This one started with an idea I can no longer remember, a line that wouldn't leave me alone until written and is now somewhere in this story, unknowingly the beginning of it all. The rest came out fast and furiously, like word-vomit. It's a way of inspiration quite familiar to me, and in my case I usually like the end result. I'm not one for slowly cooking up a story, I feel the most confident as an author when there's an explosion in my head and words just happen. But this one... this one I forgot about, it needed finishing touches I had no energy for after the hours spent writing it (my fingers felt like they were on fire). Today, I found it again, read it, and thought it good. Hopefully you do too.

It's been a while since I've posted anything, or written anything, so any reviews would be appreciated. And if you'd like to share your ideas on who the characters in this more-than-a-bit-mysterious-and-weird story are, I'd be most delighted to hear them :)

Hope you enjoy the ride, and survive through to the end!

Oh, and I own nothing. Except Jill. (now, there's a hint for you ;)

For reasons he didn't

The sound of the key hitting the inside walls and intricate constructions of the lock on the front door was quickly becoming one of his favourite sounds. He'd never before lived in a house that had a door like that; a door that sometimes had to be forcefully yanked open because the moisture of the sea breeze kept shaping and shifting the solid, aged wood inside the door frame. A door with a lock that had rusty speckles, like freckles, on it's round steel face that was now being poked with his key. A key he'd purchased a chain for, and a blue name tag, and a little, plastic red dragon that already had one leg missing. It had been an extremely enjoyable trip to the local supermarket, one that he'd remember for a long time. Mac would have laughed at him: but, then again, who cares? He wasn't there.

He sometimes even missed the keyhole in purpose, just to hear the sound of the cut edge clanking and clinking against the metal, over and over again. It was exotic, old-fashionably quaint and wonderful. For reasons he couldn't, didn't want to, explain, and even though the house had been his only two weeks now, he was already calling it his home. He hadn't done that in a long time, and despite the stubborn self-assurances that he didn't need such things -homes, houses, doors, locks and keys- to slow him down, he was actually enjoying it. With an absent-minded, happy smile on his face, Jim opened the front door of his home.

Jill was standing by the kitchen counter, so deep in thought that when he walked towards the threshold he's just learned how to not stumble on (he'd never lived in a house that had thresholds, either), she didn't even turn to face him. It gave Jim time to admire her profile: she was pretty, beautiful, even, if watched from a certain angle. Not perhaps the most exciting one, not in bed at least, but she was something new and different, and Jim knew he would be lying if he said that he hadn't gotten at all attached to her in the past thirteen-and-a-half days they'd known each other, boring and plain-looking as she may be. Jill had hidden strength, and a hot temperament that appealed to him. He liked secrets and puzzles, which was good thing both professionally and in... other aspects, as well.

Sharp pain shot through his left foot that caught with that damned threshold, and he had to take a few shaky steps to regain his balance. The muffled yelp and the scuffing of his feet against the linoleum floor alerted Jill of his presence, and she turned towards him, sharp and fast. Her eyes were burning with emotion, but the fact that it wasn't of the 'oh Jim, take me here, take me now, take me hard' -variety had Jim instinctively backing up a bit, his hand silently reaching behind his back for a gun that wasn't there before he forced it to stop.

"Who are you?"

The question came as a complete surprise, as did the rolling pin she was lifting in a two-handed grip above her head, ready to swing.

"...Huh?"

"Tell me right now who you are, or I swear to God I'm gonna smack you with this so hard..."

Jill was shaking the rolling pin, her eyes looked like they were going to pop out of her head and she spat the words out like venom. Jim couldn't help but to be a little frightened: and he'd thought Mac was scary.

"Jill, it's me! Jim! Remember Jim? The one you promised to bake cookies for?"

"Hah! Oh, is that right?"

Jill laughed and lowered the pin back to the counter that was flooded with flour and dirty cups and bowls. But the sudden lowering of the weapon (and oh yes, it's a weapon: Jim had seen his fair share of murders by baking equipment, rolling pin being the most dangerous, common and creatively used) didn't make Jim relax. On the contrary, he became even more rigid, his muscles itching, ready to be used for either running away or fighting back, and his eyes kept scanning the closed environment for possible escape routes and useful objects in a well-learned, effective and unnoticeable manner. He knew from experience the difference between actual and deceptive calmness, and this was definitely the latter.

"Want to know what I found today?"

She didn't exactly expect him to answer, and so he didn't.

"I was baking, and the doorbell rang. It was the police: said they'd had some complaints, reports about odd noises and stuff. Asked if I'd seen or heard anything out of the ordinary, and I told them that I don't actually live around here, but that I hadn't."

She'd kept staring directly at him the entire time, arms crossed across her chest, her lower back leaning against the granite counter top. Jim had no idea where this was going, but a deep, ever-trustful gut-instinct told him what his brain confirmed: that it wasn't anything good. Trying to appear casual, and knowing that he succeeded -he was a good actor, after all-, he adopted a similar position on the other side of the room.

"So...?"

"Then they asked for my ID, and I gave it, and then they asked who owns the house. And I told that it's yours."

That sounded odd, why would the police ask for an ID if they were simply doing a door-to-door questioning? To Jim, it sounded like a feeble and hastily conjured excuse, a way to cover up something else entirely. Were they on to him? Was that what this was about? But how could they know about him. Impossible. But, then again, they'd always said, back in training, that in the 21st century everything changed. Maybe they already had some sort of... secret space police or something? Whatever it was, it set the warning lights flashing and pulsing, like a migraine, in the back of his skull. But apparently the general public, people like Jill, took the bait with no questions. Whoever these 'police' were, they were relying on the basic ignorance of common man. Jim could sympathise.

"And then they asked for your ID."

Oh shit.

Jim didn't let on anything. No one could tell by his appearance that inside his head his mind was screaming for him to turn around and run, or dash forward and smash Jill's head on the corner of a table and then strangle her to death, or roughly push her against the wall and kiss her and then lay her on the floor and have hot, angry, violent sex. All the options sounded equally good.

But he remained silent, and expressionless.

"So I asked them to wait, and then I went through your drawers and bags and cupboards. And guess what I found in that metal box on your night stand?"

She turned to take a pack of papers from behind her, and if Jim saw his chance, he didn't act upon it. For reasons he couldn't, didn't want to, explain. Instead he watched as the documents and cards and pictures fell on the floor after Jill had angrily thrown them from her grasp. Jim stared at the dozens of different ID cards and passports, from different times and places, with different names and dates and addresses, all with a photo of himself on them.

"Care to explain?"

He continued to look down on the many tiny faces and official letters and stamps and codes that were gazing right back at him. Then he slowly raised his eyes to meet Jill's.

"You're name isn't Jim Jones, is it?"

He wasn't exactly sure why he'd chosen the name Jim: yes, it was neither old or new and therefore easily adopted, and he liked the alliteration, but that was about it. By itself, the name was nothing: just as dull and voiceless as it was short. But Jones... Now that was a good one; the boys, including Mac, had accepted that without any complaints. It was generic, apparently very common and so normal and Welsh that blending in was no problem.

But above all, it had a voice. It meant something. Anything, in fact.

In his opinion, a man named Jones could be a great many things: he could hide an entire personality, passions and ambitions and quirks, under the surname. Like a secret. And Jim liked secrets.

Jim didn't sound good. Jim Jones, or even better, Mr. Jones, sounded exceptional.

But, to Jill's question, he had to shake his head. The name tag he'd so proudly and with childish glee purchased for his key chain had on it a name that wasn't his.

She looked shocked, and angry, and wounded. Something tugged nastily at Jim's insides, something that was quickly covered with red, hot anger of his own. What right did she have to go around, looking through his stuff? They'd met not even a fortnight ago, and however long it was, in this age, in this era, the time after which the lines of privacy between two people could be crossed, Jim was sure it wasn't 13,5 days. And more to the point, what was she complaining about? Had the false identity made him any less nice, or good-looking, fantastic in bed? No, no, he didn't think so. She was being petty, and so 21st century. These people, they had no perspective. He'd been together with Mac for two weeks, again and again and again, until it added up to five years, and he didn't know Mac's real name, either! And did anyone hear him moaning about it? No, why would he, he was fine... completely fine... and very much over it, thanks for asking. For Goddesses' sake, they'd even changed their names during that time, just for fun (when you're stuck in a 14-day time loop for 5 years, where every second Thursday is a rainy day and every fucking Tuesday the annoying couple next door asks if you two would like to come over for a round of Venusian bingo, having sex and changing your name is about as much fun as you can have)! They'd even had a Mexican theme-week: he'd been Rodrigo, and Mac was Miguel. They'd had sombreros and everything. And when the others finally managed to get them out, it had been hilarious: everyone had laughed their ass off (in one unfortunate case, quite literally: although, if you were stupid enough to make fun of Mac when he was clearly in a bad mood and had just, accompanied by your fine self, retrieved a bazooka from the armoury, you deserved it. It had all turned out well, after all. Mac was very good at making up). So what on Earth was she so upset for?

Then again, Jim had left the box on the night stand, for all eyes to see. No wonder Jill would have, in her haste, opened it: it was at least partially his fault, and the nasty tugging returned with full force. It was unlike him to leave confidential documents lying around, and for reasons he couldn't, didn't want to, explain, he just had. His fiery anger now suitably dampened, he looked at Jill's eyes that were filling with tears.

Guilt, it was. Terrible, sick, ugly guilt that tugged and tugged. I'm so sorry.

Jill swallowed, trying to gain some form of composure, and continued.

"You're not an investment banker either, are you?"

"Well, that depends on what you mean by investing... and banking. One thing I can tell you, baby, is that something's always going up-"

Tears of anger, apparently, Jim deducted as the rolling pin flew right past his head and smashed the wall tiles into hundreds of glittering, ceramic white pieces. Humour and innuendo, his two go-to types of conversation, were clearly neither needed nor appreciated at the moment.

"I can't believe I had sex with you! Oh my God, I can't believe I let you borrow my car! You sick bastard!"

Okay, she certainly knew how to make a man feel wanted. With his hands raised up in front of his face, Jim tried to defend himself against the onslaught of various kitchenwares and cutlery that was hurtled towards him.

"Get out, or I'll call the police! They're still out there, won't take them long. Just get the fuck out of here!"

Any comments on this actually being his house were forgotten, and Jim made a hasty, undignified retreat, collecting the papers from the floor, stumbling backwards over the threshold, through the living room to the bedroom to take the box from the night stand. He stuffed the Time Agency issued fake identifications and mission reports back in it and then got on his knees to retrieve his Vortex Manipulator and sonic pistol from under the bed. Quickly, over to the window that looked to the backyard, through it and then across the lawn he'd thought of cutting on the weekend.

He knew.

He knew why he'd left the box on the night stand. Why he'd thought of gardening, and perhaps buying some wind spinners he'd seen in a toy store to brighten up the place. Why he'd taken such delight in getting stupid, dangling stuff to hang on his key, why the threshold, the lock, the door had been so amazing.

Because he loved it all. Because he loved this place. In some backwater planet, in a backwater city, in an age when humans were tiny and stupid, he felt comfortable, safe and at home. Mac would laughed, thought him stupid, but that's how it was. The mission he'd accepted with reluctance had turned out to be, for reasons he knew, the best one he'd ever been on. His first on Earth. He hadn't had a home for such a long time, and now he'd found one again.

And now he had to go away.

Under his running feet, the grass morphed into a green blur and he had to blink rapidly to once more properly see where he was going. He had to go, and change his name, and leave... leave Jill. He was so sorry. She'd just been a fortunate and convenient encounter: a quick flirt on the queue of the supermarket, him buying essential food items (following the list created by the Agency) and various key accessories and Jill placing a packet of cigarettes and condoms on the empty conveyor belt beside her, Jim finding out she worked in the old department store he was sent to investigate, and that she was currently looking for a place to stay. Two birds with one stone, or what ever it is these people say. He just hadn't expected her to be so... nice. She hadn't laughed, when she'd opened a can of meatballs and Jim had, in confusion and fascination, asked what they were. Another slip, just because this place made him feel so damn comfortable. Nothing like with Mac, nothing like with the Agency, nothing like anything else. And he had to go, while there was so much more to see, to experience, to love. Shit.

The tears were falling now, as he jumped over the hedge and carried on, now walking, across the pavement. He passed a big, black car that hadn't been there before: probably the police, even though it didn't look like one of those cars they drove. Hiding behind it's bulky frame, he glanced up and down the street for it's owners. If they were after him, though highly unlikely, it wouldn't do to go running carelessly.

A door closed by his left, and turning around he saw three people, two men and a woman, strolling briskly down the path back to the road. He couldn't see their faces, but they were most likely the police, conducting a door-to-door questioning. They didn't look like the police, but that was a fact Jim could ponder on while he was safely back at the Agency, writing a report, silently crying when no one saw and drowning his sorrows with hypervodka. When the trio turned their backs and continued their way further away from him, Jim took his chance and started to run to the other side.

But suddenly, when he was halfway through, one of the 'police officers' turned around. He'd most likely dropped something, or perhaps he was just curiously studying the surroundings, but whatever his reasons were, Jim froze. Against all rules, against all he'd been taught, in the middle of the road, in plain sight, he froze and stared back at the man who was now watching him. The man's face had an expression of pure shock, astonishment and - could it be - fear. Jim waited, the man watched, and time itself seemed to stop, as they looked at each other, eyes locked, their faces canvases for their emotions.

Whatever Jim had expected - a gun, a shout for the others who were now getting further and further away, an uninterested look that merely felt like an eternity while in truth lasted only seconds - it hadn't been the smile that now broke on the man's face. It was a happy one, joyful, and a bit mischievous. And, Jim couldn't help but to notice, a very beautiful one.

The man turned around and walked away, jogging to catch up with the others, and after a while, Jim ran the rest of the way to the cover of trees on the other side of the road. But now he was smiling, too. For reasons he didn't quite understand, he now knew that he'd return here. Some day. Always.

~fin~

That was it this time, folks! I have a much shorter story prepared, most likely going to post it soon. And a longer one, too, still unfinished but very much wanting to be written as well.

I'm not going to beg for reviews: don't always leave one myself so it would be a bit hypocritical. But if you feel like writing one, I'd love to hear what you thought!

Thanks for reading!