dark time. They hadn’t spoken since he’d left for school, but shortly after the discovery of Jessica’s ship had been made public, John had shown up at the apartment Sam had shared with Jessica. John hadn’t let Sam wallow in depression. Instead, he’d put his son onto a new reason for living – revenge. Nowadays, Sam called it justice, but it was still revenge.

*
*
*

The ELF formerly known as JA-9-13-05 paced inside of his hermetically sealed quarters. They were watching him even more than normal, he knew. Dean snarled. He might as well give them a show.

“Dean, calm yourself,” Castiel warned.

Castiel was Dean’s favorite of his keepers. In fact, Dean had Castiel to thank for forcing the others to accept his choice of name. He’d been told that being rescued by the UED was a good thing, that it would lead to his freedom. Months later and Dean was still waiting. When he got tired of being promised a name, he’d taken one of his own. Zacariah and Uriel hadn’t approved, no doubt they’d wanted to stick him with something as corny as theirs, but Castiel had immediately adopted it. Dean had a feeling that Cas sympathized because he was forced to use a lame pseudonym instead of his own name. In either case, the facility workers and other people Dean came into contact with followed Cas’ lead and started using it too. Zacariah and Uriel had eventually given in and started referring to him as Dean, but they did it with such a condescending air that it didn’t feel like much of a victory.

“It’s lame, Cas, and you know it,” Dean didn’t let his fondness for Castiel stop him from showing his temper. “The UED has had me for going on six months now and I’m no closer to being free than I was with the other bastards.”

“That’s not true and you know it,” Castiel disagreed. Calmly, of course. Cas did everything calmly, which at the moment was having the opposite effect on Dean.

“Really?” Dean retorted. “I’m still locked up in a glass box and I still train like I’m a human weapon. Hell, I had to force the issue of getting my own name.”

“Dean, you’ve been decanted nearly a year now and while that is a long time for a sniffer to go unbonded, it’s not nearly long enough for you to be knowledgeable about all aspects of life outside your chamber,” Castiel pointed out.

“And who’s fault is that?” Dean demanded. He came close to the glass and glared at Castiel through it, his labored breathing causing the clear surface to fog a little.

Castiel didn’t even blink. “The splicer that created you is at fault.”

“From where I’m standing, there isn’t that much difference between you,” Dean stated.

That got to Castiel. He paled. “You can’t mean that.”

“Can’t I?” Dean countered. “You tell me only what you think I need to know. You let me watch vids, but isolate me from everybody but your hand-picked flunkies. You argue with my choice in music, my choice in food and even my damn name. Now you tell me that I won’t even have a say in who’s gonna fuck me every day for the rest of my life?”

“You’ve met a number of qualified candidates,” Castiel’s lips and voice were tight. Dean was wearing on that famed calm of his. It should have felt better than it did. “You rejected every one of them.”

“That’s because they sucked,” Dean retorted. “If that’s the best the UED has to offer, it’s a wonder the splicers haven’t gotten the best of you yet.”

“Dean-. . . .”

“No, Cas,” Dean interrupted. “You’ve been telling me for months now that I deserve to be treated like a birthed human, that it was wrong to create me to be a slave – and now you won’t give me a choice when it comes to something as important as who I spend the rest of my life with? That’s bogus.”

Castiel opened his mouth as if to protest, but all of a sudden he deflated. “You’re right.”

Dean blinked, started by the sudden capitulation. “I am?”

There were a couple of chairs in the open area outside of Dean’s chamber. Castiel sank into one of them. “Except for accidents that happen in the field, the vast majority of sniffer ELFs are allowed a great deal of input into choosing the one they’re bonded to.”

Dean crossed his arms across his chest. “And I’m not.”

“You are unique,” Castiel spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

“So I’ve heard,” Dean growled. “Not that any of you guys supposedly in charge have said anything, but I’ve overheard stuff.” He’d overheard more at the splicer compound than at the UED one, but he wasn’t going to admit that.

“All of the ELFs we refer to as sniffer ELFs are designed to bond to one person,” Castiel explained. “Some are designed for sex and the others as soldiers.”

“I know that,” Dean growled.

“What you don’t know is that none of them had been designed for both,” Castiel continued as though Dean hadn’t interrupted. “Until you. You are engineered to bond to a combination of sex pheromones like a pleasure ELF and blood like a soldier ELF. We’ve never seen that before. Ever. We had to make sure we knew how you were intended to bond before we could let it take place.”

Dean snorted. “You mean you wanted to study the hell out of me.”

“Yes,” Castiel admitted. “Although our primary interests were for your welfare.”

“Tell that Zacariah and Uriel,” Dean countered. “Those two have no one’s bests interests in mind but their own.”

Castiel sighed. “I’m very much afraid that you might be right on that.”

Dean wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “You feelin’ okay, Cas? I could have sworn you admitted I was right twice now and that’s just not like you.”

“Let’s just say that there’s only so much misdirection that even I can swallow,” Castiel told him, sounding very tired. “You were placed into the custody of our division because of your uniqueness and, ironically enough, the fear that you would be misused. But my colleagues have left off your bonding for too long and all so that they could study you in depth. Now we’re reaching a dangerous time for you and so must act quickly. They’ve chosen a bondmate for you, but I’m concerned that they have not done so with your best interests in mind.”

And wasn’t that a reassuring admission?

“So what are you going to do about it?” Dean asked, more gently than he’d been talking to Castiel before. He could tell that the man was torn up about what was happening. The last thing Dean needed was to alienate the one person who was even halfway on his side.

“You need to bond and you need to bond quickly,” Castiel told him. “I can’t change that.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Dean huffed.

Although the UED personnel had been less than forthcoming about Dean’s status, he’d belonged to a splicer operation first and they hadn’t been so ‘gentle’ about his feelings. In fact, he was in the process of being shipped to his bondmate, whoever it was, when the UED had intercepted the transport. Despite his frustration with the UED, Dean was grateful for the reprieve. He’d still have to bond or go crazy and die, but they’d given him extra months of freedom – from that fate, at least. It was the hypocrisy he couldn’t stand; that the UED tooted their own horn about how they respected him and his rights, but then turned around and gave him no choice – just like the splicers they claimed to despise.

“Dean, you can’t judge all UED personnel by Zacariah and Uriel,” Castiel almost sounded as though he were begging. “Their attitude and behavior are not the norm, I assure you. The problem is, I don’t know if they’re acting on their own or if they’re receiving orders from higher up.”

“So what you’re sayin’ is that you don’t know if you can trust your boss,” Dean stated.

“No, Michael is absolute in his devotion to the UED,” Castiel corrected Dean’s observation. “But his interpretation of his orders can sometimes be a little literal.”

Dean couldn’t quite understand the problem. The chain of command was something that had been drilled into him while still in the splicers’ training program. “So ask his boss.”

“If it were that easy, I already would have done it,” Castiel was losing patience. “Our organization is clandestine for a reason; we handle issues that are too sensitive for normal UED channels. Of necessity, our organizational structure is. . . murky.”

“What does that mean?” Dean asked, although he had a feeling he knew what the answer was.

“I don’t know how far up the taint goes,” Castiel confirmed Dean’s suspicion. “No, what I need to do is involve an objective third party. One I know is loyal to the UED, but willing to work outside usual parameters.”

“How long will that take?” Dean was appalled to hear a note of desperation in his voice and so he took a moment to compose himself before continuing. “I’m running out of time, Cas.”

Castiel looked at him sharply. “You’ve seemed more agitated than normal lately. Is there something you’re not telling us?”

Just that his skin itched like it was too small for him and his cock throbbed almost all of the time. Dean sometimes felt like the one he needed, his bonded, was somewhere in the chamber with him, but when he’d surreptitiously turned to check, it was only a shadow. None of that was information he was willing to share, however. His situation was bad enough without being restrained or pumped up with joy juice.

“Like you said, it’s been almost a year since I was decanted,” Dean said gruffly. “The clock’s ticking.”

“I know - . . . .” Castiel broke off as he heard something. Dean couldn’t tell what because the speakers into his chamber weren’t that great and he couldn’t hear. Before he could ask, Castiel turned back to him with a spooked expression. “They’re coming. You can’t tell them any of this. They know that you come closer to liking me than you do either of them and I was supposed to prepare you for finding out who your bonded is to be, If Zacariah or Uriel found out how much I’ve revealed, however, it would be bad. Very bad.”

“I know that, Cas, I’m not stupid,” Dean dropped the tough guy act long enough to give Castiel an unusually open expression of gratitude. “And, for the record, I don’t come close to liking you, I do like you.”

Castiel’s eyes widened and he acknowledge the comment with a quick nod. Zacariah and Uriel entered, however, and he stopped short of saying anything.

“Ah, Dean, you’re looking chipper this morning,” Zacariah beamed at him. Dean would have known even without Castiel’s warning that something was up; Zac liked nothing better than to fuck with Dean’s head.

“I was great until you showed up,” Dean replied. “You’re not exactly the life of the party, Zac. In fact, you suck all the life out of a room.” He pretended to consider. “Actually, you just suck.”

Uriel made a low sound of displeasure, but subsided when Zacariah put a hand on his arm. Zac didn’t seem upset at the lack of enthusiasm in Dean’s greeting; if anything, it seemed to amuse him.

“It’s good to see you in fine form this morning,” Zacariah stated. “I’m sure that Castiel has informed you that this is an important day for you.”

“He said something big was going to be announced,” Dean admitted, not wanting to look too eager or too concerned.

Zacariah grinned. “I’m very happy to tell you that in very short order, you will no longer be the responsibility of this department. Your bonded has been chosen and you will be leaving in the next few days to join him.” His grin broadened. “Or, should I say, join with him?”

“That means you’re going to get fucked,” Uriel stated, as if Dean had missed Zacariah’s play on words. “A lot.”

“Uriel,” there was a threat implied when Castiel said the other man’s name. To Dean’s surprise, Uriel actually seemed intimidated by the smaller man. In any case, he shut up, although he clearly wasn’t happy about it.

“My colleague is correct, although he’s being crass about it,” Zacariah continued. “Your bonded is a good man, a man to be proud of. He’s just what you need.”

Dean did not like the sound of that. “And just what is it that you think I need?”

Uriel answered. “A firm hand.”

“What did you do?” Dean pressed. His bad feeling feelings about the situation escalated to the point that he didn’t care if the others knew how worried he was.

“What we did was to locate the perfect bondmate for you. One that can help direct your skill as a fighter so that it benefits the UED and that is also strong willed enough to, how shall I put it, curb your enthusiasm for annoying those in positions of authority,” Zacariah was enjoying prolonging his announcement and Dean regretted the clear partition between them that kept him from throttling the man.

Castiel took pity on Dean. “It’s been decided that you’re to bond with Gordon Walker.”

Dean gaped, not even able to appreciate the twin sour expressions on Zacariah and Uriel’s faces at having Castiel steal their thunder. He’d met Gordon Walker back when the UED was still pretending he’d have a choice and were parading potential bondmates in front of him. It hadn’t taken long for Dean to realize that Gordon Walker was a soulless bastard.

“Are you fucking nuts?” Dean demanded once he was over his shock enough to talk. “Walker is 20 pounds of crazy in a five pound bag. No, scratch that, he’s one ton of crazy in a five pound bag.”

“Major Walker is a fine UED soldier,” Zacariah had regained some of his smugness. “He’s a loyal citizen and a credit to his training.”

“He’s a lunatic with a government sanctioned license to kill,” Dean countered.

Zacariah’s smile managed to be both condescending and evil. “You’ll have to forgive the UED, Dean, for putting more faith in its ELF psychiatrists than in your rather limited experience with humanity. Gordon Walker is the best possible match for you.”

Dean growled. “The hell he is.”

“It’s a done deal,” Uriel added, his smile less condescending but more honest in its nastiness than Zacariah’s was. “You can whine all you want, but that’s what’s going to happen.”

“You should use the time during the journey to get used to the idea,” Zacariah advised him as he headed for the door. “Remember, we’re only doing what’s best for you.”

Only Cas’ hand on the partition kept Dean silent as Zacariah and Uriel left the room. Once they were gone, though, he gave full vent to his frustration.

“Who the hell do they think they’re fooling? My best interests, my ass,” Dean slammed his hand against the wall. “I’m a human weapon and they’re giving the trigger to a psychopath like Walker? Un-frigging-believable.” He hit the wall again.

“Dean, stop that, you’ll injure yourself,” Castiel told him. “Don’t give them a reason to restrain you.”

As much as Dean wanted to ignore the warning, he knew that Cas was right. He kept his head down and did his best to master himself. His breathing was harsh as he reined in his anger, his hands opening and closing in fists as though wanting to smash into something. It took several minutes, but eventually Dean was able to lift his head to address Castiel, who was waiting for him patiently.

“I will not bond with Gorden Walker,” Dean stated flatly. “I’ll die first.”

Castiel didn’t look surprised. “I’ll do everything in my power to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“What part?” Dean asked, only half sarcastically. “The bonding part or the dying?”

“Both,” Castiel answered firmly. “I agree that Gordon Walker is a bad choice for you and that he was chosen for less than altruistic reasons. You have to trust me, Dean, when I say that I’ll do everything in my power to help you.”

Dean wanted to, but Zacariah and Uriel’s behavior had eroded what little faith he had in the UED. “I don’t even know your real name,” Dean pointed out. Names were important; he knew that from not having one for so long.

Castiel didn’t even hesitate. He put his hand on the glass as he looked at Dean steadily. “My name is James Novak, but everyone calls me Jimmy. My wife’s name is Amelia and we have a daughter, Claire. I love them very much and if Zacariah or Uriel finds out I’ve told you any of that, I may never see them again.”

The trust in Cas’ admission was profound and Dean respected it with a moment of silence. “They won’t hear it from me. . . . Castiel.”

Castiel gave him a small smile at the way Dean deliberately didn’t use his true name. “Thank you. I know my trust isn’t misplaced and yours won’t be either.“

With that, Castiel left using the same door that his colleagues had earlier. Dean watched him go with a desperate hope that was frayed around the edges.

“Just hurry, Cas,” Dean whispered. “Because the clock’s ticking.”

And as Dean’s cock twitched again, he sighed and turned to his workout equipment. He didn’t need another training session, but maybe if he were lucky, he’d wear his body out to the point where he could actually sleep.

*
*
*

John was worried about Sam. Sometimes he felt he’d spent his son’s whole life worrying about him and, to a certain extent, probably wasn’t different than any other parent in that respect. John, however, had been forced to deal with circumstances that most parents didn’t encounter. Mary’s violent death while Sam was still young, John juggling raising Sam while having a demanding military career, finding out about a second son when Sam was an impressionable teenager, Sam rebelling and going to school rather than signing up with the UED forces.

The death of Sam’s fiancé, Jessica.

It was that last one that worried John the most. He knew what it was to grieve a life partner. Sam and Jessica hadn’t married yet and there wasn’t a child involved, but Sam’s situation wasn’t all that different than John’s. To some, it would seem that John had taken advantage of Sam’s mourning, by finally getting him to join the UED service and then ushering him into a dangerous hunter unit. They would be wrong. John knew the key to Sam getting over Jessica’s death was to keep him busy and, as a fellow hunter, John could keep his boy close.

Sam had taken well to working in a hunting unit. He was good too, better than John’s wildest dreams. Like his father, Sam was also dedicated to wiping out splicers and those that purchased from them. John never thought he’d say it, though, but Sam was a little too dedicated. Jessica had been gone for two years, but Sam had yet to show an interest in anything but hunting. John was not yet at the age where he was desperate for grandkids, but he did want to see Sam’s heart heal.

It was because of Sam that John had agreed to allow Jo Harvelle onto his team, something normally would never have considered. He had nothing against Jo herself; the girl would be a good hunter when she matured a little. His hesitation had to do with Jo’s parents. Jo’s dad had died while under John’s command and Ellen had yet to forgive John. It’d meant a lot that Ellen had asked him to take Jo into his unit. Even so, if he hadn’t hoped that Jo would take Sam’s mind off of Jessica, he wouldn’t have done it. Unfortunately, the tactic hadn’t worked. Sam seemed fond of Jo, but like a sibling and nothing more.

“Look alive, John,” Bobby’s voice came over the intercom system. “We’ve got an incoming message from Ash and it looks like it’s been pinged to hell and back. That can’t be good.”

John put away the weapon he’d been working on and headed to the bridge. Ash was a friend and a fellow hunter, even if he wasn’t in the military and did his hunting the cyber way. If Ash took the effort to jumble the tracking of a communication, it must be highly sensitive.

“What have you got?” John barked a question as soon as he entered the bridge. The Impala was small enough that, unless they were in a fight, only one person needed to be on duty at a time. Typically, it was either Bobby or John.

“I got the signal locked down; we were just waiting for you,” Bobby nodded towards the display screen. Ash and Ellen could be seen, Ellen with a worried expression. Ash, on the other hand, saluted jauntily.

John grunted an acknowledgement and locked the bridge down so no one could enter without permission. “Go ahead.”

“Hang on, I’ve got one more person to join the party,” Ash’s hands could be seen working a keyboard and then the images on the screen divided. On one half were Ellen and Ash. On the other was a dark-haired man who wore the most serious expression that John had ever seen. “Everybody, meet Cas.”

“Ash, are you sure this is wise?” The man’s voice was as dark as his hair and was laden with concern. “If my colleagues were to find out about this communication, there would be unpleasant consequences.”

Ash snorted. “Cas, ol’ buddy, I didn’t flunk out of the angel squad because I’m an idiot. If I say this transmission is safe, then it’s safe. No one can track it.”

“Very well,” Cas didn’t seem totally reassured, but didn’t protest any further. He locked his gaze on John and, even through the intergalactic communication system, John could feel its intensity. “Captain Winchester, I have a situation I need help with and Ash assures me that your hunter team is best qualified. You may call me Castiel.”

“It’s going to have to be some big-assed situation for me to be willing to work with someone from HALO,” John countered. “I may not be known for bowing to the military power structure, but you guys are fringe, even for me.”

Castiel looked like he’d smelled something bad. “The Humanitarian Authority Liaison Organization is a valid UED entity.”

“You’re spooks,” John countered. “The UED calls you in whenever there’s a dicey situation and they need someone who’s not afraid to get their hands messy. Personally, I don’t have a problem with messy, but there’s a big difference between messy and dirty.”

“Or bloody,” Bobby added. “Bit of a difference between messy and bloody too.”

To John’s surprise, Castiel didn’t protest their comments. “Unfortunately, given my colleagues’ current actions, I have to admit that I have doubts about their altruism.”

“Cas is one of the good guys,” Ash addressed John and Bobby. “If HALO had more like him, I wouldn’t have bailed.”

“Okay,” given Ash’s recommendation, John was willing to hear this Castiel out. “What’s the situation?”

“Five months and 13 days ago, an ELF was rescued from a particularly clandestine facility,” Castiel didn’t beat around the bush and just launched into his explanation. “All of the splicer personnel involved either died fighting or committed suicide before they could be captured. The last of them were attempting to destroy the ELF rather than have him fall into our hands.”

John shrugged; the situation described wasn’t all that unusual. “And?”

“It was immediately obvious that the ELF in question was one designed to be bonded,” Castiel told them. “But upon further investigation, it was discovered that he was designed for pleasure and fighting; he will bond via sex and blood both.”

“A dual sniffer?” John straightened to his full height. “I’ve never heard of that before.”

“No one has,” Castiel replied. “And I’m afraid that’s the root of the problem.”

“Let me guess, your HALO buddies wanted to study him,” Ash hypothesized.

“It’s not entirely unreasonable,” Castiel sounded defensive. “In order to insure that Dean has the best chance at a happy and full life, we must know what his needs are.”

John snorted. How could someone work for HALO and still have a rainbows and kitten whisker type of world view. “Then what’s the problem?”

“Dean had been decanted approximately six months before we rescued him,” Castiel started. Bobby was quick to do the math and interrupted.

“And you said you’ve had him for over five months?” Bobby exclaimed. “Is he still sane?”

“Yes, although he is showing signs of stress,” Castiel answered. “Dean had been meeting with potential bondmates throughout his time with us, although none had been chosen. That has recently changed.”

“Just wait until you hear who they picked,” Ash interjected. “It’ll blow your mind.”

John braced himself. “Who?”

Castiel looked like he had a bad taste in his mouth. “Captain Gordon Walker.”

“What?” John thought he’d been prepared, but the sheer stupidity of the choice astounded him even so. “Are they insane, because Walker sure as hell is.”

“The official logic is that Dean has a strong personality and will need someone with a firm hand to guide him,” Castiel explained. “But Dean has met Gordon Walker and loathes him.”

“At least this sniffer of yours has sense,” Bobby commented. “Even if his handlers don’t.”

Castiel ignored the interruption. “And Dean has good reason for his dislike, I’m afraid. As you stated, Walker is not the most stable of individuals.”

“But if Dean hates him, shouldn’t that nix the whole thing?” Ellen spoke up for the first time. “I’ve never heard of the UED pushing a match where the ELF was completely against it before.”

“That is the root of my concern,” Castiel stated gravely. “Clearly, it was not in Dean’s best interests to wait so long to bond and now that the matter is on the verge of being life and death, the bondmate chosen is both unacceptable and unpalatable to the ELF in question. There is something strange going on.”

Bobby snorted. “Ya think?”

“Where do we fit in?” John demanded to know. “Seems to me that this is a concern for the ELF Welfare Service, not us.”

Castiel looked at him gravely. John was beginning to think that the man had no other facial expression. “You’re correct – if I thought the matter would reach them and be acted on. I have a suspicion any such action on my part would be blocked and I would be removed from the project. Dean would lose the only support he currently has.”

“So what do you want us to do, kidnap him?” Bobby asked. John hoped his second in command was being sarcastic, but had a bad feeling.

“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Castiel confirmed John’s fears. “I have someone within HALO that I’m trying to reach; I know she will take Dean’s part and she’s in a much better position to do so than I am.”

“So you want to keep us close in case that falls through,” John guessed. “You really willing to bet that I’d go up against HALO like that? It’s pretty risky, even by our standards.”

“From what I’ve heard, you’re an honorable man, Captain Winchester,” Castiel replied. “And I don’t think a man of your reputation could know what is happening to Dean and yet do nothing.”

Ash smirked. “He hasn’t told you the best part yet. Tell him who’s in charge of this clusterfuck, Cas.”

John lifted one eyebrow and waited for Castiel to reply.

“Zacariah,” Castiel told him. “With Uriel as his second.”

Bobby whistled. “Two assholes for the price of one. Mighty tempting.”

“You know that I have a history with those two,” John didn’t take his eyes off of Castiel. “And, for that matter, Gordon Walker too. You think they’re going to let me and mine anywhere near this Dean?”

“Dean is being transported to Gordon Walker’s location,” Castiel explained. “He will need an escort, which is my responsibility to arrange. I mentioned your unit as one possibility and Zacariah was. . . amused at the thought.”

John winced. “Probably likes the thought of me playing nursemaid and being at his beck and call.”

“Wait a minute,” Bobby protested. “If this Dean is as special as you say he is, why risk transporting him at all, why not make Gordy come to him?”

It was a valid question. Transporting an unbonded sniffer was an accident waiting to happen. One whiff of anyone and all of their scheming would fall apart.

“Captain Walkr insisted on it,” Cas explained. “Said he was on the tail of a splicer cell and couldn’t leave.”

“Sounds like him all right,” John growled. “Arrogant bastard.”

“Does that mean you’ll help us?” Cas asked.

“No,” John didn’t hesitate with his answer. “HALO can rot in hell as far as I’m concerned.” Castiel opened his mouth to protest, but John talked over him. “But I’ll do it for this ELF. Sounds like this kid’s been shafted by everyone he’s met and even if that wasn’t the case, no one should be forced to bond to someone like Gordon Walker.”

Castiel’s face relaxed, although he still had a concerned look on his face. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank us yet,” Bobby interjected. “We ain’t done nothing’.”

“But you’re willing to try,” Castiel was solemn when he responded.

“Trying ain’t enough and this Dean of years will tell you that if he ends up bonded to a psychopath,” John turned his attention to Ellen. “Give me the details through the usual channels.”

“Will do,” Ellen’s serious expression softened. “My girl doing all right?”

“Better than,” John assured her. “She’s a chip off the old block.”

Ellen’s lips tightened. “That’s what I’m afraid of. You’re keeping an eye on her, right?”

“Both of ‘em and the rest of the team too,” John answered. He knew what it was like to have your kid going off on his own and so had more patience for Ellen than he would normally have.

“Dudes and dude-ette, we got to end this pow wow,” Ash interrupted. “I can only keep this link unnoticed for so long.”

Bobby grinned. “So your genius has limits after all, huh?”

“No,” Ash glared at him. “The equipment has limits. Goodbye.”

The screen went abruptly dark, leaving the two old friends looking at each other.

“You sure getting mixed up with the angel squad is a good idea?” Bobby asked, face serious.

“No,” John answered. “But when have we let something being a bad idea stop us?”

His answer assuaged Bobby, who turned aside to run through some system checks in preparation of a new hunt. John wasn’t so certain, he had a feeling that this hunt was going to become very personal, very fast.

~and that's all I wrote~

I'd always admired the way my friend, nancy, was able to create vibrant multi-fandom universes and this was my attempt to do the same. I wrote a trilogy in the CSI:NY fandom and a long story in the Criminal Minds fandom, but I ran out of steam before I complete this one.

Chapter Text

David Rossi wasn’t a man who needed to pay for sex. He had more than enough offers, from both men and women, that he could have someone in his bed pretty much any night he wanted. Sometimes, though, Dave thought that he would prefer to pay for sex. With a professional, it wouldn’t be complicated. Especially following a rough case, Dave appreciated the thought of that. After three failed marriages he wasn’t eager to rush into another relationship and all of its trappings .

It took him awhile to act on his idea, partially because his job with the FBI made him careful, but also because he was picky. Dave had an appreciation for the finer things in life and, thanks to a couple of best-selling books, he had the means to obtain them.

A benefit to working in such close proximity to Washington D.C. was that there was a whole sector of the economy that specialized in discretion. A few careful inquiries with friends and Dave had been set up with a contact. That was how he ended up in one of the top lounges in the city, sitting across from a woman who looked as polished and well-dressed as a ‘lady who lunched,’ but was in fact a madame.

“It‘s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Smith,” she began the conversation once they’d put their drink orders in. He hadn’t been very original with his pseudonym, but that didn’t seem to trouble her. “Our mutual friend speaks very highly of you.”

“I was about to say the same thing of you,” Dave responded easily. He’d interrogated serial killers; talking to a female pimp wasn’t that difficult for him.

She inclined her head gracefully. ‘Ophelia’ was about Dave’s age, although her face didn’t look it. Her hands gave her away, though; there was only so much that lotions could do to make hands look youthful.

“It’s my understanding that you’re looking for companionship,” Ophelia stated. “It’s possible that I may be able to provide you some assistance with that.”

“May? Possible?” David repeated, leaning forward in his seat. “That’s an interesting sales pitch to use on a potential client.”

The waiter delivered their drinks and Ophelia waited until he was gone before she answered. “Ah, but I don’t need a sales pitch, do I? You approached me for a reason.”

She had a good point, but Dave wasn’t about to let that show on his face. “It was my understanding that you have a talent for making introductions.”

The woman calling herself Ophelia smiled lightly. “I have heard tell that there are agents within the FBI that specialize in pursuing criminals through analyzing their behavior; using brains over brawn.”

“It’s called profiling,” Dave interjected. “It’s observing someone’s behavior and personal characteristics in order to determine why they commit the crimes they do and in the way they do, but more importantly to use that information to catch them.”

“My profession isn’t that much different,” Ophelia stated, chin lifted almost definitely. “It is necessary for a . . . . companion . . . . to read their new friend and know exactly how to provide the level of conversation and entertainment that is desired.”

Dave felt one eyebrow go up. Frankly, he thought she was right, but enjoyed challenging an obviously intelligent woman. “Convince me.”

Ophelia’s immediate smile wasn’t the least bit daunted and she responded immediately.

“All right, let’s take you, for example.” She started. “You’re obviously wealthy, but I knew that from vetting you. You’ve been prosperous long enough to not need to be flashy with your status, but are hedonist enough to enjoy expensive things.”

She swept Dave up and down with her eyes, obviously appraising the quality of his suit. “You have compassion, which is the true reason why you’re here instead of a street corner. You could never take advantage of someone you thought was that desperate. I have a feeling you’d end up handing out money for nothing instead of paying for services rendered.”

“You’re not wrong about that,” Dave murmured. Street prostitutes were among the most vulnerable people in society; he wasn’t about to contribute to their pain.

“You were in the military, which helped you develop leadership and crystallize your strong sense of loyalty. Above all, you value intelligence,” Ophelia continued. “Best yet, you aren’t afraid of intelligence in others.”

Ophelia stopped and looked him. “How did I do.”

Dave managed not to squirm by the barest of margins. “Pretty good. I’d try to recruit you, but something tells me that the FBI couldn’t afford you.”

“Not to mention that the dress code would crimp my style.” Ophelia did shift in her chair, but did so with a sensuality that made Dave clear his throat. The movement also revealed that her skirt was slit almost to her hip. “I do think I can introduce you to a companion that will suit you very well.”

“After your demonstration, I bet you can,” Dave replied. “In fact, maybe you. . . .”

Ophelia laughed softly. “Oh, you tempt me, Mr. Smith, but no. Besides, I wouldn’t suit your needs, but the man I have in mind will.”

“A man?” Dave was a little taken back, even though he’d indicated before he even met Ophelia in person that he was open to either gender.

“It’s been my experience that a traditional Italian man like you,” Ophelia explained, “tends to see women as a potential wife or mother.”

Dave frowned. “I am not a chauvinist, ask anyone I’ve worked with.”

“I didn’t say you were,” Ophelia countered. “But you would not have come to me had you been seeking a relationship and I think you tend to put women in that category.”

“I see your point,” Dave admitted.

Ophelia smiled. “Are you willing to trust me.”

“For this?” Dave replied. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

“Good,” Ophelia moved to stand. “Stay here and enjoy your drink. I will send my pick over and you two can get to know one another better. If you like him, then the evening can continue however you choose.”

Dave couldn’t help but needle her a little. “And if I don’t care for your choice?”

“Then we’ll try again,” Ophelia started to walk away. “But he’ll suit you, I’ve no doubt of that.”

She left and Dave was left alone at the table. A part of him was appalled that he’d just arranged for a prostitute. A high-priced prostitute that was more like an escort or old-fashioned courtesan, but a prostitute nonetheless. Mostly, however, he was intrigued. What would it be like to find sexual relief with a professional? More than that, however, what kind of man would someone like Ophelia have chosen for him?

“Excuse me, Mr. Smith?” A male voice interrupted Dave’s musings. “Our mutual friend, Ophelia, thought we might suit each other.

Dave looked up – and up again – into a handsome face of a tall man with dark hair and eyes, a fiercely intelligent gaze, and an impressive physique that his well-cut suit enhanced rather than hid. The man was holding out his hand and Dave stood in order to shake it.

“Pleased to meet you,” Dave said, feeling more awkward than he had since high school. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I don’t even know your name.”

“My apologies,” the man smiled.

“My name is Aaron.”

~ and that's all I wrote