If lovin' you is wrong: Stranger Things Have Happened.
Disclaimer/Author's Notes: Kim Possible and all the characters of the show are owned by the Disney Company. The original lyrics to the songs referenced in this story and the music are the property of the respective authors, artists and labels. All other characters can be blamed on the author (he, however, is not responsible for all of their actions at all times, being barely responsible for himself most of the time).
This is a strictly not-for-profit, just-for-fun work.
Enjoy! Thank you in advance for reading, and please review.
A/N Forward:
This is a tale of two individuals: how their lives wound and unwound as they twisted and turned, ending up together…just not the two people you'd expect.
Warning: there is major character death, major happiness and issues that truly reflect real life…
It's a different type of tale for me, but it's another entry in the 'if lovin' you is wrong' (ilyiw) multiverse….
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Intro 1 - Gathering
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"Are you ready, Sir?" asked a decidedly feminine voice that came from nowhere. Though the voice clearly had an Australian accent, the voice sounded like someone was trying to perform a very bad impersonation of a classic British butler from television, or the movies.
But, then, the voice lost its attempt at majesty when it broke out in a fit of teen-age-girl boy-band-crazed half-muffled giggles.
Her voice suddenly regained its composure and greeted the new arrival with a "g'day, mate," just as the distinguished-looking gentleman entered the gate that opened onto an open field. As he closed it, the fit of giggling began again, a bit more subdues this time. Once he made sure that the gate was shut and secured, he rolled his eyes heavenward for just a second and then started out onto the field.
Although it was clear the 'Urban Camo' that he wore was Global Justice issue, it was also clear that it had been originally tailored to fit him perfectly; it seemed, however, that even though the years had been gentle to both him and the garment: neither showed their true age. With each step he took, the light reflected off his boots that had been polished to the point that they could have been used as mirrors to redirect lasers. His black hair, which had more than a few minor streaks of white, not only in his temples but, as much as he hated to admit it, the rest of his head, as well. Even with the fact that both his granddaughter and daughter-in-law liked to stand behind him and pull out his white hairs, his hair still was neat and looked to have been trimmed using a carpenter's square and a micrometer.
"Ready?" The now-fully-professional female voice questioned the gentleman.
By his second step into the area, he had noted and locked the position of the four tables in his mind, the closest being what he guessed was no more than 10 yards away. With a nod of his head, he answered the unseen voice with "I was born ready, Gillian". By the end of his response, he had taken his fourth step into the area.
The unseen female voice spoke again, now back to doing the butler impression.
"Very good, Sir…" Then, without any warning:
PULL!" she spoke the single, deliberately enunciated, word with an intensity of power that would have instilled instant fear into a common man. A clay pigeon flew instantly up into the air from a hidden launcher to his left, while the man, within mere moments, broke out into a full run for the closest table.
When he was three steps away from the table, he could clearly see the crossbow with a quiver of bolts next to it. At the same time, he heard the female voice call out again:
"PULL!" This time, the force of her voice changed to determination as if the unexpected was about to occur.
Instantly, another target fired from a second hidden launcher, this time from his right.
Reaching out, he quickly grabbed the crossbow and placed the butt where his right leg joined his torso as he came to a dead stop beside the table. Placing both hands on the bowstring, he pulled hard and heard the string lock into the cocking mechanism. He brought the butt up to his shoulder with one hand and used the other to remove a bolt from the quiver and place it into the shaft guide. Once that was done, he took aim and fired: all the actions done with cat-like quickness, precision, and with a grace that appeared almost eerie. And, all was done in just heartbeats.
Without looking at the table, he dropped the crossbow on it and sprinted off toward the next closest table, another 10 yards away. Over his shoulder, the silent bolt hit the clay pigeon dead center, and the pigeon disappeared in a puff of dust as it reached its apex.
He was barely a step away from the second table, this one with a compound bow placed on it, when he heard Gillian call out a third time:
"PULL!" This time, the single word was filled with an 'I gotcha this time' lilt.
A third target fired from a launcher somewhere in the middle.
Picking up the compound bow in one hand, he again grabbed an arrow from the bow's attached quiver and quickly knocked it. In one fluid motion, he brought the notched end of the arrow to his cheek and pushed the bow away from him until it was in full draw. He tracked the second target for a heartbeat and then released the arrow. Again, everything happened in a movement that made it appear as if it was all just done in a single one motion, and not the many steps that occurred.
For a second time, he dropped the bow back on the table and took off at a full run for the next closest table without looking back at the one he just left or at the clay target. The pigeon exploded in dust as the arrow pierced it at the top of its flight.
As he reached the third table, he could see it held a long bow that had the bowstring attached to one end, but not the other. Beside it lay a single arrow.
The second he stopped, he picked up the bow in one hand and jammed the end with the bowstring attached to it at the ground beside his boot. Moving the hand holding the bow toward the end near where the string would need to be, he bent the bow and brought up the string with the other and slipped it into place. Quickly he reached for the arrow as he used his foot to kick the bow up into the air and catch it. Quickly, he again notched the arrow, traced the target and let the arrow fly.
The target was blown from its flight as the arrow nicked it, but hard enough to shatter it.
He never saw it as he had already dropped the bow and was running at the fourth and last table as hard as he could, another 10-yard sprint.
He was just half way when her piqued, yet single-minded accented voice, called out again:
"Pop-ups: Friend or Foe," came out of the air with a sense f satisfaction in her voice that would have led one to believe that she had pre-determined the outcome.
Suddenly, targets popped up out of nowhere. Red beams fired at him as they began to move and change positions.
He changed course quickly, moving to his right. After two steps, he moved to his left, the beams crossing where he had been just milliseconds beforehand. When he was less than two steps from the last table, he dove at it. He had just moments before he reached it to see the holstered gun laying on it. All the while, the targets never stopped firing at him.
As he flew over it, he reached out with one hand and grasped the pistol, and with the other he latched on to the table's edge.
With a small grunt, the only sound he had made since Gillian had yelled the first "pull", he pulled at the table with all of his strength as he passed over it. The table started to turn on its side as his grip on it changed the position of his body and forced it to come down hard on the other side.
The table started to flip over him.
Quickly, he released the table and pulled the pistol out of the holster just as the table landed, giving him a barrier between him and the pop-up targets.
Thumbing off the safety, he raised the pistol over the edge as he took a fast look at the targets and their locations. Taking a two handed grip, he fired six shots. His own pistol discharging a laser beam just like the targets had been firing at him.
"Course on standby," Gillian said in a tone of voice that sounded amused, yet happy and satisfied, it seemed.
At those words, he slowly stood up and, without looking, clipped the holster to his belt and then slid the pistol inside it.
"'Course on standby', Gillian? Might I inquire as to why?" he asked in a calm tone that was just starting to show a loss of breath.
At his question, the pop-up targets started to move towards him again. When they were about six feet from him they stopped. Five of the six had clear holes burned into the pictures on them. Only one was unmarked.
"You do see the problem, right?" Gillian asked.
He laughed at her questioning, for he could see her, standing there, hands on her hips, right foot tapping, and her blue hear waving in the slight breeze. "I see no problem, Gillian…other then you using 'Scooby-Doo' again as a target. What have I told you about that before?" he said.
Rather than answer his question; she asked one of her own.
"And the reason you shot poor Chim-Chim, twice?" she asked as one of targets move a little closer. The picture on the target was a monkey dressed in a pair of red overalls wearing a red and white cap on his head. Two holes were perfectly placed between the eyes of the image.
"The monkey must die," he growled. "He's evil." Then, he added, "He's a monkey, he's evil, and he must die."
"Channeling someone, much?" Gillian said with a hint of a laugh in her voice.
When he gave no reply, she went on. "Very well: the course is clear… almost," she continued in a sultry and teasing tone…but, the second that the words were spoken…
…suddenly, three more clay pigeons leapt into the air. Without missing a beat, he pulled the pistol out of the holster in a blur of motion and fired three shots, beams from the pistol hitting each target and shattering it into a cloud of dust.
"Course is now clear," Gillian stated. "Not bad for an old geezer," she chucked with sheer satisfaction. "On your pigeons, you scored 93 out of 100. On the pop-ups, a perfect score, if you exclude poor, defenseless Chim-Chim," she added with a continued chuckle.
"Please, Gillian," he said with a hint of a laugh in his own voice as he re-holstered the pistol, "I keep reminding you: I'm not old."
"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that, Grandfather" she answered and then fell silent for a moment then added, "By the way, the car with your oldest son, daughter-in-law, and their two children is inbound: ETA, approximately 20.4 minutes: more than enough time for you to wash that funk off of your body."
"Please," he suddenly laughed turning to the gate, "I have no funk."
"Right, Grandpa: tell me another tall tale. Please and thank you," Gillian laughed out loud. "Would you like me to bring you the evidence?"
"Please and thank you?" he repeated. "Is someone else channeling?" he asked, honestly surprised, and he would have sworn he heard Gillian snicker.
He opened the gate, walked though, and then closed it.
"Gillian, Hologram mode please" he said.
Suddenly, a pretty young woman appeared beside him inside the gate. She had light blue hair that fell to just below her shoulders and looked to no older then her late teens to early 20's.
"Yes," Gillian asked.
"Would you clean this up for me, please and thank you" he asked. The endearing tone of his words made the hologram quiver for an entire nano-second.
Gillian sighed: "A woman's work is never done," she laughed and nodded her head. With that, he turned and walked off as a squad of 'bots emerged from unseen portals to collect the evidence and replace the area to its pristine condition as he took off in a dead run to cover the quarter-mile distance back to the house.
--
He stepped from the shower in the master bath of their bathroom into their bedroom, smiling as his feet lovingly hugged the bamboo flooring, once again. He remembered the feel from his childhood, and he was glad he had managed to talk his wife into doing it in their house. She'd been skeptical, but she loved it now, almost as much as he did. He quickly got dressed for the dinner party that they had planned for their kids, grandkids, and friends, for today was their celebration day: a bittersweet one, but a celebration, nonetheless.
Today was their wedding anniversary, the day he had married the woman he loved, the day he had promised to protect her with his very life. 'Just as someone else had done,' he remembered sadly, combing his hair.
Though the official records could have shown her having only married him, at her insistence, they read as her second marriage and his first. Both weddings had been held "on the same Fetter day, the same Ferret-time," she had told him with a hint of a small grin: again, at her insistence. He was certain that she had lost it when she told him the date and time that she wanted to get married.
He pulled her out of the living room of his apartment, away from the wedding planner, and into the kitchen, with neither of them saying a word. But before he could ask her if she really wanted to marry him on that same day, he saw the look on her face, and he almost lost it, himself. It was a look of anger, fear, love both found and lost, and pleading, all in one chin-quivering smile:
"I don't want to have any more bad memories of that day," she had whispered before falling into his arms and sobbing. He felt her love, pouring out, and he loved her too much to disagree with her.
They were married on that very day and time of her choice: that day that held so many memories for her… and so many other people, as well.
He could still see, in his mind's eye, her walking down that aisle at their wedding, resplendent in her radiant white wedding dress. The almost-invisible-unless-you-looked-very-close-and-knew-where-to-look red stains had been thoroughly cleaned from the dress, but they were the only parts of it that didn't simply glow to his eyes...
Then, there was that one spot, directly over her heart…
It was him, and it would always be there…for it was him, and for him…
He didn't mind, though: he loved her then, and she still felt his love, even 25 years later.
She always had….and, she always would.
And, amazingly to him, it no longer bothered him, after their first 3-4 years of marriage.
He buttoned his shirt, adjusted his tie, and pulled his jacket from the closet. Looking into the mirror, he smiled: after all these years, he still looked young, he thought with the vision of one who wanted to believe his youth hadn't all gone away, no matter what his grandchildren and Gillian said to him.
With that, he opened the bedroom door and had both legs captured by grandchildren: a young boy of 4 and his fraternal twin sister. He laughed, remembering how his wife had gone ballistic when their 20-year-old son had come home, engaged to a 26-year-old woman. 'She sure changed her tone when the twins were born and the doctor placed them in her arms, though,' he laughed inside as he hugged them both.
"Grandfather!" both yelled as they hugged his legs, and he grinned as he bent down to hug them back.
"Grandfather," the young boy spoke, "can I ask you a question?"
"You have the ability," he replied, and the girl giggled while the young boy rolled his eyes and sighed in youthful exasperation.
"May I ask you a question, Grandfather?" the boy re-stated the question, and he nodded in response.
"You may, indeed," he replied, and he was pulled from the bedroom door, though the hallway, and into the great room. In the center of the secondary seating area was a low table: on it was an open photo album.
'It was bound to happen,' he thought with a sad sigh. His eyesight hadn't failed him, even at this age. He still had 20/15 vision and didn't need either glasses or that new-fangled corrective bio-sonic eye surgery that was all the rage. He could make out the wedding pictures that the album was opened to, even at this distance.
"Grandfather, who is this man with Grandmother?" the young boy asked as he pulled him to the table, pointing to the picture of the wedding party. He grimaced internally before speaking with a smile on his face.
"That's the man who would have been your grandfather,' he said calmly.
The young boy clearly looked confused. "Did he marry Grandmother?" the boy asked, and he nodded.
"Then, where were you?" the young girl asked, surprise and confusion both sounding in her voice.
"I was around, just not in those pictures," he explained.
"Who are all of those people?" the girl asked.
"The older woman and man are your great-grandmother Anne and great-grandfather James," a soft, yet rich, contralto voice came up behind him. He smiled as a pair of slender, strong, and loving feminine hands wrapped around his waist, the long fingers intertwining on his abs. He could feel her head as she placed it onto his shoulder, and he could smell her shampoo and feel her hair. He grinned inside: both sensations brought a smile to his face outside.
"Those two young men," she said, removing her right hand and pointing at the pair of young men in the photograph, "are your great-uncles Jim, and Tim." She paused for a moment, then pointed at another young man, sitting in what looked like a high-tech wheelchair, and his lap being occupied by a dark-skinned young woman, before continuing to speak: "the lady, sitting in that young man's lap, is my best friend, Monique. The man who is smiling so much is her fiancé, Felix." She then pointed at the large man in the background and smiled. "The mountain of a man behind us all is your uncle Mike, and the smiling young blonde wrapped up in his arms is his fiancée, now wife, Aunt Justine."
"Is Monique where Cousin Mon got her name?" the boy asked, and the woman nodded.
"But, Grandmother, who is the cute blonde young man, standing with you and smiling so big with your arms around each other?" the girl asked. "He looks weird, but I think I like him," she added, and the grandmother smiled.
He chuckled, for he remembered both of them, and their relationship, all too well 'She sounds just like her grandmother did, back in the day: her late teens,' he thought, back to when he had first met them.
"That's Ron, sweetheart: he was my husband." He didn't have to see her face to know what had appeared there for only a moment: a bittersweet smile on her lips, and a faraway look in her eyes. He had seen it, in their early days together, before they were married, far too often…usually followed by her running off and sobbing in what she thought was a sound-proof room.
It wasn't, and his heart broke every time he heard her cry. 'At least, I was successful in one thing: she doesn't cry as hard or as long, anymore,' he thought.
"When?" the girl demanded, hands balled up on her hips, and the grandfather grinned inside as his granddaughter, once again, reminded him of her grandmother, but he then felt his wife squeeze him gently and lovingly, but with that touch he recognized.
"We were married for six hours and 23 minutes," she replied.
"What happened to him?" the boy asked, still confused.
"He died," she responded after a second or two, and both the young boy and girl gasped at the answer.
"What happened, Grandmother?" the young girl asked, a confused tone in her voice. "You must have been deva-…deva-…," she paused, took a breath, stood up straight and announced "devastated." Her grandmother smiled and reached out to pat her head.
"She takes after her grandmother, Madam Secretary-General," a rich baritone voice came from the doorway. Looking up, he could see, standing in the hallway, a medium-height, slightly graying African-American man, holding the hand of a lovely and shapely redheaded woman. Both of them were smiling, and he smiled at the African-American's hair, the grays sticking straight out as if to strike out at the tight black curls of hair surrounding them
"You should talk, Director," the grandmother laughed and stepped up to hug him.
"You need to tell them, Madam Secretary-General: you need to tell your story. I'll bet you'll make both your children and grandchildren all very happy and proud of you…even more than they are already," the African-American man grinned, but his face added an unspoken message: 'and, you'll feel better when you do.'
'You're probably right,' she nodded back at him.
The Director had been with her long enough to read her body language, and he stepped forward and kissed her cheek.
"Thank you," he whispered, "from all of us who truly love you," he added, and they hugged once again.
"But, later in the evening: not at dinner," she stated, and the Director laughed.
"You're cooking?" he feigned shock as he placed a hand over his heart and took a full Hollywood over-acted step back, and she punched him in the shoulder for it.
"You love my cooking," she laughed.
"Indeed I do," he smiled.
As the young boy and girl pulled their grandparents from the room, the man the grandmother had called Director walked over to the open album. The lovely red-haired woman came with him. Both looked down at the photo, and he felt the woman re-take his hand in hers and give it a gentle, but loving, squeeze. He looked into her eyes for a moment, and then looked back at the picture of the wedding party.
With his free hand, he traced a finger over the picture of the blond young man, Ron, and muttered under his breath:
"You would have loved her cooking, Ron: especially her trout. She finally learned to cook, and cook well: all to remember and honor you, my friend."
"Rest well," he whispered, touching the cheek of the man in the picture.
Ron smiled up at him from the picture, and the Director felt his wife place a hand on his shoulder.
"I'm all right, Liz," he whispered, and she squeezed his shoulder.
"I know, Wade, but I also know that it still hurts, even now," she whispered back, and he leaned back into her.
He turned his head slightly and kissed her cheek. "Thank you, love," he whispered. The doorbell rang, and Wade and Elizabeth Load stood straight and went to the door to greet the next group of arriving guests.
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"So, what do you think, darlin'?"
Joss Lara grinned at her husband's question as they walked up the sidewalk when Joss, an evil grin unseen by him, crossed her face and transferred down her arm to her goosing her husband.
It had the desired reaction:
"JOSS!" Brady jumped, and then he laughed.
"I'm still likin' the buns, hubby," she smirked, and Brady blushed.
"You're ok with Wade being here, right?" he asked, and she p'shawed at him.
"That's the past, hubby: we've been working together on BlazeIT! for like, forever, even after it happened," she replied as she rang the bell.
"After he left you, you mean," he added, and Joss turned around and glared at him, her eyes blazing with ice-blue fire.
"If you'd just lost the only person outside of your family that had faith in you, that stood by you, that watched as you won your prize, that had gone through 'Algebra hell' and back with you, Brady…well, you'd be a little messed up, too" she blurted out with a snarl that twisted her face and clearly displayed the emotions that, even after all these years, she still carried deep inside but occasionally surfaced with a vengeance onto her sleeve and filled her heart. She took a few deep breaths, her face relaxed, and the fire in her eyes began to smolder out. "I'm sorry, Honey," she spoke in her normal tone of voice, "but sometimes, even after this long, it still hurts a bit… sometimes it hurts a bit more than that, too." Joss paused as she looked into her husband's eyes, and found nothing but love, looking back at her. "But, that's not important now, Sweetheart: what's important is why we are here. He was my cousin's first love, and my trainer, my Sensei, as well" she finished with a smile.
"I know, li'l darling," he grinned, and she swatted at him and laughed. "I just worry about you, that's all."
"And, I love having you worry about me, Brady-kins," she giggled, reaching over and pulling his face to hers for a mind-blowing kiss.
"Geez, can't you two get a room or something?" came from the speaker in the outer wall, net to the door, before the door opened to reveal Wade and Elizabeth Load, both laughing.
"Hey, almost," Wade said, a smile appearing on his face that was both happiness and bittersweet as he held out his hand. Joss reached out with her own hand, and they both pulled at each other, meeting in the middle for a hug. As Wade started to release her, Joss stood on her toes and pulled him into a kiss: a kiss that reminded them both of 'what might have been'.
"Hey there, might-have-been," she grinned when their lips separated. "You've been practicin', I see," she added with a smirk.
"He has," Elizabeth laughed as she hugged Joss. "Thanks for warming him up, Joss," she added with a wink, and Joss laughed.
"Things in the car?" Wade asked, and Joss nodded. All four headed back to the Lara minivan to grab the gifts for the party.
--
"'Where there is love…I'll be there….'"
"Ma'am," Gillian spoke, and the grandmother looked up from chopping cilantro in the kitchen as Gillian's voice broke into the music, "the former Director and her husband, Provost Cotton and her husband, and Ms. Hana Stoppable are arriving shortly via tube," she reported.
"What about Jessica?" she asked.
"She, Rear Admiral Peterson, and her husband are landing shortly from D. C.," Gillian reported. "The cars are waiting for them at the BlazeIT! hanger, inside the secure complex at Middleton International. They should be landing within the next 47.35 minutes."
"Thank you, Gillian," she replied as she placed the knife on the counter and pulled out the trays of steaks and vegetables, placing then on the counter to warm slightly from their chilled prison in the refrigerator before applying the final brush of marinade and dash of spices for grilling.
He smiled as Gillian re-started the song and his wife unconsciously began to sway with it. He remembered how his wife had told him that Ron, in college, had discovered 'The King of Pop,' his story, and his music. He'd laughed at first, but he started to listen and read about his life. "He lived my life: 'never be normal,'" he had told her, smiling as he attempted, with little success and lots of laughter, to copy his dance moves. "Besides, he wrote a song about a rat: how cool is that?" he had told her. Her response was to slam a Naco onto the top of his head, beef-and-cheese-side down…and followed the dripping face with kisses to remove the Naco cheese.
"Are you all right?" her husband asked, and she smiled as she placed the trays on the counter.
"I'm fine," she re-assured him, "never better."
"You didn't sleep well last night," he reminded her, and she chuckled silently.
Picking up the knife, she started slicing up the vegetables for grilling. "Do you stay up and watch me sleep?" she grinned into the task, away from his line of sight for a moment before looking over her shoulder at him for a second. Only after that glance did she return her full attention to the work at hand.
"Of course, my darling," he chuckled and dodged the whole flying tomato that barely missed his head, landing with a 'splash' in a pot of water on the stovetop, as if it had been just waiting for a hot bath and now needing a rinse and a towel. "What man wouldn't want to be lying on a bed, next to you, and be allowed to watch you sleep?"
"Heh," she grinned. "You're just happy I married you," she laughed.
"Oh, believe me, I am, my love," he replied with a huge smile. "You don't know how many times I have fallen to my knees and thanked Him for pulling my head from my rump," he replied, and she walked over to him and stood in front of him, leaning over and gently kissed his cheek.
"I guess I'll keep you around," she whispered. Handing him the knife, her hands went to his back and lower…and she squeezed his rear end, generating a Yelp! from him and a bigger smile from her.
"You've been working out, I see," she grinned. "Nice," she added, pinching this time.
"Just trying to keep up with the new group of agents," he laughed, placing the knife on the counter and wrapping his arms around his wife.
"You're dong a good job, dear," she whispered, nuzzling his neck.
"You're supposed to be cooking the food, please and thank you, not each other," Liz announced, and Joss laughed as she and Liz both stood in the door, watching the couple in their kitchen.
"Gee, Cuz, get a room: don't corrupt the young-uns," Joss laughed. "By the way: Dad picked out the best buffalo in the herd for those celebration steaks," she added, pointing at the counter. "Prep work looks pretty good on them, lip-smacker," she added with a wink, and the man in Kim's arms laughed.
"Thanks, Joss," he replied, and then added, "are you keeping Brady straight?"
"That's 'Mission: Non-Possible'," Joss laughed as Brady entered the room with Wade.
"She's trying," he countered.
"No, dear: you're the one who's 'trying'" Joss shot back, and Wade and Liz both laughed.
"Nice use of alternate definitions, Joss: been studying, much?" Wade asked, and Joss blew him a raspberry.
"Some things, and people, never change, Sweet Tea," Wade dead-panned, and Joss grabbed a tomato from the counter and hit her target square in the chest.
Kim looked at her husband, and she knew that look in his eyes: she had seen it there, many times, over the last 25 years of their marriage. It was a look that held both love and mischief deluxe, at the same time, a look that she never would have thought to see come from his eyes the first time that she met him.
Without any warning, her husband picked her up, flipped her over his shoulder, and started out of the room.
"If you will excuse us both, we were told to get a room and not to corrupt the children. By some strange quirk of fate, we just happen to own this house and have a room available. And," he grinned with a look that would have made demons dance with glee, "I suddenly feel the need to kiss my wife, quite completely and totally."
Everyone in the kitchen starting laughing as Kim 'pounded' on her husband's back, making everyone laugh harder. They could hear Kim call out for him to "Put me down!" but they could also hear the laughter in it.
"Put me down, please and thank you," she laughed.
"Dang it, Will: put me down, so I can kiss you, you crazy husband!"
The laughter followed them down the hallway into their bedroom, and the door slammed to the chorus. There was silence, and then…
"WILLIAM DU!
"SHAME ON YOU!
"WILL…" the sounds vanished, followed only by soft moans coming from the bedroom.
"CUZ!" Joss yelled, holding her hands over the young girl's ears. "There are impressionable children out here!" she laughed.
"What are Grandmother and Grandfather doing?" the girl asked, and Liz laughed when Wade dropped his head into his palms, laughing the entire time.
--
chapter complete.
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A/N Afterward:
It's Will and Kim's Silver wedding anniversary…what should be a totally happy event and time is bittersweet…
for, if lovin' Ron was or is wrong, then Kim doesn't ever want to be right.
By the way: Will, her husband, agrees with her.
There is a small homage in this chapter that came the night before publishing (thank the squirrel that sat on the gate that I had to open to leave the house and the two bunnies that waited for me on my way home) to a unique individual who passed away yesterday (June 25, 2009) who, I am certain, lived Ron's 'Never Be Normal!' mantra: Michael Jackson. His music impacted millions, including some fanfiction writers.
Along with Ed McMahon and Farrah Fawcett, I wish them and Michael peace.
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This major family of plot bunnies emerged from two stories that I wrote: "Oops…", and a KP-TZ episode: Going Home. In both I mentioned an alternate universe where Kim and Will were married. Needless to say, I got some interesting responses, and one persistent individual who continued to ask me when I was going to write the full story.
Well, ladies and gentlemen, it's starting…so, all the screams can be directed at all of us.
Why, you, the readers ask?
This is a jointly-crafter story between four 'unique' individuals, each adding their own unique flavor, texture, spices, and contents to the dish: ja and kt (of jakt), Star_Eva01, and yours truly, cpneb.
When I suggested the collaboration, based on the level of contribution I'd received from then in their 'beta' work, I got the following responses:
"I'm just a beta."
"In a pig's eye! If you think I'm going to tolerate this for one instant…"
I didn't listen to them, and I'm not sorry I didn't have the discipline to say 'no' to the bunnies.
Welcome, my friends, to 'If lovin' you is wrong,' brought to you by catS (cpneb, ja, kt, and Star_eva01), a four-way writers' collaboration.
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