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Doc Cottle told his patients that they had doctor-patient confidentiality, but the close quarters of a Battlestar meant that crew members heard all manner of would-be confidential things all the time. There was the time that Hot Dog broke out in hives from the new military-issue soap, and spent an entire CAP shift trying to figure out how to scratch through his flightsuit. And Starbuck took great delight in sharing details of Colonel Tigh’s hemorrhoids, snickering madly when the looks of disgust crossed their faces. Everyone had done their best to try and forget, but it wasn’t easy.

But payback was a bitch. When Cottle broke the news to Starbuck that she was pregnant, it was all over the ship practically before she’d started stalking down the halls toward her quarters. And when the CAG came trailing behind her, a resolute expression on his face, pilots cleared out of the officers’ quarters faster than nuggets fleeing a Cylon raiding party. They stayed far, far away until long after Starbuck showed up in the gym to beat the frak out of the punching bag. Then they kept their distance for a while longer, because a pissed off Starbuck was not even half as scary as a pissed off, hormonal Starbuck.

Illegal or not, nobody in the ship thought that she would stay pregnant for very long. Apparently Apollo was more persuasive than a presidential order, even if the next day he showed up at the briefing with a bruise on his jaw roughly the size of Starbuck’s fist. Starbuck spent a couple weeks making herself scarce around the ship, and when she turned back up for the nightly triad game in the rec room a month later, she passed up the Chief’s booze in favor of water. That’s when everyone realized she might actually go through with it all.

Of course, it took them a week to work up the courage to actually ask her about it. Hot Dog did the honors–his latest attempt to prove that he wasn’t afraid of her.

“So, Starbuck,” Hot Dog asked, casually tossing a cubit into the pot. “Now that you’re going to have a kid, will you be…?” He trailed off, like she should know what he meant.

As though she’d make it easy on him.

“Will I be what?”

Hot Dog looked uncomfortable, like he’d finally come to his senses and wished he hadn’t brought it up. And everyone else at the table breathed a sigh of relief that they hadn’t been stupid enough to ask her.

“Will you be–you know…” He gestured expansively, like that would somehow clear things up. “Knitting booties and singing lullabies and stuff?”

The silence in the rec room was deafening. Chopper folded immediately. Racetrack shifted her chair away from Hot Dog so she couldn’t get caught in the crossfire. And at the table in the corner, where he’d been concentrating on paperwork,the CAG’s head jerked up and he set down his pencil–obviously poised to pull Starbuck back when all hell broke loose.

She glared at Hot Dog for a full thirty seconds before she started snickering. That alone scared the frak out of all of them, but when her snickering turned into outright cackling, that set the rest of them off until they were all laughing so hard they were crying.

“Knitting booties.” Starbuck wiped at her cheeks, still laughing weakly. Her grin turned devilish as she threw a razor into the pot. “Nah, I think Lee will be in charge of all the knitting crap.” She glanced over at him, clearly amused at the thought.

“I think that in order for me to start knitting–Hot Dog?” Lee fixed him with a glare. “Shut it–you’d need to find some yarn in the fleet first.”

“Aww, come on, Lee! If I found you yarn you wouldn’t knit little booties? Maybe a tiny blanket?”

“If that’s what you need, Kara, I’ll do it,” and for a second he looked so serious that the other pilots started shifting uncomfortably in their seats. Then he laughed, breaking the tension. “But I think you might have a better shot at getting me to change diapers.”

Starbuck didn’t look back at him, didn’t acknowledge either comment as she told Tailgate it was his bet. But she bit her lip, trying to hide the grin that was tugging at the corners of her mouth.

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“Gods, Lee, what is that stench?”

The look he shot Kara as she came through the hatch to their bunkroom would have scared most anyone else. She just laughed at him, which Lee figured he should have expected. But he’d had a long day and he didn’t even bother to hide his annoyance. “You know, Kara, any time you want to help change a diaper, you should feel free.”

“Ha!” she laughed, toeing off her boots and kicking them into her locker. She stripped off her flight suit and pulled on her sweats just as Lee was efficiently snapping up the baby’s clothes. Five months of changing diapers and he could do it in his sleep–and he probably *had* at some point, considering Kara wasn’t any help in that department. Oblivious to his annoyance, Kara grinned at him and reached out for Penelope. And, as usual, Lee was stuck dealing with disposing of a dirty diaper while Kara had a nice, clean baby settled in her lap.

“You know,” he pointed out. “I hear some mothers actually change their children’s diapers sometimes.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he mentally kicked himself. Reminding Kara of her weaknesses as a mother was not going to get him very far.

But if she’d heard the criticism, she didn’t react, staring thoughtfully at Penelope, tracing the curve of her cheek with one finger. Kara noticed Lee studying her and smirked. “Right. I’ll get on that as soon as you can trade off on the whole feeding thing. Let me know when you’ve got the necessary equipment.”

She had him there. “CAP go okay?”

“Fine,” she shrugged. “Skeeter needs some more work on barrel rolls.”

Lee went into the head to take care of the diaper and wash his hands. When he came out, he leaned against the doorway to watch Kara with their daughter. It wasn’t often that they were both off-shift and awake at the same time. He didn’t think he’d ever get tired of watching Kara and the baby together.

Kara had her feet up on another chair with the baby resting back against her bent knees. Penelope was staring intently at her mother as Kara used her hands to demonstrate Viper combat tactics.

“And then you want to yank the joystick all the way over or you’re going to get a faceful of Raider,” she said, twisting her hand in the air. Penelope reached out and tried to grab Kara’s hand, but she wasn’t fast enough. “Nice try, kiddo, but you’re gonna have to be faster than that to catch me.”

“She’s five months old, Kara.”

She turned her head, craning her neck so that she could see Lee. Penelope took this as an invitation to yank on her mother’s hair. Kara rolled her eyes at this, extricated her hair from the baby’s grabby hands, and turned them both around in the chair to face him.

“I thought I’d get started on explaining some basic maneuvers while we wait for her motor skills to catch up.”

“I’m pretty sure you have plenty of time for that before she’s old enough to fly.” Trust Kara to start teaching her to fly before she could walk. At least she wasn’t making Penelope call her “God.” Yet.

Kara shrugged, turning them back around and resituating Penelope on her lap. “Yeah, but what else am I supposed to talk to her about, Lee? It’s not like there are many kids’ books floating around the Fleet, and I am *not* going to start talking to her like Cally does with her kids. Besides,” Kara pitched her voice higher, cooing in an incredibly non-Kara-like way, “Penny has too much sense to want Mama to talk like a moron, don’t you?”

Penelope stared gravely at her mother, clearly confused by Kara’s behavior. Kara began to tickle her until they were both laughing.

“Anyway,” she continued, once they’d settled down, “that book said it didn’t matter if we talked to her like that. It doesn’t make them learn to speak any faster, so I figured–”

“Wait. What book?” Lee crossed their quarters and flopped down on the bed.

“Oh,” Kara shrugged. “That book your dad found for us when I found out I was pregnant. The one without the pictures. I didn’t need to see pictures.”

“You read that book?”

“Yeah. The Old Man went to a lot of trouble to track that stuff down. The least I could do was read them.” She looked at Lee like he was crazy for suggesting that she wouldn’t, even though he couldn’t remember her even acknowledging the books’ existence in the past ten months. He wondered what other kinds of research she’d been doing on parenting while he wasn’t looking, but he decided that he valued his life too much to ask.

Kara stood and carried the baby over, lying down beside him and then settling Penelope in between them. She pulled her dogtags off and dangled them over the baby. Penelope managed to grab them in her pudgy hands, but Kara kept them just far enough away so that she couldn’t get them in her mouth. Lee watched their little tug-of-war with amusement. The furrow of concentration on Penelope’s little face was one he’d seen on Kara’s a thousand times–usually when she was trying to take out a particularly aggravating sparring partner.

Kara’s voice broke him out of his reverie. “Does it really bother you, Lee?”

“Hunh?”

She wasn’t looking at him, focusing instead on Penelope’s hands. “The diaper thing.”

So Kara *had* noticed his irritation earlier. He’d have to choose his words carefully–it wasn’t often she’d talk about this kind of thing willingly. And if there was one thing he knew about Kara, it was that for as confrontational as she was, pushing *her* when she was vulnerable was more than likely to spook her. He’d learned that the hard way.

“It would be nice, but it’s not like you don’t do your fair share. Although,” he grinned mischievously, “you wouldn’t think that a big, tough, Viper pilot would be afraid of a dirty diaper.”

“Right,” she snorted. “Like dealing with the spit-up isn’t bad enough.”

“Oh, so you *are* afraid?”

“Shut up.”

“Do you hear that, Penelope? Your mother is afraid of–” he ducked away so Kara couldn’t smack him on the head with her free hand.

“Take it back.”

He laughed and pulled her in for a kiss, the baby squirming in between them. “There are no takebacks, Kara.”

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It was Recruit Branas’ third week in the Galactica hangar bay. He’d come from the Galatea, where he’d been dying of boredom refining tyllium . Now he spent his days hauling Viper parts around, which wasn’t really much more exciting, but it kept him busy and made the time pass faster.

Being in the military was an adjustment, alright, and there were plenty of things about the Galactica he just didn’t get. For one thing, the whole military ranking system was just crazy, and for another there was some kid that everyone let run around the place. She had blonde pigtails and her elbows were always skinned, but the thing that annoyed him about her was that she was constantly underfoot. Branas didn’t get why she was allowed to be there–it wasn’t like there were any other rugrats hanging around. Just this one.

He asked Cally about the little girl, but she just shrugged and said, “Oh, that’s Penny. She’s Starbuck’s,” as if that explained everything. Branas hadn’t been on the Galactica for more than a couple hours before he’d learned about Starbuck, but he couldn’t reconcile the hot-headed pilot with the mischievous little girl. He stopped trying to figure it out and went back to unsnarling a tangle of hydraulic cables for the Chief.

A couple of weeks later he was carrying a crate full of cannibalized parts across the bay to Athena’s Raptor when a blur of blonde bounced in front of him. Branas swore as he lost his balance, stumbling backwards to avoid the girl and dropping everything all over the deck, narrowly escaping crushing his feet with a hydraulics pipe.

He threw the rest of his parts down and reached out and grabbed the little girl by the arm. She just stared up at him without blinking, her little chin lifted defiantly. The brat didn’t even look frightened, but he’d change that–put the fear of the gods into her.

He’d only just opened his mouth to start yelling when a furious, “HEY!” echoed across the hangar. He had just enough time to register that it was Starbuck stalking towards him, eyes blazing, before she pushed him up against the Viper and wrapped her hand around his throat. Branas had easily six inches on her, but as she leaned in, jaw set and nostrils flaring, he had no doubt that Starbuck would wipe the floor with him. And suddenly it made sense that the deck crew all said her name with that mix of awe, admiration, and fear.

When she spoke, her voice was low and dripping with venom. “Listen, pal, I’m only gonna say this once. If you ever–” and she punctuated this by squeezing a little harder on his windpipe, “–*ever* lay so much as a finger on my kid again, so help me gods I will toss you out the airlock myself.” She paused,grinning ferally. “If you’re lucky. Understand?”

He couldn’t really nod understanding with her hand wrapped around his windpipe, but she must have seen enough comprehension–or fear–for her liking, since she let him go.

Branas sank slowly to the floor, taking deep breaths. He tried to make his heart rate go back to normal, but truth be told he didn’t remember the last time someone had looked quite so intimidating without brandishing some sort of weapon. He watched Starbuck cross over to where her daughter stood. The kid looked pretty unimpressed by the whole situation, like watching her mother threaten people was something that happened every day. Starbuck crouched down and let her daughter climb on her back. She rose, bouncing the kid a little to get her balance just right, and she never took her eyes off of Branas for a second.

“C’mon,” she said. “Let’s go find your grandfather.”

Less than 24 hours later, Branas received orders to report to a new duty station. It seemed they required him to serve out the remainder of his service in the ship’s laundry.

Frakking military.

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Kara was having a bad day.

The nuggets had been more dense than usual in class, the Cylons had decided to interrupt her CAP with a raiding party, and two of her pilots were in sickbay with injuries sustained in the dogfight. All Kara wanted was a shower,a stogie, and a glass of ambrosia, but instead she was stuck arguing with a stubborn six-year-old who wouldn’t eat her vegetables.

“No,” Penny insisted, arms crossed defiantly. “I won’t do it. They’re disgusting.”

Kara blew out a frustrated breath and ran a hand through her dirty hair. “Yes, you will. Food’s too valuable to waste and we don’t have anything else, so you’re going to sit there until you eat it all. And trust me–it’s worse cold.”

“I said no.”

Sometimes having a kid was more infuriating than training nuggets.

“And I said yes, and since I’m your mother, that’s what’s important.”

“No it’s not. I don’t care what you say,” Penny’s voice rose to a shriek, “I’m not eating them!”

Kara clenched her jaw. Lee kept telling her that yelling didn’t help. “Yes, you are!” It sure felt good, though.

“Am not. And you can’t make me.”

Something in Kara snapped, and before she had time to think she had pushed out of her chair and was looming over her daughter. “Wanna bet?” She slammed her fist on the table. “Now eat the frakking vegetables before I shove them down your throat!”

The second the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to take them back. And she closed her eyes to shut it out, but she still saw Penny’s eyes, wide with fear. Kara heard the sound of the chair scraping back and then little feet pounding across the floor as Penny ran into her room.

Kara hadn’t hit her. Like that mattered–Kara knew that the words could hurt more than the broken bones.

She sank back down into her chair, leaning forward and resting her cheek on the smooth surface of the table. She heard the muffled sobs coming from the bedroom and felt tears prick her eyelids.

She hadn’t been sitting there long when she heard the hatch open. Lee’s hand was warm and comforting on her shoulder.

“Want me to talk to her?”

And Kara did. She wanted Lee to take charge and smooth everything over so she could pretend it hadn’t happened. He’d do it, too, even though it was her screw-up to fix.

“No. I’ll go.” Being an adult was a frakking pain in the ass.

When she went into Penny’s room, she had to step over all the blankets and sheets, which had apparently been tossed across the room in anger. “Oh, yeah,” Kara muttered. “That’ll show me, kid.”

Penny was curled up on her bed, pillow over her head. She wasn’t crying any more, but every few seconds she’d sniffle weakly. As soon as Kara sat down on the bed, Penny scooted as far away as possible, bringing the pillow with her. Kara took a deep breath. She’d sworn that her kid wouldn’t grow up curled up in corners or hiding in closets.

“Go away. I don’t like you.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Kara sighed. “Look, I’m sorry I yelled.”

There was no answer from underneath the pillow. Maybe she should have let Lee handle this after all.

“You need to do what I tell you, but I don’t need to yell, so we both screwed up.”

Penny still didn’t reply, but Kara could see her peeking out from the edge of the pillow.

“Okay?”

The pillow bounced up and down as Penny nodded in acknowledgment. She pushed it over to the side and crawled into Kara’s lap. Kara wrapped her arms around her daughter, as much to comfort herself as Penny.

“You scared me, Mama.”

“Yeah.” Kara cleared her throat, willing her voice to stop being so damned shaky. “I scared me, too.”

“Is that how you talk to the nuggets?”

Kara laughed at that. “Nah, I’m meaner to them.”

“‘Cause they don’t listen?”

“Right,” she agreed. “They’re tough. They can take it.”

At that Penny’s little blonde head popped up. “I’m tough, too,” she insisted.

“Never said you weren’t.” Kara bit her lip to keep from laughing. “But you know how the nuggets got so tough?”

“How?”

“They ate their vegetables.”

“Did not. Other stuff makes you tough. Not vegetables.” Penny said this as if her mother were the dumbest woman in the universe.

“It’s true,” came Lee’s voice from the foot of the bed. “All the best Viper pilots eat their vegetables because they know they need their vitamins.”

Penny looked back and forth between her parents, clearly skeptical. Kara felt Lee’s eyes on her, but she focused on her daughter instead, not wanting to see the reproach in his expression. He was so much better at this parenting crap–and Kara was convinced she was still just a screwup.

“Okay,” she relented. “I’ll eat them. But only if Mama promises not to scare me anymore.”

“I promise,” Kara said, smoothing the hair back off Penny’s forehead.

Penny clambered off her lap and trudged out of the room. Lee reached out a hand and pulled Kara to her feet, tugging her easily into his arms. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” She steeled herself for his disappointment and forced herself to tilt her head so she could see him. But his eyes held none of the criticism she’d expected, just concern for her. She might bea screwup, but for some reason he still trusted her. “Yeah, I am.”

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The makeshift pyramid court took up most of the cafeteria, and since there were no bleachers, most of the adults who’d come to watch the semi-finals on the Fleet’s school ship were forced to sit on the floor or stand by the bulkhead.

Laura Roslin had arrived just in time for the game, but far too late to find a choice seat. Her feet were sore enough that she considered playing the former-head-of-state card when a voice carried over the din. “Madame President! Saved you a seat!” And sure, enough, there was Kara over by the far bulkhead, perched atop a table and motioning her over.

Laura smiled and picked her way through the crowd, ignoring the murmurs around her. Over by the court she noticed Penelope sitting with the team, rolling her eyes at her mother’s behavior and waving at Laura. She expected that one day Penelope would go through that typical teenage phase where she was ashamed of the adults in her family, but at 16 she still seemed pleased at having her own personal cheering section.

Kara moved her jacket onto her lap and motioned for Laura to sit, not taking her eyes off the cubit toss. Kara watched the school pyramid games with the same intensity that she did almost everything else, and Laura found that observing her during these events was almost as entertaining as the actual game.

“C’mon, Penny! Block him!”

Some of the other parents turned to see who was yelling so loudly, but most of them knew Kara by now and just ignored her. Barring an attack from the Cylons or some other fleet emergency, Kara came to all of the games — sometimes with Lee, sometimes by herself. Laura figured that Starbuck saved up her emergencies for getting out of teacher conferences.

“So, Bill says that Penelope is starting to talk about what she’d like to do after she’s done with school.”

“Yeah. I’m trying not to push too hard.” At Laura’s skeptical look, Kara laughed. “I said ‘trying.’”

“Has she narrowed down her options yet?” Laura winced as one of the kids blocked Penelope and knocked her over, but she scrambled to her feet and grabbed the ball, unhurt.

“Please. Like the Old Man didn’t tell you she’s been talking about working for the government. Sometimes it’s the government, sometimes she says she wants to join the Fleet, and sometimes she says she wants to fly Raptors like Helo.” She paused, thoughtful. “I’m almost positive that the last one is just her frakking with me.”

“When I was her age I wanted to be a dancer.”

Kara smiled. “I can see that–Oh, come on! Are you frakking blind?” The last part was directed toward the referee, who’d made a call against Penelope’s team. “What did your parents think?”

“What did I care?” Laura laughed. “I was going to be famous throughout the Colonies and meet some dashing and handsome musician and we’d run away together and have babies and be disgustingly in love forever.” She sighed softly, watching the teenagers scrabbling for the ball on the court. “I always wanted to be a mother, but things–” she broke off. Kara frowned, obviously concerned. Realizing how maudlin she was getting, Laura attempted to change the subject. “Well, things worked out differently. But it’s all for the best, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Kara laughed ruefully. “I never wanted to be a mother. Ever. I just wanted to play pyramid.”

“Pyramid?” Laura tried to picture Kara without her Viper, but the mental image just wouldn’t come. “You didn’t want to fly?”

“I know. Crazy, hunh? I was going to play professionally and then I frakked up my knee. Next thing I knew, I was at the Academy, flying planes and shooting things out of the sky. Seems strange to remember that it wasn’t something I always wanted.” She watched Penelope shoot the ball into one of the baskets with a fond smile. Penelope’s triumphant cheer carried over the crowd’s roar. “Couldn’t imagine life without it, though.”

The referee blew the whistle, signaling half-time. Penelope and her teammates clustered around the coach for a strategy session and pep talk. Laura watched, amused, as Penelope began creeping toward the back of the group, waiting until everyone was preoccupied and then sneaking off to come around the court.

She rushed up to their table, grin impossibly wide. “Hey, Mom!” Her grin turned impish. “Madame President–thanks for coming!”

“Stop calling me that. Your mother is a bad influence.” Laura glanced sternly at Kara, who was trying not to laugh.

“You looked good out there, kiddo.”

“Thanks!” Penelope beamed at Kara’s praise.

“But don’t you think you should listen in on the coach’s plan?”

“Nah,” Penelope shrugged. “It’s not very good. I’d just ignore it when I got back out there anyway.”

Kara looked if she were torn between agreeing with Penelope and telling her to respect authority. If Lee’d been there, she’d certainly have done the latter. Of course, if Lee’d been there, Penelope never would have snuck away in the first place.

“Watch the Firelli boy. He keeps blocking you in so you can’t get away. Keep an eye out for him.”

Penelope was already pink with exertion, but Laura would swear she flushed darker. Kara didn’t miss it either, if her smirk was anything to go by.

“Oh, it’s like that, then?”

“Like what?”

Kara chuckled. “You know what I’m talking about. Your father and I used to just punch each other–but this works, too.” Penelope looked a little bit alarmed at that, much to Laura’s amusement.

Laura noticed Penelope’s coach craning her neck, searching the crowd. “You had better head back, Penelope. Your coach is looking for you,” Laura pointed out. “Good luck!”

Penelope quickly kissed them both on the cheek and started to rush away, but she hadn’t gotten more than ten feet when Kara called after her.

“What, Mom?”

“Don’t let him win.”

Penelope looked at her mother like she’d just suggested joining the Cylon Revolutionary Army. “No way. Of course not.”

“Good,” Kara laughed.

They watched as Penelope sidled back over to her team, trying to look innocent and failing miserably.

The game started up again and the players were back on the court in a flurry of activity. True to her word, Penelope didn’t let the Firelli boy’s blocking get in the way of her game. Laura also noticed her passing the ball off to some of her less talented teammates, letting them score when Penelope could have easily made the shot herself.

Kara noticed, too. “That’s Lee’s influence,” she pointed out, nodding towards the court. “I’d have taken the shot.”

One of the members of the opposing team grabbed the ball and Laura couldn’t help but cringe as Penelope elbowed him hard in the ribs and snatched it back. “It looks as though you had some influence on her pyramid playing, though.”

“Maybe a little,” Kara laughed.

The game was a close one and Laura gave up on conversation altogether so that Kara could concentrate on shouting at the players and the referees. Penelope’s team won and Kara’s shout at the final whistle was so triumphant one would have thought she’d been playing herself.

Kara hopped off the table and extended a hand to help Laura down. Laura took it, grateful for the assistance, and made a mental note to speak to the school supervisors about having some bleachers built before the start of the next season.

They waited off to the side while Penelope gathered her things and congratulated her teammates.

“She’s turning out to be an amazing young woman,” Laura commented.

Kara took the compliment about as well as Laura expected. “Yeah, well, she’s always been a good kid and Lee’s a great father.”

“And, what?” Laura laughed. “You only taught her how to play pyramid? You didn’t have any other influence on her?”

Penelope bounded up and threw her arms around Kara. “Did you see that, Mom? We kicked their asses!”

Kara met Laura’s raised eyebrow with a smirk. “Okay,” she relented. “Maybe a little.”

- END -

Author’s Notes: My MUCH-delayed bubblefic for caz963, who wanted Josh/Donna. I apologize profusely for its lateness, its lameness, and its brevity. Apparently since the show went off the air I lost any ability I ever had to create Sorkinspeak, so I’ve been struggling with it for months. Thanks to kiss_me_cassie and vivwiley for the nagging encouragement. And thanks, as always, to thestickywicket for the quick and dirty beta.

“Josh?”

At the sound of Donna’s voice, Josh looked frantically around the bathroom–for what, he wasn’t sure. Maybe an escape hatch, a gantry crane, or a time machine. Any of those would work fine.

“Josh, are you okay in there?”

Josh reminded himself that ignoring Donna would just make her suspicious. He called out that he was fine and winced when he heard the obvious panic in his voice. He hoped that maybe Donna wouldn’t notice it.

“Are you sure? You sound kind of weird.”

“No I don’t!”

“Yes, you do. Do you need me to come help–”

“NO!” he yelped, watching in fear as the doorknob rattled. But she seemed to change her mind and the door stayed shut.

“Well, okay.”

He counted to 30, figuring that would give her enough time to go back to whatever she’d been doing. Then he braced his hands on the sides of the tub and tried again to push himself out of it, ignoring the pressure on his chest and the way his arms shook. Or, he tried to, anyway.

“It’ll be relaxing, Josh,” he muttered to himself, pitching his voice higher. “A nice relaxing bath where you don’t have to worry about anything. Except maybe HOW TO GET OUT OF THE TUB!”

It’s possible he’d said that last part kind of loud. In fact, he was pretty sure he’d yelled it, and his suspicions were confirmed when Donna burst through the door five seconds later.

“JOSH! Are you–”

Josh let go of the sides of the tub quickly to cover himself, which of course meant that he lost his balance and fell backwards, water sloshing over the sides of the tub and all over the floor.

“Well,” he sighed. “This couldn’t possibly get more humiliating.”

When he noticed that Donna was trying not to laugh at him and his naked body, he revised that observation.

“Josh, let me help you.”

“Umm, no. I can do it myself.”

Donna snorted at this. “I really don’t think you can. You’ve lost upper body strength, it’s understandable. Just let me give you a hand and we’ll get you out.”

He just stared at her, mortified.

“Seriously, Josh, let’s go.” Now she was getting annoyed, he could tell. “I promise your virtue will remin intact.” She crouched down and put her hands under his arms, lifting gently. Josh couldn’t help but notice that she was very thoughtfully looking at the wall over his shoulder, so he gave up. Between the two of them, they managed to get him standing upright, and Donna continued looking conspicuously at the wall. She handed him a towel and he noticed that she looked a little flushed as she walked out, calling, “I’ll just give you some privacy now!” before she practically sprinted out the door.

He toweled himself off and put on his sweats. As he was leaning over to let the water out of the tub, he glanced at the wall where Donna had been staring a few moments before–the wall with a mirror on it. And as he stood he realized it wasn’t that she was trying to be considerate of his nudity.

She’d had a perfect view of his naked ass the entire time.

-END-

Mal was so busy fighting with a crate of his newest cargo — and even though he had the crowbar, seemed that the crate was winning — that he didn’t even notice that Inara had returned until River called out a greeting.

He jerked his head up to watch her descend the stairs. Inara was still all done up for her party, her dress a deep shade of red. Mal only took his eyes off his work for a second and managed to nick his hand pretty bad. He swallowed a curse and wiped the blood off onto his pants. Jayne had three open crates already and all Mal had for his troubles was a busted finger and a bloody pair of pants. Damn woman was too distracting.

“Back so soon, ‘Nara?” he asked. “Your clients sure know how to have fun.”

She rolled her eyes at him and glided over to survey the cargo, picking her way through boxes so that her silk skirts wouldn’t catch on anything. “Yes, it was quite boring. I mean, certainly no one got drunk enough to marry a complete stranger, so how could we ever manage to enjoy ourselves?”

Mal decided to ignore the fact that Jayne was laughing under his breath.

“What do y’all do at these fancy parties?” Mal asked, finally wrenching the crate open and pulling off the lid. “Y’all sit around recitin’ poetry and playin’ the harpsichord? Sounds excitin’”

“All mimsy were the borogoves,” River piped up.

Mal nearly dropped the lid he was holding,

“Mal, the girl’s talking nonsense again,” whined Jayne. River didn’t seem much offended by Jayne’s comment, just smiled at him like she knew more than him. Which, of course, she did.

Mal sighed. “It’s not nonsense. It’s a gorram poem.” He slammed the crate shut and turned to glare at River. “Stay out of my head, girl.”

She just stared back at him, her face the picture of innocence. “Jayne and I can finish unloading the crates.”

“Fine,” Mal said, ignoring Inara’s curious look and the way Jayne leaned against one of the unopened crates and stared. “I’ll be in the mess if you need me.” Mal headed up the stairs to the catwalk and had almost made his escape when River called out after him.

“The frumious Bandersnatch!”

“I mean it, River!”

Mal walked into the mess and poured himself a large cup of coffee, settling down at the table. There weren’t any biscuit to go with his coffee and no sugar to put in it, so good thing he liked it black. The mess was nice and quiet–no crazy mind-readers to bother him or any beautiful women to distract him from his work with their perfume and their shiny hair.

“Mal?”

He didn’t bother to look up from his mug. “Decided not to help River and Jayne finish unloading the cargo?”

Inara came ’round from behind him and sat beside him, hands folded primly in her lap. “As you pointed out, Mal, I’m not exactly dressed for it.”

“Next time, you can borrow some of Kaylee’s coveralls.”

Inara laughed softly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Inara didn’t seem in a hurry to start any sort of conversation, just watched him while he sipped his coffee. Mal would be damned if he was gonna have a heart-to-heart with her about this. But she just sat there, looking all expectant at him. Damn woman with her wiles knew the best way to get him talkin’ was not to push.

“Back when I was a young sprout,” he started reluctantly, “I had this teacher–Miss Hsiao. They’d brought her in from some Core planet to teach us nóng fÅ« on Shadow. She’d had all kinda schooling and come to us with the notion that we should learn poetry and literature and all that huā qiào stuff when it would have been more helpful to teach us how to shoe a mare.”

Inara just watched him as he told his story and Mal paused long enough to be a little in wonder of the fact that for once they weren’t bickerin’. It was sure not to last, though.

“So,” he continued, “one day she decides that we each have to learn a poem by heart and then get up in front of the class and recite it. The girls all picked poems about love and flowers and the boys all found themselves poems about wars. Me? I found me a poem about nonsense and spent a whole week learning it so I wouldn’t get embarrassed. Knew it backwards and forward and probably coulda recited it in my sleep. Turned out, though, that I didn’t much like talking to a big crowd of people, so it didn’t matter none. Froze up and couldn’t remember a word of it.”

“I imagine that if I asked you right now, Mal, you’d be able to recite it for me.”

Mal laughed softly to himself and looked her square in the eye, trying to decide if she sounded flirtatious because she meant it or if it was a reflex for a Companion. “Yeah, well, I seem to have gotten over any nerves I had about speechifying in front of people.”

“I always knew there was more to you than you let on, Malcolm Reynolds,” she said warmly. “Who knew you had the heart of a poet?”

“Oh, Inara,” he grinned, “I know all *kinds* of poems I can recite to you. There’s this one about a man from Nantucket…”

Inara rolled her eyes. “Mal, be a grown up.”

Mal sat back in his chair some so he could enjoy her exasperation. “It’s a poem. It has a rhyme scheme and everything.”

“You know, I think I liked it better when you had stage fright.”

END.

Author’s Notes: Written for bashipforever, who wanted Mal knowing more than one poem, vulnerability, and a touch of angst. However, *I* wrote it so, angst? Yeah, good luck with that. Thanks to Carmen Sandiego, for putting this ficathon together and not killing me for being so late with this. Thanks to Angstville for helping me with the poetry part and, as always, to Macha for enduring all my whining. And thanks to Cassie and Viv Wiley for cheerleading.

“Jabberwocky” is by Lewis Carroll.

Chinese:
nóng fū - peasant; farmer (my apologies, but I couldn’t figure out how to make it plural)
huā qiào - fancy

Also, if you’re looking for the Bubblefic Archive, it has a shiny new home at bubblefic.healthyinterest.net. Those links have also all changed, so please update them as well.

Now I suppose at some point I should get to work on the pesky Mal/Inara Ficathon fic.

Author’s Notes: Special thanks to Macha, who has more patience than Shepherd Book. My prompt’s after the fic.
Distribution: I’ll say yes, but please ask me so I know where it’s going.

Jayne knew that there were certain things that men just didn’t do. Biggest of these was taking a bubblebath, because if anyone caught him, they’d think him sly for sure.

But Jayne weren’t getting any younger. He might still be a fine specimen of a man, but sometimes all the fightin’ and shootin’ and killin’ got to making his body ache a bit. And not in a good way.

Damn achin’ muscles were why he’d lugged teakettles full of hot water to pour into the tub he’d hidden in one of the larger storage spaces that Mal usually used for smuggling. And keepin’ this whole thing quiet was the reason he’d dragged her right into the middle of things and sat her on a stool next to the tub. She’d keep guard.

‘Course, it was distracting him from his bath–her sittin’ there so close to him. He’d heard Inara say that bubblebaths were for relaxin’ and not thinking about a gorram thing, but here Jayne was, thinking about *her,* looking over every one of her curves and angles. His fingers itched to touch her. Kept him thinking of all the things he’d like to do to her, and that was enough to distract him, which is why he didn’t hear the footsteps until it was too late and the door was creaking open.

Jayne grabbed her and held her close.

Mal’s head peered ’round the door. “Jayne? What in the rutting hell are you–?” His jaw dropped. “Taking a *bubblebath*? And why is that gun pointed at me?”

Jayne carefully laid Vera back down on the stool, taking a moment to wipe the bubbles off of her barrel. Wouldn’t do to let her get rusty. He’d have to clean her up real nice after her was finished.

“Just takin’ a bath, Mal.” Jayne leaned back, trying his hardest to look relaxed and casual–and not at all like a girl.

“You just–” Mal sputtered, “Ya thought you’d take a nice bubblebath? Wuh de tyen, ah, Jayne, why not light some of Inara’s incense and maybe some girlie candles in here, too?”

Jayne’s meanest glare didn’t seem to have the slightest effect on Mal, but maybe that was ’cause he couldn’t stop staring at the bubbles. Jayne didn’t know why–weren’t like the bubbles were *pink.*

“I done *told* ya. I’m just takin’ a bath,” Jayne growled. “Don’t see how it’s any of your business, anyway.”

The look on Mal’s face changed and Jayne knew he was gearing up for one of his “if it happens on my boat, it’s my business speech,” when the sound of approaching footsteps echoed off Serenity’s walls.

“Tamade hundan,” muttered Jayne.

“Captain?” Zoe asked from outside the door. “Somethin’ going on I should know about?”

“NO!” yelled Jayne.

Woman never listened. Two seconds later she was peering around the door. “Jayne?” she asked, mouth twitching, “Is that–did you–are those *bubbles*?”

Miserable, Jayne nodded.

He and Mal watched Zoe, waiting for her to make some smart-mouthed comment or another. Probably something like how she didn’t know he bathed. But instead, she started snickering. He and Mal looked on in shock–wasn’t much that made Zoe laugh these days. But here she was laughing out loud. Laughing so hard she couldn’t catch her breath, and that set Mal off. Soon the two of them were laughing so much they’d got tears running down their faces.

Any other time, Jayne might have joined them, but seeing as how they were laughing at *him*–well, it just weren’t that funny to him, no matter how good it was not to see Zoe with that grim look on her face. For about half a second he thought maybe it was worth it to get caught in a tub full of bubbles, long as it got Zoe laughing again, but it still weren’t as funny as they were making it out to be with all their cackling.

And then things got even less funny when he heard *more* footsteps. Didn’t nobody sleep on this gorram boat?

Jayne sure hoped the look he gave Mal made it clear that if anyone else joined this little party, he’d shoot someone. And if the scowl on his face didn’t do it, he picked up Vera to help make his point. Then, because there was some residual snickering, he aimed in Mal and Zoe’s direction, and that shut them up right quick.

Mal nodded at him, tugged Zoe out into the hallway, and pulled the door shut.

“Hey there, River,” Jayne heard Mal say. “What are you doing down here?”

“Wanted to see what was funny.”

“Nothin’s funny here, little one. We were just…doing a routine inspection of storage spaces. Yup, do it every couple weeks, just to make sure nothing we got in there goes boom. ” Gorram girl started to interrupt, but Mal just talked right over her. “Remember that talk we had about not talking about what you see when you’re poking around in people’s brains? Now, what say we head on up to the kitchen?”

“Okay,” River agreed, but Jayne could hear the reluctance in her voice, and that made him nervous. “Tell Jayne he forgot his rubber duck.”

-END-

Prompt: For Cassie, who requested Jayne/Vera.

Wuh de tyen, ah = Dear God in heaven
Tamade hundan = Mother humping son of a bitch

Drowning: I wanted something water-related with a negative connotation. I think this worked. *g* Please note my affinity for one word titles.

Steamy Conversation: I didn’t think this would EVER have a title. Thankfully, Philateley came up with this one to underscore the UST.

Turning Tide: Again with the water theme. I have no idea where the inspiration came from, but it’s probably my favorite title.

Trusty Sidekick: Comes from a line in the fic. However, to be clear, when I refer to myself as Jo’s and Ryo’s trusty sidekick, I don’t mean like this.

The Matrilineal Series: Macha came up with the series title.
Materinstva: It’s Russian for “motherhood.”
Hotel: I was listening to From the Choirgirl Hotel while I wrote this one, and the lyrics to Hotel fit, especially since Syd spends most of the story in one.
Countermeasures: Don’t know where this came from, but I had the title before I’d written a single word.
Departure: I’d moved on and was listening to New Adventures in Hi-Fi, because it’s such an amazing collection of songs, and they’re all about travelling.
Vanishing Point: Got this one before I wrote the story, IIRC, from reading the lyrics to Disappear while I was helping Macha find a title.
Prodigal: See, it’s all about the REM lyrics. I think Fretless is a great song for the Syd/Vaughn relationship (can we call it that?) in this series.
Overture: My other favorite title. I was looking through my thesaurus for another word for, I dunno, prologue, or something, and I love the double meaning.

Rites of Passage: The central theme of the fic, so it didn’t seem right to call it anything else.

Centered: I think that this was the first time Ryo beta’ed for me and that she suggested the title, but I may be on the crack.

Forefront: Easy–it’s the opposite of “Background.”

Plays With Questions: It’s one of the kinds of intelligence suggested by Gardner (Howard, not Amy), and I chose it because Josh and Donna are friggin’ morons. *g*

I really thought that nothing could be quite as relaxing as yoga, but I was wrong.

So very, very wrong.

Because right now, I don’t think I’ve ever been so relaxed. It may have something to do with the way that Josh is kissing his way down my leg, feathering his lips over my knee, and then my calf, and then –

“ACK!”

I scramble upright, watching as Josh cups his hands gingerly over his nose. When he speaks, his voice is muffled and nasal.

“Donna, what the hell? You kicked me! I think you broke my nose!”

I lean over and pry his hands away. He may be bleeding a little. Oops.

“Come on,” I grab his hand and tug him toward the bathroom. “Lets go clean that up.”

Once we get in the bathroom, I turn on the sink, letting the water warm before I close the drain. Josh just stares at me when I toss him a washcloth and tell him to clean off his bloody nose.

“I’ll be happy to do that, Donna, but I need to know one thing.”

“What?”I start the bath water and close that drain as well, before I go rummaging through his medicine cabinet. “Do you have any hydrogen peroxide?”

“Do I. . .what? Donna, what the hell is going on?” He shuts off the water and wets the washcloth, carefully wiping away the blood, all the while looking at me like I’ve gone insane.

Triumphantly, I grab a brown bottle of peroxide from the cabinet and dump it in the bathtub. I ease my foot into the scalding water and begin to scrub at it furiously. “It’s simple, Josh. You sucked on my toe.”

“Yes, and then you kicked me in the face.”

“That will teach you, now won’t it?”

“Teach me what? Donna, do you not like to have your toes sucked?”

I shudder and adjust the faucet so that the water will be even warmer. “Stop saying that. And no, I don’t. It’s gross. They’re feet parts, and feet are gross, so– hey, is this bubblebath?” I hold up a bottle that was sitting on the edge of his tub. “It is! Josh, let’s take a bubblebath!”

He watches me drain the tub and then pour the bubblebath under the faucet. He looks more than a little bewildered. “Donna, you kicked me in the face and now you expect me to be in the mood for some sexy kind of bubblebath?”

“You aren’t?”

“Again, you *kicked* me in the *face.”

“So?”

“So, imagine that it might take me a few minutes for me to get back in the mood.”

I give him what I imagine is a very patient look. “Exactly. Hence the bubbles.”

“Hunh?”

I pull him toward the tub, and we climb in and nestle down in the bubbles.

“Bubbles are always sexy. Didn’t you know?”

He snorts skeptically.

Granted, our knees and feet are sticking out of the tub at awkward angles, but there are bubbles, so that’s really not important.

His hands start to skim over my abdomen, so I’m thinking he’s starting to agree with me. Only he’s not touching me where I want. I’ll have to fix that.

“Josh?” I ask breathlessly. “Josh, touch my. . . .touch me. . . .down *there.*”

He stops.

“Donna, surely you can say that word. Come on, I’ll say it with you: Cli–”

I turn around and clap my hand over his mouth.

“OW! Donna! My nose!”

“Well, that’s what happens when you…you can’t say that word! I’ll be embarrassed!”

“Donna, you’re NAKED. You’re in the bathtub with me and you’re naked. Surely you can’t be embarrassed enough that you can’t say cl–”

This time I interrupt him with kissing. That will shut him up.

And indeed, it does. We’re repositioning ourselves so that things are really starting to get interesting when our moans are interrupted by a godawful squeaking noise.

We pull away and look at each other.

“What the hell was that?” asks Josh.

“I don’t know. I’m sure it’s nothing. Ignore it.”

We go back to the kissing and the moaning and the panting, and just as Josh starts to move, we hear the noise again.

“How the hell am I supposed to ignore that, Donna? It’s not nothing–it’s the tub!”

“It is not. Ignore it.”

“It is! We’re wet and rubbing against porcelain. Of course it’s gonna make noise.”

I pout, because he’s ruining my bubblebath. “It is not. There’s no noise. There’s never a noise in the movies! Or in books! Or in fanfic!”

“Yes, but that’s the GOOD fanfic. And this is exactly why smut-writing should be left to Jo and Ryo. Cause look at us! We’re a mess!”

“Well, yes, but,” I pause, trying to find the bright side, “hey, at least we have bubbles!”

End.

DVD Commentary on this fic.

Disclaimer: These characters belong to Bryan Singer, Marvel, Fox, and not me. I’m just borrowing them because it bothered me that we didn’t see this onscreen.
Author’s Notes: Many thanks to kate and Philateley (even though I didn’t use your suggestion for the ending *g*). Thanks as always to Macha for the editing and putting up with the whining.

When Marie was ten, she went with her Momma and Daddy to her cousin’s high school graduation. She watched, fascinated, as Leila walked across the stage to get her diploma, her tassel swinging back and forth. At the family party afterward, Marie sat next to Leila on the swing in the back yard, swatting at mosquitoes and memorizing everything the older girl said. Leila explained how many bobby pins she’d gone through trying to get her hair to look right for the ceremony and she complained about how hot the blue polyester was in the early summer heat. She told Marie that she’d been about to die while the valedictorian droned on about moving forward and embracing the future. Leila laughed when Marie asked to try on the mortarboard. “Careful,” she’d said, “It will give you hat hair like you wouldn’t believe.”

Marie took it inside and stood in the foyer of her aunt’s house, gazing into the large round mirror. She placed the mortarboard carefully on her head, trying unsuccessfully to find a position where the cap looked like it fit correctly. She stood there, moving the tassel from one side to the other, thinking about all the power in the little piece of string. One moment her cousin had been a kid– a high school student– and then she’d moved the tassel to the other side and she was a graduate. She was an adult and no one could tell her what to do. She had freedom.

Marie’s momma’s voice carried into the house, calling her to come get a burger, and Marie ran down the hall and back outside. When she handed the mortarboard back to Leila, Marie decided that when *she* graduated, she’d never complain about the polyester or the hat hair.

Of course, for Rogue there was no graduation ceremony with polyester robes and relatives crammed into bleachers. The Professor wanted them all to have normal lives — or as close to normal as possible when you couldn’t be touched or you set things on fire — but their graduation had been a bit more low-key than what she remembered from Leila’s. No hollering and cheering while they walked across the stage and certainly no smoky barbecue afterward with cousins playing freeze tag on the front lawn.

Instead, the entire school gathered together, and Scott handed out diplomas to the eldest students. Marie wore not a blue polyester gown, but a simple black dress. And gloves. Always gloves.

She’d stifled a laugh as she and Jubilee exchanged an eye roll when the professor made his speech. It wasn’t as if he needed a special occasion to speak at length on the Role of Mutants in Society. But she smiled warmly when he congratulated her and carefully shook her hand. Marie giggled with Jubilee and John at the party afterward when Bobby froze the punch and she promised Jean they’d help chaperone the next day’s field trip to the museum, ignoring John and Bobby’s desperate attempts to get her to say no. Jean laughed and told them that waving their arms frantically behind her back would be more effective if she weren’t a telepath.

But later that evening Rogue took off her gloves and sat in front of the mirror, looking for something different. She wondered if she’d feel any different if she’d had the mortarboard and tassel. She didn’t really know what being an adult is supposed to feel like, but she suspected this wasn’t it. But then, she sure didn’t consider herself a kid anymore– she hadn’t in years. She wondered when things would change.

——-

The flight back from Alkali Lake was eerily silent, the steady murmur of Kurt’s prayers the only sound. For once the younger kids didn’t utter a word– not even Jubilee, which might have been amusing under any other circumstance.

They all seemed to be trying to look anywhere but at Scott, as if by ignoring his grief they could pretend that he was still just a teacher and a leader. They didn’t want to see him human and weak, but Rogue stole a glance anyway. He was cradling his head in his hands and the defeated slump of his shoulders made her ache for him.

Logan had taken the seat next to Storm and occasionally Rogue heard them speaking softly, voices pitched too low to carry to the back of the plane. The professor looked as if he were too wrapped up in his own thoughts to be paying attention, but then Rogue heard him tell Logan that it was time– whatever that meant.

When the Blackbird landed, Scott was the first one off. He carefully carried the professor down the ramp while the others followed at a distance. Rogue was relieved to see some of the purpose return to Scott’s stride and she thought that he must want something to do that would take his mind off Jean, if only for a moment.

They stood in the hangar, waiting for someone to take charge. Storm and Logan exchanged a long glance, but before Rogue could figure out its meaning, Storm announced that it was time to start cleaning up and to find Kurt a room. With that, she turned and walked out of the hanger, Kurt and the children trailing dutifully after her. Bobby grabbed Rogue’s gloved fingers and they started to follow along, stopping when Logan touched Rogue’s shoulder.

“You two,” he growled. “Come with me.”

Rogue glanced at Bobby, who gazed wistfully after Storm’s group. Logan stalked out of the hanger and down the hall, not sparing them a glance as they scurried to catch up.

Logan turned the corner and headed down yet another gleaming corridor. The recessed lighting gave the shiny metal walls and eerie look, and hell if they didn’t all look the same. Rogue wondered if Logan’s sense of direction was as finely honed as his other senses. If Logan wasn’t going to explain where they were going or how to get back, maybe she’d need to leave a trail of bread crumbs, since her experience with the lower levels was limited to waiting in the med bay while Logan was comatose.

Bobby tugged on her sleeve, his eyebrows raised in question. Rogue just shrugged and hurried along, trying to keep up with Logan. He may have taken up residence in her head, but that didn’t mean she had any idea what he was planning.

Logan veered to the left and into the large room at the end of the hallway. It had the stark look the rest of the lower levels, but the walls were lined with closet doors and display cases. Logan crossed to the closets and Rogue saw his jaw clench as he passed the glass case where Jean’s uniform was usually displayed. The empty glass served as a sharp reminder that putting on the leather wasn’t an opportunity to dress-up and play superhero — it was real.

Logan jerked the closet door open with a force that would have pulled any normal door off its hinges. Rogue figured that the professor had reinforced the doors to withstand any number of powerful mutations. Logan ignored the pile of sweatpants and t-shirts, reaching for the top shelf and the stack of three neatly folded black leather uniforms. He took the top two down, handing one to Rogue and the other to Bobby.

“Get suited up,” he ordered, ignoring their bewildered expressions. “We leave for the White House in half an hour.” With that he slammed the closet door shut and disappeared down the hall.

Rogue looked over at Bobby and almost laughed at how wide his eyes were.

“So, what does this mean?” he asked. “Are we X-Men now?”

“Well, I doubt they’re bringing us along on this mission so that I can fly the plane again. I guess we’re X-Men,” she said, wondering if her voice sounded as uncertain as she felt. “Or maybe this is a one-time thing.”

“You don’t know?”

“Bobby, why would I know? You were standing right here too. We both got the same uninformative initiation speech from Logan.”

“Yeah, but…” Bobby paused, choosing his words carefully. “You’ve got him in there–” he gestured vaguely toward her head. “Can’t he tell you what’s going on?”

Rogue rolled her eyes and wondered if Bobby thought that absorbing someone’s personality meant that she had a permanent telepathic link with them. “It’s not like that. I can’t see what’s in his head *now.*”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

“Me?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Logan barely knows me. Plus I’ve seen what he can do when he’s pissed off, and I don’t really want to take any chances. He’s not going to gut *you,* Rogue.” As soon as the words left his mouth, she could tell he’d remembered the night Logan had stabbed her. His mouth opened soundlessly, and she knew he was going to fumble around, trying to apologize. She’d rather face Logan on a rampage than have a conversation with Bobby about her first night at the Mansion, so she cut him off before he could start down that path.

“Maybe not. I’ll go see.” And with that she turned and headed out the way Logan had gone, hoping that she could find the elevator and get out of the lower levels. She took several wrong turns and kept having to double back, cursing Logan for leaving them alone in the maze of passages.

Rogue tracked him down to a bench in the garden, smoking a cigar and staring at a large oak tree in the distance. He didn’t even look her way when she sat down next to him. She set the heavy uniform next to her on the bench and followed his gaze to the tree, trying to figure out what made it so fascinating for him.

“You’d better get suited up,” he said, blowing a smoke ring into the air. “You’ll want a chance to get used to the leather before you try the stairs.”

She studied his face, searching for some clue about what he was thinking. She saw none of the grief or anguish she’d expected, but his attempt at his usual impassive expression was marred by the set of his jaw and his haunted eyes.

“Logan, I’m sorry about Jean.”

“Not your fault. Now go get ready.”

Rogue figured she should leave the subject of Jean alone. She’d talk to him about it later when he was a little less raw.

“What’s with the uniforms?” she asked instead.

The ghost of a grin crossed his face. “I think you’re supposed to be grateful they’re not yellow spandex.”

“No,” she sighed, trying not to laugh at his joke. Was he being difficult on purpose, or was he just being Logan? Sometimes it was hard to tell. “You said we had to wait a couple years.”

He sighed, letting the cigar smoke cloud the air around him. “The professor talked to me about it when I got back. He wanted my opinion before he gave them to you and the other two kids.”

“And you told him no?” she demanded, arching an eyebrow.

“I told him I didn’t think you were ready.”

Rogue stiffened, feeling all the indignation of an eighteen-year-old being told to sit at the kids’ table. “I’ve been training, Logan. We all have. Scott runs us through–”

“Not that,” he said. “God knows what’s in your head thanks to me and Magneto. But you didn’t choose those battles and you’re still so young, Marie. You shouldn’t have to be a superhero until you’re ready.”

“But I am ready.”

“I know. You proved that today.”

She felt the heat rising in her cheeks, inordinately pleased at the compliment. “So this is permanent? It’s not just for today or until we regroup?”

He turned sharply, looking directly at her for the first time since she sat down. He studied her face carefully, and she was sure he was looking for signs of uncertainty, so she tried hard to convey an air of confidence that she wasn’t sure she felt yet. “It’s for good. But if you’ve changed your mind, I can go tell the professor.”

“No!” she exclaimed and she noticed his lips twitch at her vehemence. “I’m ready. I can do this. I *want* to do this.”

He nodded shortly and got to his feet, dropping his cigar on the ground and grinding it out with his boot. He reached out for Rogue’s gloved hand and pulled her to her feet, gently shoving her toward the mansion. “Good. Then go get ready or you’re going to get left behind on your first mission.”

Rogue picked up her uniform from the bench and headed back into the mansion. Her room was quiet without Jubilee and Kitty, who were down the hall with Storm, but she was grateful that she’d have the bathroom to herself for once.

She shut the bathroom door carefully and began peeling off her jacket and Bobby’s mother’s clothes. She splashed some water on her face, wishing she had time to take a shower. After smoothing her hair back into its ponytail, she started on the uniform, pulling the leather pants on and up over her legs. She eased the jacket over her arms, fighting the stiffness of the leather as she zipped up the bodice. Last of all she slid on the gloves, buttoning them at her wrists.

Rogue crossed her room, noting that Logan wasn’t kidding about needing to break in the leather. She stood in front of the full-length mirror, taking in the sight of her new uniform. It fit her like a second skin, but she wasn’t embarrassed to be on display like she imagined she might be. Because it wasn’t the curves of a woman that captured Rogue’s attention, it was the body of a fighter. Leather molded to muscles she’d earned sparring in the Danger Room. A shock of white hair her proudly worn battle scar. Pale, smooth, deadly white skin. She looked down at her gloved hands, flexing them to soften up the leather.

Just then the door swung open and Rogue jumped back, narrowly avoiding being run over by Jubilee. Jubilee took one look at Rogue’s uniform and she skidded to a stop, her eyes opening wide with realization.

“Wow,” she said, her voice awed. “An X-Man, hunh?”

“Yeah,” Rogue blushed.

“Wow,” Jubilee repeated. “Happy graduation, chica!”

“Yeah.” Images from Leila’s graduation flashed through her mind– blue polyester robes and caps and tassels. Rogue looked down at the sleek black leather and grinned. “Thanks.”

Maybe this was better than being normal after all.

THE END.

Spoilers: General season 2. Incorporates canon up until about Countdown.
Disclaimer: JJ Abrams owns these characters. He’s got legal, officially sanctioned ways of torturing them. I do what I can while he’s on vacation.
Distribution: Cover Me. This fic and all previous installments live at our site.
Author’s Notes follow the fic.

It never ceases to amaze Sark how Arvin Sloane oozes power no matter how modest his headquarters are.

Sloane is currently working out of a warehouse in the slums of Kiev. The walls are cold and grey, the room spotless, and yet somehow the stench of the alley outside seems to permeate the rooms.

Sark wonders if the ambience helps Sloane with his perpetual sneer.

As expected, Sloane doesn’t even acknowledge Sark’s entrance. He merely continues to stare off into the middle distance, hands folded.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” Sark asks, smirking slightly. He’d found that a cheerful demeanor not only made him more likely to get his way, but it generally annoyed people. Right now he wants to annoy Sloane, if for no other reason than as retribution for summoning him to this godforsaken city, and for making him play cloak-and-dagger to conceal the trip from Irina.

“Yes,” Sloane answers finally, leaning forward in his chair to pin Sark with a look. “Have a seat.”

Sark takes a seat in the lone visitor’s chair, stealing a glance at the file folder on Sloane’s desk. The font was too small, but he’d recognize the pictures of Sydney Bristow anywhere. He dreads Irina’s reaction when she hears about Sloane’s surveillance. To say that she won’t be pleased is rather an understatement.

“I asked you here because I’ve been thinking about the future,” Sloane begins, leveling a cool gaze at Sark. “I’d planned for Sydney to carry on my work, but it doesn’t seem likely that will happen.” Sloane’s voice doesn’t betray even the slightest hint of disappointment.

That had been one of Irina’s first lessons: Keep your voice calm and even, no matter what.

“No,” Sark smiles. “It doesn’t seem likely.”

“You’re aware, of course, of the details of my arrangement with Irina Derevko.”

“And *you’re* aware, of course, that my arrangement is with Irina Derevko and not with you.”

“Of course,” Sloane nods. “Like I mentioned, I’ve been thinking about the future.”

“I’m not inclined to change my loyalties, either now or in the future,” smirks Sark.

“No, I can’t imagine that you would be, Mr. Sark. You owe her a great deal.”

“I owe her rather more than that.”

“I’ve worked for many years gathering Rambaldi artifacts and learning about his work,” Sloane continues, as if Sark hadn’t spoken, “and the thought that my work won’t be carried on is, shall we say, distressing.”

Sark arches an eyebrow at that. “Has Irina given you any reason to doubt her commitment to Rambaldi’s work? She’s sacrificed quite a bit for it.”

“Yes, of course. But I worry about her priorities.”

“If you’re worried about that, Mr. Sloane, perhaps this is a conversation you should be having with her.”

“No, I don’t think it is.” He pushes Sydney’s file across the desk. “Sydney Bristow’s been to the doctor twice in six weeks. After her second visit, I had my people access her file.”

There is a picture of Sydney, her hair pulled back into a low ponytail, exiting a doctor’s office, her distress apparent even in the grainy photo. He pushes it aside and examines the lab test report.

“Am I supposed to know what an HCG serum test is?”

“It’s a pregnancy test.”

Sark fights the sudden urge to get the hell out of Sloane’s office as soon as possible. He’s seen Irina at her most merciless and can’t imagine what she’d do to Sloane when she catches wind of this.

“And you’re telling me this so that I can break the news for you?” Sark shoves the file back across the desk. “I must tell you, I don’t exactly relish the idea of telling my employer that you’ve accessed her daughter’s medical files and that you’re planning on using that as leverage.”

“No, no, of course not. I have other plans for Sydney. And for you,” Sloane adds.

“You mean you’re not going to act on this now?”

Sloane leans forward conspiratorially. “Now would not be the time to use this information. You have to be patient.”

“Mr. Sloane, ” Sark laughs, “*I* don’t need to be patient. I have no plans to get caught up in trying to outsmart Irina Derevko.”

Sloane merely nods at this, as if it was the answer he was expecting all along. “Of course you don’t. You’re still filled with gratitude for all that she’s taught you.”

“And you expect that will change someday?”

“I do,” he declares. “Someday you’ll get tired of doing things her way. You’ll want to come out from under her wing.”

“I highly doubt that,” Sark scoffs.

“You will, mark my words. And when you do, remember that for all of Irina’s contacts in Albania and Mexico, this is the one thing that will give you power over her.”

“Again, Mr. Sloane, I can’t see why you’re telling me this.”

“I told you — I want someone to continue my work with Rambaldi if Irina gets . . . sidetracked.”

“And what makes you think that I’m the one to do that?”

Sloane leans back in his chair, a devious smile creeping across his features.

“It’s simple, really,” he says. “Gratitude.”

“Of course.” Sark’s short bark of laughter echoes in the warehouse. “Well, I’ll think about it, ” he says pensively, standing up and heading for the door.

“That’s all I ask,” Sloane calls out after him.

Sark walks outside, maneuvering around the puddles in the alley as he makes his way to the street, where his car and driver are waiting.

He smiles softly to himself, thinking of the first thing Irina had taught him: never underestimate your opponent. Sloane may have had a point or two about gratitude and patience, but he doesn’t realize that he hasn’t only given Sark the key to bringing down Irina Derevko.

He’s given Sark the key to bringing down Arvin Sloane as well.

—-

END.

Feedback joyfully received at emily@healthyinterest.net. Please visit Macha’s site for the companion piece.

Author’s Notes: Well, that’s it for me– Macha’s epilogue should be posted shortly. It’s been fun, y’all. I can’t begin to thank you enough for the kind comments you’ve sent over the past couple weeks, especially all of you on the SD-1 boards (I want to particularly mention our frequent commenters: AgentBlue, Aliasphan, Aliasscape, Boyscout’s Gurl, Brittany, Chrystin, Crunk8r82, Fanatic482, freedoms, Hershey, ItsADuckStupid, Jillian R., jujubinha, Old Romantic, reza, SecretAgentGirl, SydVaughn1001, and zrodezina.). Thanks also to kate, Mush, Philateley, austin, and Sprout. Mostly especially, thanks to Macha, who’s been a great editor and an even greater cheerleader. This series would have been nothing if she hadn’t stepped up to the plate to write Vaughn. Macha, hon, this I’ve never appreciated your epic tendencies more, and I think you know that’s not something I’d say lightly.

When it happens, it’s almost an anticlimax.
Sydney’s spent years planning how it will all end. In a perfect world, it will be a clean capture, and Sloane will see a prison cell and many interrogation rooms. Not only will she and Jane be safe, but Sloane’s removal will lead to the capture of other high-profile black market operatives. She’s realistic, though, knowing that’s not how it will happen, but mostly she just wants to avoid the nightmare scenarios — she’s imagined bombs and SWAT teams and Sloane’s body riddled with bullets. In her nightmares she’s seen Vaughn shot and killed in the crossfire, her father captured and tortured, and Jane kidnapped. It always ends explosively, with Sydney where she needs to be — in the thick of things, protecting her daughter and her family.

She never imagined she’d be in the living room of her father’s safehouse, arguing with Weiss about flying to Cozumel. She balances Jane on one hip and haphazardly tosses toys into the pale green diaper bag with the other.

“Syd,” Weiss reasons, “you can’t take the baby on another trip. You’re going to have to just wait while other people–”

“I can’t do anything from here. I’m not going to let the trail get cold.” She vents her frustration on Jane’s tiny stuffed clown, throwing it in the diaper bag with far more force than is necessary. Jane reaches out after it, looking confused at the way her mother is treating her toys. Noticing her expression, Sydney tries to calm down so she won’t upset Jane.

Weiss takes a deep breath and Sydney can tell that he’s trying not to lose his temper either. “We don’t know if he’s even in Cozumel anymore,” He points out, hid voice carefully neutral. “The CIA has plenty of field agents who can investigate this.”

“I’m not going to sit around and do nothing!”

“You won’t be,” he smirks. “Welcome to the world of the desk agent.”

“Dammit, Weiss–” Sydney breaks off suddenly at the sound of a car outside. Weiss brushed his coat back, snags his gun, and heads for the front of the house. She disentangles Jane, who’s suddenly clingy, and puts her on the couch, hopefully out of the line of fire. Sydney swears softly at the precious seconds she’s losing while she tries to keep Jane quiet and grabs her gun out of the diaper bag, sending Pampers flying in the process.

“It’s okay,” Weiss calls from the living room. “It’s your father.”

Sydney tells herself to relax and kneels in front of Jane, smoothing her daughter’s hair back. When Jane stops looking as if she’s about to burst into tears, Sydney begins to straighten up the mess she’s just made, placing her gun on the mantle. She hears the low murmur of voices in the other room and she pushes aside the sense of foreboding that’s nagging at her. She focuses instead on lining up the diapers and wipes, giving Jane the stuffed clown to play with so that she’ll stop trying to undo Sydney’s organization.

Sydney looks up as Jack and Weiss enter the room, matching somber expressions in place. When her father says her name in a gentle voice, she knows for sure that something’s happened. The panic claws at her chest and she can’t breathe, thinking that if her father’s using that tone of voice, Vaughn must be dead.

“Dad?”

He reaches out and puts a gentle hand on her shoulder, which frightens her more than anything she saw on his face.

“Sydney, it’s over. Sloane’s dead.”

Her instinctive relief at finally hearing those words doesn’t quite quell the panic. “And Vaughn?”

“Vaughn’s fine,” Jack answers, jaw tight. “He’s in debrief with Kendall right now.”

The relief floods through her and she sinks down onto the couch, upsetting Jane’s precarious balance. Jane tilts sideways, falling face down into her mother’s lap, and Sydney gathers her up before she can protest. Sydney holds her daughter close, ignoring Jane’s best efforts to squirm out of her arms.

Finally, Sydney manages to ask what happened. Her father and Weiss exchange a look, and Weiss takes Jane from her, mumbling something about naptime as he takes her into the other room. Jack’s face, meanwhile, takes on the pinched look Sydney associates with anger toward Irina Derevko.

“Your mother shot Sloane in the forehead at point blank range.”

It takes her a minute to process this. “She did what?” In spite of her mother’s sordid past, Sydney still has trouble picturing Irina as a cold-blooded murderer. She’d wanted to believe that her mother had reformed, despite her escape.

“Apparently Agent Vaughn was under the naïve impression that she was going to release Sloane into CIA custody.” Jack pauses, and Sydney’s not sure what to make of his expression– he seems almost pleased. “Irina obviously had other plans.”

“So she just murdered him?”

“Sydney, Irina Derevko might not be who you’d have wanted for a mother, but she’d do anything to protect you. And while I disagree with her methods, I can understand wanting to keep you safe at any cost. I’m sure that as a parent yourself now, you can relate to that.”

“But did she even try to find another way to take him down?”

“I don’t have all the details yet. I’m sure Agent Vaughn can fill you in when you go in for *your* debrief,” he says pointedly.

Sydney leans back, closing her eyes. She briefly considers running again– anything to avoid the confrontation with Kendall. And Vaughn– she can’t even begin to imagine what she will say to him. For so long she’s focused on being free of Sloane, on keeping her daughter safe. However mush she disagrees with her mother’s methods, that threat has been removed. Now comes the hard part. Now she’ll have to justify all the choices she’s made to get to this point.

“Okay,” she says, trying to sound braver than she actually feels. She opens her eyes, stands up, and zips the diaper bag shut. “Let’s go.”

——–

The good thing about being on the run, Sydney muses, was that at least she hadn’t had to fill out any paperwork. Unfortunately, now she seems to be making up for that tenfold, filling out forms and writing her statement.

She’s taken over Weiss’ desk while he and Jack are answering to Devlin. Before he left, Weiss dragged over an extra chair for Jane’s baby seat from Vaughn’s desk. Sydney noticed that the desk was immaculate, a half-empty coffee cup the only sign that Vaughn had been there. On their way in, she’d watched the closed door of the conference room, knowing Vaughn was inside. She tries not to think about how close he is. She forces herself to wait until he’s done, although part of her wants to rush in an interrupt Kendall.

Her daughter’s spent the past half hour chewing contentedly on her stuffed clown while Sydney’s scribbled away, but Jane’s decided she wants some attention. Jane lobs her clown in the direction of her inattentive mother and starts fussing.

Sydney sets her pen down, stretching her fingers to ward off cramping. She turns, unbuckling Jane and lifting her daughter onto her lap. Sydney rescues the clown from the floor and places it back in Jane’s eager hands.

Sydney feels Vaughn’s intense gaze on her before she sees him. When she looks up, he’s standing on the far side of the room. He’s dressed differently than she expects, in a t-shirt and khaki shorts instead of one of his well-tailored suits. But he still looks the same, despite the shadows under his eyes. He looks like he’s been through hell, but she’s never been so glad to see him.

He doesn’t, however, look as if he’s at all glad to see *her.*

He’s too far away and he’s not making any moves to come closer. She takes a deep breath, wishing she could read his expression better. She repositions Jane on her hip and stands, crossing the room to meet him. She thinks she should probably plan what she’s going to say to him, but she’s concentrating on carrying Jane despite her unsteady legs. It feels like it’s taking her forever to cross the room, but Vaughn makes no move to meet her halfway.

By the time Sydney reaches him, he’s stopped looking at her altogether, his gaze focused on Jane with such wonder that it makes Sydney’s heart ache.

She’s been writing page after page of details for Kendall, describing everything that’s happened over the past year, everything that she’s done to get to this point. She’s written about the time she thinks she was followed to the doctor and the precautions she took when she went into labor. She’s spilled hundreds of words onto the page, but here with Vaughn she finds that she has no words that will justify or explain, so she decides to start simply.

“I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even look up, but he nods in acknowledgement, and she sees his Adam’s apple bob. He reaches out hesitantly, tracing the soft curve of Jane’s cheek as she stares back curiously.

“Thank you,” she tells him.

His head snaps up, eyes accusing. “Your mother did the dirty work.”

“Well, thank you anyway.”

He nods tersely.

Sydney wishes for something– anything– to cut the tension. “Do you want– why don’t you hold her?”

For a moment she thinks he’s going to say something bitter, but Vaughn merely holds his hands out, ready to take Jane. Jane hasn’t decided what to make of him and she jerks away, clinging to Sydney and fussing again.

Sydney closes her eyes, wishing that Jane would somehow just *know* that Vaughn was her father. That she’d have some sort of sixth sense that would make her leap into his arms, rather than the display of third-generation paranoia she is currently exhibiting.

“I’m sorry,” Sydney sighs, opening her eyes and trying to avoid the hurt in his eyes. “She’s shy around –” Sydney stops short, but Vaughn finished the sentence for her.

“Strangers?” He laughs, but it’s a bitter sound. “And whose fault is it that I’m a stranger?”

Sydney’s never been particularly even-tempered to begin with, and she’s just as tired and cranky as Jane.

“You know, Vaughn,” she snaps, “Maybe you could–” but she’s cut off by Jane, who chooses that moment to let loose a loud wail that echoes off the walls of the Ops Center and turns the heads of the few agents working late at their desks.

Sydney bounces Jane slightly, patting her back and thinking that things couldn’t possibly get worse.

“Hey, what’s going on in here?”

Sydney, Jane, and Vaughn all turn their heads to see Weiss heading over toward them, Jack trailing behind him, scowling at Vaughn.

“She’s just tired,” Sydney explains.

Jack nods at Jane, as if that were an appropriate way to greet an infant. “Sydney, Kendall’s ready for you now. I can take you down to the conference room, if you’d like.”

“Sure, just let me get Jane’s things.”

“Hey Syd,” says Weiss gently, “why don’t you leave her here? We can take care of her while you wrap things up.”

“Right,” she says, glancing at Vaughn, who’s doing his best to ignore her. She sighs, knowing that she’s about to make things worse. “Her bottle’s in the diaper bag,” she tells him, and then she hands Jane over to Weiss.

Jane goes eagerly, without complaint, and Sydney sees the surprise flash across Vaughn’s face. When Jane lets out her gurgly baby laugh as Weiss tickles her, the surprise is replaced by anger.

“Sydney, we need to go,” Jack tells her, gently taking her arm and guiding her out into the hall.

As she leaves the room, she looks back over her shoulder for one last glimpse of the reunion she’s waited so long to see. It’s all wrong, though, full of anger and resentment instead of laughter and joy. She wonders if there’s any way to make things right, but the stony look on Vaughn’s face isn’t giving her much in the way of encouragement.

She turns away, straightening her shoulders to face Kendall. She’s made her choices. Now she’ll just have to figure out a way to live with them.

END.