13. don't lose any sleep tonight, I'm sure everything will end up alright

Notes: I'm less experienced than a novice when it comes to chess but I had inspiration for a story involving it all the same. (Note the vagueness to which I describe the game. ;)) I was sort of trying something by starting in the middle and filling in the background as the plot progressed from there, though I'm not sure how successful I was in making the characters well-rounded and compelling. Also, mostly only I've edited this piece, so all mistakes belong to me and me alone.

Gambit

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gambit (noun) (1) a chess opening in which a player seeks to obtain some advantage by sacrificing a pawn or piece; (2) any maneuver by which one seeks to gain an advantage; (3) a remark made to open or redirect a conversation

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Tears raced down her face as she tore her arm from her grasp. "Stop it! Just stop it!" She sniffed and wiped her eyes. "It's not funny! I won't be your joke anymore! Just stop and leave me be!"

Dumbstruck, he gaped at her for a moment. "What are you on about?" he asked, brows furrowed.

"I don't understand," she continued, ignoring his question. "I thought you were my friend but—" She pulled herself up and faced him head on. "Do you laugh when I'm not around? Amusement for you and your real mates. How could you?" Now her tear filled eyes bored holes into him.

He ran a hand through his hair, obviously bewildered. "Lily, I have no idea what you're talking about. Just—"

She waved him off, thrusting a piece of parchment toward him. "I can't believe you knew. It would be one thing if you just-just didn't feel the same but that you would string me along for so long for your own sick pleasure—how could you be so cruel?" She shook her head. "God, Aiden, I don't even know you."

His mouth opened to try and piece together some semblance of sense but she just shook her head as she slid into her car. She was gone in a screech, leaving a flurry or leaves unsettled behind her.

Blinking, he glanced down at the paper she'd thrust into his hands. There were water drops—tears, he realized belatedly—but the print was still readable.

Hugh—

I can't believe school's only been out for a week! It feels like an age. My mum's already on me about my A-Levels, though, can you believe it? You'd think we were already halfway through next year or something!

Anyway, I've not got long. I just wanted to check—are you still planning to visit Town next week? I was hoping we could get tea...without our parents. They are horrible bores, after all.

One last thing before I go; I never could work up the nerve to say anything during the year. Please don't be mad—I just didn't want to upset you. I know how much you care for Lily, even if she is a terrible nag at times.

See, my older sister mentioned she overheard Aiden Milton laughing about her—about how she's always following him like a puppy dog and obviously infatuated with him. I know they're meant to be friends but apparently he and his mates are always mocking what she says and other things behind her back.

I'm so sorry, Hugh. I honestly didn't know how to tell you. I can't imagine what I'd do if it were my sister and… well, I just hope you can forgive me for taking so long. We can chat more next week or over IM.

Aurelia Santoro xoxo

Face set in a deep scowl, Aiden raced into his parent's posh flat. Unlike Lily, he still wasn't quite old enough to get his license. Instead, he was stuck using cabs and the generosity of others. It wasn't long before he was on his father's computer, using Skype to call the Santoro household. (They summered in Italy and he highly doubted his parents would appreciate a long distance phone charge.)

A maid with dark skin and darker eyes answered the call. She appeared to have been cleaning the office. "Signore Aiden, sir," she said in a heavily accented voice. "You wish to be speaking with Signorina Giulia?"

"Yes," he barked, forgoing the usual pleasantries in his agitated state.

The woman gave a serene nod, apparently not bothered by his tone, and moved out of the webcam's range.

It wasn't long before Giulia's tanned face popped into view. "Aiden?" she questioned curiously. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this impromptu call?"

He did not spare her any pleasantries. "Lily has just been here, Giulia. She was in an absolute state because of something your sister wrote to her brother. Something you apparently shared with Aurelia about me." His expression darkened. "I just have one question: why?"

Giulia had the audacity to look innocent. "Am I not allowed to share things with my sister now? How was I to know she was friends with Hugh Dixon?" She crossed her arms. "I'm not the one who told all those stories about the 'stupid flower' and that 'pansy cow'."

Instantly his face fell. "That—you thought..." Aiden growled with irritation. "I called her that pansy cow because the stories were about Pansy King and my father!" He grit his teeth. "You insufferable busybody. Instead of coming to me or having all the facts, you just—ugh!" Throwing his hands up, he waved off her hasty apologies. "Never mind. I've got a mess to clean up."

After closing Skype, Aiden began pacing. He couldn't very well cab over to the Dixon household or wherever Lily had chosen to hide out. If her mum and dad didn't do him in, her brother and cousins would surely finish the job. No, despite his inclination to try to fix this that moment, it would probably be best to wait. Forcing himself to sit, Aiden began to formulate a plan.

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It was late morning when Aiden called a cab take him to Lily's small suburban neighborhood. It was a short ride during which he alternated between looking anxiously at his cell phone (no missed calls from Lily) and pretending to listen to the Pakistani man ramble about traffic and weather. Soon enough, he was standing on a corner and left to his own devices.

Wandering down the lane, it wasn't hard for him to find a small park. A cursory look confirmed that it was the park. The park that Lily always chatted about. It really wasn't much to look at—just a few benches, a nice lawn with some flowers around the edges and a handful chess tables in the centre. But for the child of Robert Dixon, rabid chess enthusiast, it was enough.

He spotted her almost instantly. Her red hair shone like a beacon—a splash of color in an utterly gray world.

For a moment, he paused. An anxious hand ran through his blond hair and he considered running away. But, no. He'd made it this far, he wasn't going to call another cab (or worse, one of his parents) to return home with his tail between his legs. Not without at least speaking with her first.

Steeling himself, Aiden marched forward. As he closed in on her, he could see Lily was waiting for another opponent. He gave the evil eye to anyone that even glanced her way and swooped into the seat across from her.

Lily's gaze snapped up, and she froze. "Aiden?" Her mouth formed a thin line as she started to stand.

Covering her hand with his, his gray eyes pleaded with her. "Please, Lil. Hear me out."

Maybe it was his sincerity. Maybe it was the dark circles under his eyes from a night of restless sleep. Maybe it was nothing more than some kind of morbid curiosity. Whatever the reason, though, she gave a small nod and sat again. "Fine," she said stiffly. "But, if you want to sit there, you're playing."

"Fine," he agreed. Because he was the challenger, he let her make the first move.

They played in silence for at least ten minutes before Lily's irritation outweighed any lingering mortification. "You were going to say something?" she prompted, bringing her bishop out to take one of his pawns.

"So I was," Aiden confirmed with a nod, eying the board for a moment. Scowling at what he saw, he moved his castle. Then he looked up to meet her gaze evenly. "Thing is, I don't know where to start."

Her lips were pursed as she toyed with her pawn, finally moving it. "The beginning is usually a good place," was her dry response.

Aiden shrugged. "Fine. I don't like to disrespect the girls I know but boys are boys. So, one day, after a good deal of ribbing—" here, he moved his queen, taking her knight, "—I finally acquiesced. I told them a story; a story about Pansy King and my father."

Busying herself with making her move, Lily didn't comment at first. "But Aurelia—"

"Santoro heard a bunch of nonsense from her sister who didn't know what the bloody hell she was talking about." Aiden frowned and moved one of his pawns. "It's not my fault you lot are named after sodding flowers, is it?" he added under his breath.

Lily heard him. Crossing her arms, she huffed a little. "Well, I—"

"Nuh-uh," he cut in, wagging his finger. "You don't get to argue right now, Lil. Way I see it, there can be only one of two reasons you believed this load of nonsense. Either you really do have that little faith in me as a friend or there was more going on here than I've been aware of." He cocked a brow at her as he moved his bishop into place. "So which is it? And check."

Scowling, Lily looked down at the board and made a quick move. "I don't have to answer that."

Aiden nodded. "True, I suppose," he agreed, pushing his knight forward. "Check."

"But I suppose if I don't, you'll be inclined to think I have little-to-no faith in the strength of our friendship," she said in a long-suffering tone, moving her king out of danger.

He smirked a little. "Well, there is that," he drawled in typical rich boy fashion as he prepared his bishop for attack. "I am more interested, though, in what I think was going on in that head of yours."

Lily chose not to comment, instead concentrating on the game. After a minute of contemplation, she pulled out the big gun—her queen.

"Aren't you interested in my theory?" Aiden pressed, putting his pawn up for sacrifice.

"Not especially," she muttered, taking said pawn.

Now he smiled a little, tapping her wrist so she'd look at him. "Not even if I think the same thing?" he asked, slipping his queen behind her defenses. "Checkmate."

Lily wasn't looking at the board, though. She was standing, expression fierce. "Aiden, I swear on all that is holy, if you are screwing with me—"

That was as far as he'd let her go. "I'm not," he interrupted, making his way to her. "And, unless I've completely misread everything, I'm going to kiss you now." He smirked again as he leaned forward. "Feel free to shove me away if this is an unwanted attack."

She laughed a little at that, though it had a distinctly higher pitch than her usual.

It didn't matter. The next moment, his lips met hers and even though it was awkward and fumbling and he completely forgot where to put his hands, it was still warm and sweet and he wanted more. Much more.

They pulled apart, noses just centimeters away from each other. Wide blue eyes met wide brown and neither quite knew what to say.

Lily recovered first, clearing her throat. "Well."

"Okay," Aiden agreed without actually agreeing to anything.

She nodded. "So?"

He matched the movement. "Yeah."

They both still looked like deer caught in headlights for another moment, then Aiden reached forward and grabbed her hips the same time Lily wrapped her arms around his neck. The next instant, she was plastered against him and they were full on snogging.

Half an hour later, they were discovered by a myriad of her cousins and other, more homicidal, family members. Aiden wasn't certain he'd live through the day but with Lily's hand clasped in his he found he couldn't mind too much.

12. with downcast eyes; there's more to living than being alive

Notes: I wrote this a few years ago and recently happened upon it again. Cleaned it up some and... I dunno, I kind of like it. Sort of high school drama-y but with deeper undertones. Hasn't been edited (at least not recently) by anyone but me. Cheers!

Perfect

It was supposed to be everything she'd ever dreamed of. It was supposed to be perfect. She'd spent so much time dreaming of it—of him. Of their moment together. And then to get it—get him—and for real… It should have been prefect. Didn't she deserve it? After all her pining and wasted time, all the hurt and crushed spirits; why couldn't the real thing live up to her ideal? Just this once? The pedestal in her mind wasn't that high, really.

But it wasn't perfect, not even close. It was better than anything she'd found before, though. Not perfect but still… good. Nice. Worthwhile. Sometimes she'd forget he was hers, just for a moment. Then it'd hit her, just like it had when he asked her to prom, and she'd wonder how she'd gotten so lucky. Even if it wasn't perfect, somehow he was still hers. And it felt like she'd hit the jackpot and won the lottery—at the same time. It was amazing. Wonderful. Almost perfect.

She should've known it was only a matter of time before the other shoe dropped. Even when he was hers he was never really hers. He never really belonged to anyone, not for too long. He always had his eyes open, just in case. Like he didn't want to miss something better. Someone better. She should've known it would only be a matter of time before someone new caught his attention. It was his nature. But, true to her own way, she'd been drawn in like a moth to a flame. Too blinded by the flame to feel the fire.

It'd been no surprise (to anyone other than herself) when she'd ended up just like the moth: burned. It should've been perfect. She wasn't stupid. She'd always known wouldn't last forever. But if it couldn't last, why couldn't it live up to her perfect dreams? If she was going to have her heart broken by him yet again, didn't she deserve at least that? This had been her chance to live her dream. And, if she had, maybe she'd have had the memory to comfort her on the lonely nights that followed his leaving.

She didn't, though. There was no comfort. But, before too long, those nights began to be fewer and farther between. She still had her friends and, as luck would have it, a new (super cute) transfer student with a really adorable accent who dug her hairstyle. So maybe it still hurt to see him walking down the hall, arm slung around Girlfriend #53's neck; she could handle it. And, slowly but surely, that empty feeling she'd been sure she'd never be able to fill again faded.

Until one day it was gone, just like that. As if it'd never really been there in the first place. She'd moved on and without even really noticing it. Suddenly, her smile seemed just a little bit brighter. Her steps a little bit bouncier. And her memory of being with him? It was just that: a memory. Imperfect as always. He'd done her a great service, she decided, by being his imperfect self. (Not that he could be any other way but still. She could finally appreciate it.)

Because those imperfections—all those little things that made their time together not quite as special as she'd wished and hoped and dreamed—without them, she might've never been able to get over him. She might've spent her whole life broken and depressed over the boy she couldn't make love her enough to be her perfect boyfriend forever instead of finding a way to move on. Move forward. Worse, she might've missed out on other great guys (like Serge) because of it.

It hadn't been perfect, not even close. And she wouldn't have had it any other way.

11. was this over before... before it ever began?

Note: Just a little something I had an idea for a few years back. I'm not 100% sure I like the ending (despite the fact that I've reworked it several times) but that's all right. Not edited by anyone but me. Um, yeah. Cheers!

Bittersweet

They were friends for a long time—years and years. They were both five when they met for the first time, battling it out on the handball court. She was never any good. He was one of the best on the playground. A few lucky hits one day and she managed to unseat him. It was then that he grudgingly admitted she was all right (for a girl). Back then, it was more their parent's friendship that kept them together.

At some point, though, they realized they actually got along (when they weren't insulting each other). Friendship was easy for them. They fell into a pattern of comfort. He'd steal her fries at lunch and she'd copy his German homework. Sometimes it seemed like they shared everything—friends and schoolwork, family and vacations, even secrets. But that was okay, they were comfortable together. Good friends (and even better partners in crime). It worked for them. It was natural. Those days, it felt like nothing could tear them apart.

Until something did. His name was Chris and he was her first boyfriend. Like more first loves, it eclipsed everything, even her friendships. Not long after Chris popped onto the scene, Denise became his first girlfriend. Denise was followed by Vanessa, then Lilly, Natalia and Jesse. At some point along the way, Chris was replaced by John. They drifted apart but always ended up back together again. It was never a question between them. It just kind of… was.

Then one day, when they were sprawled in his backyard, he asked her something he'd never asked before. He looked her in the eye and said, "Why not me?"

She didn't understand at first. Their friends had always teased them. But it was just a joke. They'd never even talked about it. She tried to answer, but she couldn't. She wasn't even sure where to start. So she offered the only thing she could think of: "You never asked." So he asked and their routine became something new.

They weren't the kind of couple that inspired love songs or an excess of gossip or interest. They were friends first and a couple second. But that worked for them too. It was comfortable and they were happy. It probably would've lasted forever if she let it. She could've been content if she stayed. He was a nice boy turned into a good man. One of her best friends. She loved him with all her heart. In her soul, she knew she always had.

But she wanted more. She dreamed of more. She deserved more. So she made herself a plan. She made decisions. She chose a life that she wanted for herself. It was time to be independent. To stand on her own two feet and see where they took her. She couldn't do that with him beside her, no matter how much she loved him. Because she did love him and it wasn't enough. And nothing he could do could change that.

She knew it was cowardly to just leave. She knew he deserved better. But she was weak, and she knew that a few well-chosen words from him would be enough to stop her from ever leaving. It still felt wrong writing him a Dear John letter (if it could be called that, being half lyric quotes and sentence fragments scratched on the back of a postcard) to say good-bye. She wished it could've been different. That she could've had one last kiss. (Not that she deserved it.)

It was strange, leaving everything she knew behind. Venturing out on her own, trying to find what it was she'd been missing. It was so hard. But when she got there—when she reached that place on her own—it felt good. It felt so good.

It was like she finally got it. All those sappy chick flicks like The Butterfly Effect, The Break-Up, and even Bedazzled finally made sense to her. Loving someone meant putting them first, even at your own expense. That was the one thing she hadn't been able to give.

But that was okay. She built herself a life that she loved living from the deepest part of her soul. She didn't need anyone else to do that for her. It was her and her alone, becoming the person she wanted to be. It felt right.

Sometimes she still thought of him and sighed. She wondered if he thought of her, too. It was selfish but she hoped he did. She hoped the thought left him with a smile. Because the memory of him—of them, as they'd been together—always brought a bittersweet one to her lips.

07. sometimes that mountain you've been climbing is just a grain of sand

Notes: My first (technically second but first posted) NCIS story! Set during the, oh, second half or so of Hiatus Part II (some dialogue is taken directly from said episode). I should also note that it's almost entirely Ziva-centric and from her POV. After seeing the episode, I just had a plot bunny that wouldn't hop away until it was satisfied. Haven't come up with a brilliant title as of yet but I'm sure inspiration will hit at some point, possibly with the assistance of my beta editor.
Disclaimer: Do not own NCIS. All rights are solely those of CBS or whoever owns/produces the show. Please do not sue.


Most of the time, Ziva David wasn't one for reflection. It wasn't that she held a lot of regrets in her life (well, not exactly, anyway) but more that making the hard decisions weighed easier on her soul when they were made and then done with. Especially when those decisions were of life and death. She didn't mind, though—in fact, she liked it that way. Living as she did worked for her. It had for years.

Unfortunately, Gibbs losing his memory added a new weight on her. This one lay deep within her chest, making it hard to think. Hard to breathe. Hard to function. The only way she could ignore something so heavy was to pretend everything was okay. To pretend that she wasn't concerned for Gibbs (because he would be fine, so what was the point, yes?) and act as though everything was business as usual.

Deep down, she knew it was not business as usual. But if she was going to be of any use on the case, she had to act as if it was. It didn't matter if it bewildered Tony or McGee. It didn't matter if it angered Abby, though she could have done without the subsequent provocation. (Frustration like this leading to violence only made her crave more violence and without a proper outlet, well…)

But the truth was simple. The case was not getting solved. Tony knew it. McGee knew it. Abby knew it. Jenny knew it. Hell, even Ducky knew it. They needed Gibbs. There was no option left. And if there was one thing Ziva David was good at (besides being a Mossad officer), it was doing whatever needed to get done in order to have justice served. Apparently the others couldn't. So she would.

It wasn't hard to slip past the nurse's desk, despite the late hour, and she didn't have any difficulty finding Gibbs' room. She had heard the number often enough in the last few days. Her footsteps were a quiet tapping as she glided into the room. He looked peaceful where he lay and she wondered if remembering would take that away from him. Ziva shook it off. It was a risk she had to take.

Before she fully prepared herself for waking him, she touched his arm absentmindedly. It was not the sort of thing she usually did—her movements were usually methodical and calculated—and it surprised her when he reacted. Part of her had needed to know that the tubes were real, though. (He'd always seemed so immortal before…) That he was real. Just to be sure.

There was no recognition in his eyes when he looked at her. No spark of any kind. Her heart had lifted when he mentioned September 11th (an odd occurrence) but it was for naught. He didn't remember the day. It was a relief to see him moving and asking questions, even standing. This was all good. Good but not good enough. She needed more. She needed to find a way to reach him—the Gibbs she knew.

It was so frustrating! She could hear herself losing her temper. But maybe that was what he needed? Everybody else handled him with kid gloves. She did not own these gloves. And it worked! Even for a moment, she saw the stare. She could feel tears of joy forming in the corners of her eyes upon seeing it but he was still so agitated. He didn't remember.

That's when it hit her. She grabbed his hand and made him slap her head. It was so Gibbs, surely it would jog something in his mind. His eyes widened and she saw it. She could see his mind working. Like he almost remembered, but wasn't enough. It was then that she realized the truth. The truth she'd been hiding from herself. They needed Gibbs for the case, yes, but that was just an excuse.

All of this—all the rationalizing and ignoring and waiting. She did it to hide because, in truth, she needed him to remember as much as the rest of them. More, even. He was the only one who knew what really happened that night with Ari. The only one because he had been there. The reports were false. The story she told her father was a lie. Nobody else knew and if he couldn't remember…

Then the memory of that ultimate truth would be hers and hers alone. It would be her burden to carry without any hope of relief. She had never spoken of losing her brother and never cried save that first night (and even that was short-lived due mostly to shock) and now she might never have a chance. Not with the one person who knew what she'd really lost that night.

Would it still be real, then? If she was left alone to remember and she ignored it, it would be like it never happened. It was just one shot. One single shot perfectly timed and aimed. One shot that had so fundamentally changed her course in life, she barely recognized her former self. But if Gibbs couldn't remember… it would be like losing all she'd gained. She couldn't explain why but it felt true.

She was crying, now, but only barely. She knew what she had to do and she knew it would hurt. "Ari." His name and she could barely keep her composure. "Ari killed Kate." The look again. It was working. Something in his mind was clicking. Taking a breath, Ziva pushed forward, "And I—" She could feel the sobs catch in her throat. She'd never said it aloud before. She couldn't then.

But right now, here with Gibbs, it felt like she needed to. No matter how it hurt. It was time to speak the truth. Because he was the one person that she could do this with. And maybe… maybe they both needed it (if for different reasons). "I killed Ari."

It sounded strange to her ears and the tears were coming full strength now. Ziva couldn't remember the last time she'd cried—really cried like this. Not at Ari's funeral. Maybe at Tali's? And that had been many years ago. Her mind was a mess, and she knew that things would never be fixed if he didn't remember that moment. (If they even could be fixed at all.)

"Your brother."

Even in the haze of her mind, Ziva could feel relief wash over her. He was remembering—truly remembering. She had not told him that. "Yes," was all she managed to get out, though. It was an effort just to keep from breaking. She couldn't be weak; she was Mossad. But Gibbs was… he was… all the hope she had to assure her she hadn't killed Ari—her flesh and blood—for nothing.

"You killed your brother," Gibbs continued, slowly with growing certainty. "To save me."

There was no option for a verbal response now. Ziva was, as Tony would say, a 'hot mess'. She nodded as the last of her resolve broke. She was shaking and sobbing but the weight in her chest was beginning to lift. Gibbs wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly and petting her hair. It was something her father would not have done, but she was eternally grateful all the same.

Minutes passed before her sobs quieted to whimpers and then she was only sniffling as she extracted herself from the embrace she'd so desperately needed (not that she'd admit or otherwise acknowledge that fact, even under pain of death). After a few deep breaths, she met his gaze evenly. "Thank you," she said, tucking her hair behind her ear—the only sign of her discomfort.

Gibbs smiled a little, the way he always did when he was amused by his agents' antics, but chose not to comment. She was grateful for the reprieve. "So, Pin Pin Pula?" he asked instead, running a hand over his recently shortened hair and pulling a face. Ziva nodded. "Are you waiting for an invitation, Officer David? Find me some clothes!" He scowled. "I'm not going to headquarters in this gown."

Still visibly relieved, Ziva smirked a little. "Yes, Gibbs." She wiped her eyes quickly and blew her nose with a tissue before heading for the door.

"And find the doctor, would ya?" he called after her. "I don't wanna spend another minute in this damn room!"

Ziva smiled as she followed her boss's orders. Gibbs was back. And that was enough for her.

06. as they took his soul they stole his pride; as he faced the sun he cast no shadow

Notes: Another Dani fic in my quest to do FanFic100 with her. This one's set around Uncanny X-Men #503 (with the car reference coming from that title, as well). The woman Logan mentions in his memory was seen in the Wolverine: Origins arc of Wolverine v3 (confused yet?) but I made up the details about her, so any mistakes are mine alone. Didn't come up with a title for this one as of yet but it's still unedited, so perhaps more marination will breed results. Hope springs eternal and all that.
Disclaimer: Do not own the X-Men or any of their off-shoots. All rights are solely those of Marvel Entertainment, Inc. Please do not sue.


It's rare to find her hair in braids these days. Rarer still for her to pair them with feathers and a headband. She's often seen sporting one (the headband in particular) but all at once? For whatever reason, that's no longer her style.

It's odd, he thinks, after she fought so hard for her individuality that she'd move more toward the social norm. He's never asked her about it, though, and he doesn't think that will change any time soon. They're not close—never have been, and it's not in his nature to pry. He has enough secrets to respect the right of others to keep theirs.

Still, when the light hits her that day—the day that she chooses to once again done her braids, headband and feathers—he's struck by a memory. It's not a feeling he's accustomed to, even after the time that's passed since M-Day.

He doesn't realize he's staring until she glances his way. "Morning, Logan," she greets, lifting her mug of coffee and crossing to the table where he's sitting. She doesn't hesitate to take a section of the newspaper from the pile in front of him but that doesn't surprise him. She's never been the type to tread lightly and, more to the point, she's never been afraid of him. Apparently, more than just her power status would have to change before that did.

"Dani," he responds with a nod before returning to the sports section. Yesterday was not a good day in hockey for the Canucks and it isn't long before he tosses it aside, scowling. The rustle of turning pages has him looking her way again and there's another flash of memory. It tugs at his mind and he can't help but think it's important. Things are rarely so insistent otherwise.

She must feel his gaze because she flips the top of the paper down to look him in the eyes. "Something I can help you with?" she asks pointedly.

He isn't sure if it's curiosity or discomfort that has pushed her to speak—she's never been one to mince words or fill comfortable silences unnecessarily—but it doesn't really matter. His answer is the same either way: "No."

One eyebrow arches delicately and he blinks. Whatever she's thinking, she brushes it off because the next moment she's looking at her paper again. "Okay," she says simply. "Let me have the sports section when you're done."

It's almost refreshing, not being pushed and prodded about his feelings and sharing. Maybe a little disappointing, though he'd never admit that. Silently, he hands her the offensive section and picks up the world news instead.

It's silent between them for a few long minutes, nothing but papers turning and coffee being sipped to break the monotony. Normally, it'd be strange to find the room so empty but it's early still and a weekend, too. It's comfortable save the memories gnawing at him, begging to be remembered.

"You're hair," he comments suddenly, not even realizing he's spoken until she looks at him with confusion written on her face as plain as day. "You don't wear it like that anymore."

Her eyebrows are furrowed and he has the distinct impression she thinks he's crazy but, slowly, she nods. Her lips are pursed and he notices that they're not quite as plump as the set in his memories. Her eyes are wider, too, and hair longer. The face shape is similar, though, and the skin. Tan skin that he remembers in more ways than could be considered decent.

"I don't," she agrees finally, touching the ends almost self-consciously. Then she shrugs. "Tastes change; people change. All part of growing up, I guess."

He grunts, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. It sounds like something she's recited at least a dozen times but he isn't sure if he's disappointed because it's so very trite or because she didn't answer his unasked questions.

Her eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. "If you don't mind me asking, Logan, why the sudden interest?" From her tone, it's obvious she doesn't care if he does mind or not. When he doesn't respond immediately, she adds, "Because, if you're looking for a new style, I have to tell you—I don't think this one is the real you."

"Ha-ha," he replies dryly, emphasizing each syllable. He waves her off, though, content to keep his personal thoughts just that—personal. "It's nothing."

She's holding her coffee with both hands as she rolls her eyes at him. "Right. And Shan likes boys." The sarcasm in her voice doesn't impress him (little does at his age) but the defiance in her gaze does.

He thinks if he hadn't had Kitty, he probably would've liked to work with her for her attitude alone. Well, her or Rahne—the wolf thing always has resonated with him.

Taking his silence to mean he isn't going to answer her, she shrugs. "None of my business." There's a slight undercurrent of something like frustration in her words, though he isn't certain if it's at him for not satisfying her curiosity or herself for being curious in the first place.

He decides to let it lie and quiet falls between them again. He's just making his way onto the local news section when she speaks again. "He told me he liked the braids," she whispers, eyes glued to the paper. There's a glazed sort of look in her eyes and he's sure she's not seeing any of the words in front of her. Then she turns to him. "Jimmy—James, I mean. Told me when we were students."

Suddenly, he understands. As a Valkyrie, she didn't wear them—she wouldn't have been able to. But when she came back and he'd moved on... she didn't go back. Didn't want him to think she was doing it for him. That explained the brief resurrection when she came back to teach for Xavier and subsequent disappearance when James returned to be part of the team again.

"You think I'm ridiculous," she mutters, face ashen as she again misinterprets his silence. "Well, you're right. It was just a stupid crush but I can't stop remembering whenever I—"

He places a hand on her arm and she cuts herself off, big brown eyes blinking up at him. "I don't think you're ridiculous, Dani," he assures her with a squeeze. "Trust me, I know all about holding onto things that other people have long forgotten."

Despite her grim expression, she chuckles. It's just a bit watery but he dismisses it. He's found that people (READ: women) tend to be more emotional during the early and late hours of the day.

Awkwardly, he releases her and moves his hand away to run through his hair. His movements are agitated but only slightly. Finally, he comes to a decision. If she can be honest with him about something that obviously still hurts her, then he can do the same. It's not like she's Emma, who'd use it against him later, or 'Ro who, well-meaning or not, would likely gossip to at least one other team member. She's Dani and even though they're not close and probably never will be, he feels he owes her this.

"I still can't remember her name," he starts, carefully keeping his expression neutral. "I've tried but..." He can feel her eyes on him but it's the feather in her hair that has his gaze. Almost without meaning to, he reaches toward it. "She always had a red feather in her hair, though. She was an Indian, like you—Ottawa, I think. And she loved to braid her hair."

Understanding dawns on her face. "You loved her." It isn't a question.

He suppresses a sigh and nods. "I think I did." It's so hard to remember but he genuinely believes that. The realization is more comforting than he would have expected.

She's smiling as she takes his hand in her hers and gives it a gentle squeeze. Then she plucks a red feather from her hair and hands it to him. He tries to wave her off but she insists, placing it in his palm and curling his fingers around it.

In that moment, the sun shining brightly behind her head like a halo, she looks so much like the phantom in his memory it nearly breaks his heart. But it doesn't and he forces a gruff smile, nodding. "Thank you."

There's a heaviness between them now and he knows they won't be able to end the conversation there without feeling awkward. She must feel it, too, because the next moment she's grinning in a way that is completely Dani and no one else. "Talk is cheap," she informs him cheerfully. "Thank me by letting me drive the Maserati."

It's enough to snap him out of it. "I don't think so," he says with a smirk.

She's pouting just a little. "Why not?" she presses, not giving him a real chance to answer. Her track record may be better than most of the X-Men (no trashed jets, for instance) but everybody knows that no one drives his car but him. "Come on, Logan..."

"No way, kid." She looks torn between amusement and objecting to the title, so he saves her the trouble of settling for a response by moving on. "But I will give you a ride. Anywhere you want... at one-eighty-five."

Now she's smiling again. "Deal." She's absentmindedly untying her braids, a triumphant look on her face. "Sam and Bobby are going to be so jealous."

He laughs a little, shaking his head. Partly because she's right—the Hayseed and Brazilian Rich Boy will undoubtedly be green with envy, even if they both have pretty sweet rides—and partly because she's successfully diffused the situation. He thinks she probably is a pretty good teacher-slash-mentor for the kids; not only is she a survivor but she's smart. She knows people, and she knows how to get what she wants. Apparently Summers knew what he was doing (this time, anyway).

05. my heart can't possibly break when it wasn't even whole to start with

Notes: Just a bit of introspection. Because I can. :) No title as of yet but it's not really much of anything, so perhaps it doesn't need one.


The ring wasn't supposed to mean anything. It wasn't.

It was just sitting there innocently, shining inside that little blue box as it stared at her. It was so beautiful. Three stones—man made diamonds but still lovely—set in silver, the middle bigger than the other two. It was too nice. It was too small for her to wear. Somehow, though, getting it resized didn't feel right. It went on a chain instead—another gift from the same source. It fell with the necklace just fine.

Sometimes she'd finger the ring and wonder what it meant. It wasn't supposed to mean anything but it felt like it did. Did she own the ring or did it own her? Sometimes she wanted to rip the ring off and throw it against a wall. Sometimes it made her want to scream. Sometimes she wanted to actually wear it like a ring.

Sometimes she wanted to drop the ring in the toilet and flush it away. It was too much for her. And whatever it meant, she knew she didn't like it.

Because it made her sad. She didn't know why but it did.

Did it break her heart because she wanted it to be from a lover? Or at least from someone who really loved her instead of from someone who made her wonder if love was a pretend thing. Someone who'd try to save her from her loneliness. Someone who wanted to be with her for all the right reasons instead of the wrong ones. Because the person who gave it to her… he said he loved her—he said it all the time. But saying didn't mean anything when the actions didn't match the words.

He reminded her every time he hurt her. When he'd hurt her without ever seeming to care. She wanted him to care—wanted it to matter enough for things to change—but she knew better. She didn't want to, but she did. Too damn smart for her own good. And tired. She was so damn tired. She felt like she didn't know which way was up—didn't know which direction to go.

Other than away from here. That much was certain. It'd been decided when the hurt became too much to bear. When desperation had given way to anger and the truth had finally stared her so obviously in the face that she couldn't ignore it any longer. What hadn't been decided was what to do with the ring. Throw it away or keep it? Resize it to wear or hide it away? It felt like a heavier decision than it should.

What did it mean?

It wasn't supposed to mean anything, she knew. And maybe one day it wouldn't. Today wasn't that day, though. (Tomorrow wouldn't be, either.)

03. there are certain people you just keep coming back to

Notes: Short and kinda pointless. Takes place during Season 7; I was just inspired during an episode where J.D. mentioned The Fray and... yes. Not edited, not much of a plot but, well, there we are. I just wanted to give some new characters a shot, really. (I don't always do so well with boys. *shrug*)
Disclaimer: Don't own Scrubs or The Fray (I wish, right?); please no suing. Especially you ABC-- don't think I don't know the show is winding down despite your reprieve!

All At Once

John Michael Dorian, more affectionately known as J.D. to most, was conflicted. So, as he often did when conflicted, he turned to his best friend.

Christopher Duncan Turk, usually called simply by his surname but also known as Brown Bear to J.D., was usually able to lend a sympathetic ear to his friends. Today was not one of those days, mostly because J.D. had started yet another round of agonizing over Elliot Reid as possibly maybe being The One. Chris Turk decided it was time to lay it all one the line and tell J.D. what he really thought.

Shaking his head, Turk cut his pal off mid-sentence: "You don't get it, do you? There is no perfect woman." The emphasis Turk placed on the words was not lost on J.D. who stood, blinking in surprised. "No perfect relationship. I mean, I get it, man—you're a giant commitment-phobe." This was where Turk started to move toward a tangent. "Like, huge. The biggest one ever."

J.D. gave Turk a look, waving for him to move on. Not always the quickest to take note of things, this time his Brown Bear did.

"But, listen," Turk continued, "here's the thing—the bottom line: you broke her heart. You can't go back." He put a comforting hand on his best friend's shoulder. "Break the cycle, my friend. Because she's over it." He dropped his hand and shrugged. "And chances are even if you got it, you'd still keep looking for something better."

Sighing, J.D. considered for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah… you're probably right."

Turk gave him a look. "No, I am right." He grabbed out his mp3 player and scrolled through before handing the device to J.D. "Here—listen to this song from The Fray. It sums up your entire history with Elliot perfectly."

Without any real consideration, J.D. tilted his head to the side as was his wont to do. "Well, I do like The Fray…"

When he trailed off, Turk took his leave. The expression on his face was one he'd come to associate with J.D.'s visits to his daydream world. It was usually better to just leave.

After imagining what it would be like to chase after The Fray with a giant group of crazed, mostly female teenaged groupies, J.D. came back to reality. "We'd need a mountain of cheese," he said before he realized he was alone with Turk's mp3 player… and the Janitor. That was all the motivation he needed for a quick exit.

Slipping into the lounge, he popped the buds into his ears and pressed play. He was instantly assaulted by the mellow voice crooning the familiar, "All At Once," and a montage of memories involving him and Elliot.

When the song ended, J.D. had to admit that maybe Turk was right. The Fray had something there and that something was looking a lot like him. He knew he ought to think about it but then Smash Mouth came on and he was too busy rocking out in his incredibly dorky yet strangely adorable way to be bothered at that moment. Besides, the heavy thoughts weren't going anywhere. Turk's mp3, on the other hand, would.