Disclaimer: "If we shadows have offended, think but this and all is mended,

That you did but slumber'd here while these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme is no more yielding then a dream."

-Midsummer's Night Dream

Lite Pendente

By: Lady Erised

"I went to the woods because
I wished to live deliberately,
and not, when I came to die
discover that I had not lived."
 - Henry David Thoreau

Chapter One: Solitary

"Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints."

His fingers lingered over the words, feeling the cold paper underneath his skin, smooth, and thin. He'd been staring at the words for the past 45 minutes, seeing them but not really reading them. He didn't need to read them at all. He had memorized them a long time ago, in his studies and then to help him sleep later, to help him look at himself in the mirror every morning not cringe at the image staring back at him.

"For dust you are, and to dust you will return…"

He could spit them out one after another.

"For it is appointed unto man to die once."

He knew his dogma well. He could even recite those meant to comfort and heal.

"O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?"

And once, he had taken comfort in those words. Once, he believed, truly believed in those words. His faith had been an anchor, the one steady place he could always cling to when the world and all its improbabilities threatened to pull and tear him apart. Always his faith had been there for him, and he had never questioned it-truly questioned it, until now.

Now it felt like his faith itself had turned against him. The words that once had brought him comfort felt like fire and ash. They crept up inside of his throat and clawed at him. And it seemed at times that the pain was so much that he would falter, would collapse under the weight and tremble. And there were times he wanted too. There were times he wanted to scream, wanted to rip and claw wildly at himself, at the world, at anything that made him hurt.

He was frightened and hurting, and even now, he could not reach out and touch the one thing that had always made him feel wanted. He could not pull back and remember.

O god, my god, why have you forsaken me…

The words tasted like ash and his mind swam.

O death…

Pearse Harman jumped when the cup was placed in front of him. He stared at it for a long moment before pulling his attention towards the deliverer. A woman had walked around him, set the drink down and sat across from him. She settled down now, folding her arms over themselves on the table and fixing him in her gaze.

She had a round face, old but pretty and intelligent brown eyes that watched him mindfully without expression. There was something about her that made him sit up, and lean back. For a moment, he hesitated, trying to wipe the emotion off his face before speaking.
As it would happen, she spoke first.

"You needed it." She said, motioning to the cup. "You've been sitting here for the past hour." her eyes flickered to the pile of books resting on the table between them and licked her lips slightly. "…recent news?"

Pearse became aware of the books and sat up again, breaking her gaze and looking away. "What do you mean?"

The woman reached over letting her fingers run over the spines of the books he had chose. Immediately, he turned away and stared at the other people in the café while she read them aloud. "Surviving Cancer, Death and Dying, Cancer Care, Howell's Encyclopedia of Pharmaceuticals and…lastly, and though not surprisingly, the bible." Her eyes found his again before she pulled away. It was her turn to lean back in thoughtful repose. "It's not the hard to read your story."

Pearse continued to watch the patrons of the bookstore.

Finally, the woman shifted again, moving to rise. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude, I just…you reminded me of a man I once knew. And he had…you two share..." She tapped the books with her fingers. "When I saw you sitting there, you like you needed someone to talk with. I don't know you, but I remember how he felt. He was very lonely when I met him, and very afraid…I just want to let you, " She paused again, looking out into space somewhere. "I thought maybe you needed someone to talk to. I'm sorry again…" She turned to walk way.

Pearse let her walk out of his sight before speaking. "Is he gone?"

He heard the rustling of her coat as she turned around. There was a pregnant pause between them. "Yes."

"From cancer?"

Another hesitation. "No." She said, finally. "He explored…other means, and found his own way out."

Pearse blinked, picking up the drink and sipping the coffee. He winced a little at the bitterness. "I'm sorry."

"My name's Olivia."

"Harman." He told her simply, and then, just to save her the trouble. "Father Harman."

She hesitated a moment, then gingerly returned to her seat. She smiled at him, an uncertain closed lipped smile he was accustomed to seeing on the respectful but not religious. "That explains the bible."

Pearse looked over at his worn, weathered beaten tome and allowed a guilty smile. "It's been with me when I needed it."

"Including now?"

Now, his smile flickered as he stared at the book. "That's what I'm hoping."

Olivia pushed one nervous hand around her neck, and tugged on her earlobe. Pearse took a long look at her.

She was typical of her gender and age; complete with short haircut and a blond dye job that she seemed to hope desperately made her look sexy. A long deep blue Irish sweater that peeled back enough to show off dingy jeans swallowed up her body. A body that was plusher around all the wrong edges which is probably she wore such unkempt clothing. And there were those intelligent brown eyes at once both soulful and sad, braced on each side by age lines. Her cheeks were sunken and flushed, but when she smiled, it seemed forced, and half-realized.

Pearse rolled the coffee cup between his fingers. Olivia swallowed and cleared her voice. For a moment, they sat in awkward silence. Then, without more attention, he drank.

"You really have bad taste in coffee." He drawled slowly.

Olivia peered out from behind her hand, and laughed at him. Slowly she lowered it and nodded. "My forte is punch bowls."

"Punch bowls?"

"Punch bowls," She said smartly, and sat up. "I collect antiques. I own a little shop down the street and well, I call it a shop but in all honestly, I try and avoid selling my babies." She smiled again. Pearse couldn't seem to tell if she smiling for him, or if they were sincere. Either way, he could tell it was the first time she had smiled in a long time. He found himself smiling with her.

"Have you collected long?" He asked, taking his drink up and swallowing another gulp.

Olivia gave him a rebuking glare that only bordered on harshness. She then shrugged a little, drawing her finger across the side of the table. "Since I was a child. My mother was a maid for a fine estate, and I remember walking through the kitchens in complete and utter awe of just the beauty of the things…most of the estate's possessions were antebellum. It was very magnificent and well, completely breath-taking."

"Did you grow up here in England?"

"In a way…"

Pearse leaned back and smiled as she spoke. He couldn't remember the last he had talked of something beside demons and diseases and found he was thirsty for it. Pushing aside the books on his table, he took the cup into his hand and nodded with each point she made. It had been so long since he felt his way that he was marveled by it. It had been so long since he felt that the world made sense…

That he was being heard.

He stayed with her till the bookstore's little cafe closed and walked her home.

----------

The conference room was, according to Vaughan Rice, the ugliest room he had ever seen. Painted gun metal gray, and unadorned by any form of artwork- cheap or otherwise, it held only a full wall of video screens and audio equipment, the long flat desk they sat at and nothing else apart from him, Angie and Michael. Pearse was twenty minutes late.

Pearse's tardiness wasn't helping his mood at all. If anything it gave his mind room to imagine, and right now, that's the last thing Vaughan wanted to do. He scoffed as he tapped his pen angrily against the folder. God, he hated this room.

Well, Vaughan thought bitterly, at least the others weren't faring much better. He slumped deeper against the back of his chair, sipped his bitter coffee and tried to ignore Michael.

Colefield was still making the best of coping to life in the organization. To him and his decidedly copper mind, morning briefings did not consist of some superior officer sweeping into the room, meting out assignments and then disappearing into his office never to be seen again until he was needed or decided to grace the world with his presence. To him, briefings were messy noisy affairs that consisted of him, Jack and about a handful of other coppers pretending to be 11 year olds and snickering over words like booger and bosoms. Then the boss could sweep into the room, but god with him, if he tried to do any work till Michael and his friends had tired of their games.

Vaughan grunted. In the service, he would have been court-marshaled for such pranks. Civilians. He hid the smile he had on his face as he turned away to look at Angie.

If Angela March was bored, concerned or content, she made no appearance of it outwardly. She was sitting hunched forward, reading the files she had before her with apparent interest. Every so often, she would glance up and stare at him or at Michael but never at the door. She did that on purpose. She wanted to make sure Vaughan realized she wasn't wondering where Pearse was, even if she was.

She wanted to show Vaughan she believed him. She, at least, trusted Pearse. Unlike him. She made a point of screaming that wordlessly at him. For his part, Vaughan took it too. He didn't shrink from it. Someone had to be the villain in this, after all, and since Pearse could not, Vaughan would step up.

Vaughan looked down at his paper. She acted like he had betrayed Pearse, as if he had killed him.

He tried to ignore the fact that he had, or at least, an idea of him.

There had been a time Rice could tell what kind of mood his boss was in from the way he walked. He had known Pearse Harman so well, so thoroughly that Pearse's nuances and habits were second nature to him. He had learned to work with, around and through each quirk till he hadn't noticed them at all really. They had simply been a part of Vaughan as much as Pearse himself.

Pearse had been Vaughan's leader and this was not a statement taken lightly, nor a trinket or bauble to be cast aside without thought or care. Vaughan was the oldest, best sort of soldier; the soul besmeared by the fact fell deeds must fall upon the shoulders of men strong enough to undertake them. And for his part he'd been willing to commit those petty little 'horrors' that no man should be asked to commit for the simple and plain reason that his cause was just, and his leader wise.

And as childish, narrow-minded as it seemed; that had been all Vaughan had really needed. Pearse was infallible, the one stable part in an unstable situation; the one guiding light in war. He had been…

Untouchable.

And now, doubt crept inside Vaughan's mind and begun to send tendrils of fear and bitterness through his whole body. He was a soldier, and as one, things were simple. Not absolute, or coldly lined and devised; just simple. A mission is completed. An enemy is defeated. Success relied on the man to each side of you, not the powers far above them like god or politicians. It was your mates that brought you home at the end of the day, your captain made sure you got home, not Providence.

You leaned on one another. You trusted each, and you never faltered or failed. Not because of your own strength, or your own vanity but simply because there were other people relying on you to bring to get home.

A lapse of resolve, a flickering of doubt could compromised a mission. A moment's weakness could ruin a squad, a team, a battalion. Battles had been lost by one second spent in indecision, in confusion. Lives had been lost.

His squad had been lost in confusion.

And he had sworn to himself, long ago, that he was not going to lose for one moment of weakness ever again. He was not going to run…

Sweet Jesus, he wanted to believe.

He wanted to believe. He really did. He could tell from Angie's wary eyes that she didn't believe him and he knew better then to expect Michael to understand what he felt. In truth, only Pearse could have possibly understood the duplicity of it all.

There was a mission that had to be done, against an enemy that was wiser, stronger, and more numerous. Failure and weakness could not be an issue. Pearse knew that.

Why hadn't he been stronger?

And why would Vaughan have to be the one who…

Even though he couldn't complete the thought, Vaughan knew better to question it. He would have to, he had accepted that. When the time came, if Pearse made that choice…it would be Vaughan.

Vaughn shut his eyes. He wanted to believe.

He just knew better.

There was a start, and shuffling of papers beside him.

Pearse walked into the room wordlessly. He was wearing the same black and beige clothing Vaughan had seen him in yesterday. The old man looked tired too. Unkempt. Old.

Sick.

Briefly, their eyes met and Pearse nodded a little. He favored the old priest with the sort of tired expression. Angie inhaled sharply, and sat up. Michael sat up too, and cleared his throat loudly, before favoring Pearse with a stern expression. "Well, thank you for choosing to join us Fr. Harman."

Pearse stopped in the doorway, and made a motion in passing directed to Michael. Whatever was left of his coffee was spilled over as Michael stared mouth agape.

"Did you see that? Did you see that?" Michael pointed, motioning wildly to Vaughan. "He flicked me off. The father gave me the finger! Did you see it?"

He shifted in his seat. "Didn't see nothing, sorry mate."

"Are you feeling quite alright?" Pearse asked quietly as he took his seat beside Angie. Michael crossed his arms, and slunk into his seat. Angie was staring at Pearse seriously. "You look pale."

"I'm sorry." Pearse shifted uneasily, and rubbed his eyes. "Haven't eat all day…"

Angie continued in the tone more doctorial then concerned. "Did you take your medication?"

"That's probably why the room is still spinning, right?"

"Pearse…" Angie began, darkly but Vaughan interrupted. He reared up, interested and favoring the Priest with a dark, searching look. Pearse reacted and couldn't seem to decide who was the better of two evils. "Why?"

"Wasn't home."

"Where were you?"

"Hey," Michael shouted. "Who fed Mess?"

"At Olivia's."

This time Vaughan's face registered surprise, and Angie glared at Pearse. "Olivia?"

"A very lady I met last night." Pearse whispered as he poured himself a coffee from the thermos in the center of the table.

"Where'd you met, Confession?"

"A café, the little one attached to McCoy's bookstore." Harman sipped the coffee slowly, eyes sliding shut as he savored the bitterness. He looked somewhere between complete exhaustion and this sort of almost childish happiness that Vaughan could not remember ever seeing before on Pearse's face. He shifted more, eyes darting towards Angie for direction. There was a quiet nod. "A café?"

"A woman?" Michael chirped happily. "Wow, I didn't think you fancied girls."

"Jealous?"

Michael's eyes narrowed at Pearse. "That's twice you insult me, little man."

"You make it too easy."

"Why were you at a bookstore?"

"To buy a book."

"A book?"

"About my cancer."

There was a dullness that seeped into the room that killed whatever small joy the teasing had birthed in the room a moment before. Angie was the only one not looking at Pearse or one another. For his part, Pearse just shrugged and continued, pulling his hands over his eyes. Vaughan continued to stare at him. Pearse hadn't so much as flinched when speaking of the cancer. It was the first time. He had spoken those words as easily as he would have brought attention to a new suit or hairstyle. Something had changed.

"She bought me a cup of coffee." Pearse was telling Angie's glare. "Said I looked lonely and came to sit down beside me."

"Who fed Mess?"

"So you just spent the night with a strange woman that you met in a coffee bar?" Angie asked, coolly. She was staring at him in a calculating way Vaughan was certain he'd never seen on her face before. He felt a stab of indignation.

"Bookstore. I met her in a book. I slept on the couch."

"In her house."

"That's where a couch is normally kept. Yes."

Angie turned to stare darkly at her papers. Michael leaned back, smiling blossoming from all pores. He seemed to be content that for the first time, he was not the certain of attention when trouble was brewing. Pearse finally pulled his head from his hands. "Is there a concern you want to address?"

"Want a list?" Pearse ignored Angie's tight remark and found himself doing something he never would have done, even in extreme circumstances, and glanced at Michael for backup. Michael folded his arms, and stared at the table. Harman stiffened and leaned back. "What's this then?" He asked into the silence of the room. "Another coup?"

"It has nothing to do with your trust-worthiness, Harman." Vaughan lied.

"Harman." The Priest returned. "Not Pearse. Already you've made your choice."

"It wasn't my breach of protocol, sir." Vaughan said before he could stop himself. He flinched and shut his eyes. Damnit. He wanted to believe.

"We're not concerned with you, Pearse." Angie began softly.

Pearse was staring at Vaughan blankly. That was something he had always been good at, Vaughan thought idly, Pearse could stare at you and not see you. Only your sins. Only your shortcomings. Only your truth in the most basic and base parts. "Then what?"

"The woman. Did you stop and think about her? You two met and already you've spent a substantial amount of time with her. There are things to consider, security for one."

"I didn't divulge any precious…" Pearse began hotly. He inhaled again, shivering again and reclining in his seat took another sip of coffee. Vaughan saw his hand tremble as it gripped the cup.

"Not our security," Vaughan intoned softly. "Hers."

Pearse looked startled.

"You aren't your own, none of us are, Pearse, remember?" Angie continued. "Just being who you are is enough to put her endanger with the Code V's."

Pearse was staring at the table. He looked tired again, and his shoulders sagged a little. "She's just a woman." He began weakly.

"Who may now be put in danger because of your connections to us." Vaughan supplied, and Michael finished. "What connections?" Michael asked coolly. "You are us, Pearse."

The blood had drained form his features as Pearse listened to them. Vaughan took another drink of coffee. Angie was watching her papers. Surprisingly only Michael continued to watch Harman. When the Priest finally looked up. "Right. She probably won't put you in danger, she's just some old woman who thought you looked lonely, but… but what about the reverse? Is that something you're willing to risk?"

There was a knock on the door. They all looked up, eager to be rid of the heaviness in the room. A young face Vaughan only vaguely remembered ever seeing out of battle fatigues peered in, eyes dancing weakly over each one's face before resting on Pearse's. "Delivery for you sir, in your office."

Harman sat quietly for a long moment before pushing up from the table. "Rice, and March…do what you have to do." He said simply before disappearing after the youth.

---------

Pearse Harman stood with his hands in his pockets staring at his desk and the obscenely excessive and large display of bright butter yellow daisies, deep blue forget-me-nots, and pale white baby breaths. It ate his desk and if possibly, seemed to be devouring his chair and was moving towards the floor. It was huge, and wide and above all, happy. He had never really realized that objects could be happy before he seen this flower display. But it was. It was large, and obstructive and more then content to be all of the above.

Pearse smiled as he walked closer to the desk. Hidden between daisy petals and under the aroma of the forget me nots, was a small card belonging to a small Italian restaurant he had always meant to try. Written on the back in small, lovely Catholic school-girl script was inscribed the message;

Forgive me father for I have sinned. I stole your wallet this morning in a sordid and lascivious attempt to see you again. If you want to see it again, come to the restaurant for lunch at quarter past two. Sincerely, Olivia Farrell.

Right above the word Sincerely, the word "Yours" had been crossed out. Pearse stared at the card. He smiled again.

Pearse checked his watch. If he went home to shower, changed and feed Mess, he'd still make it early to the restaurant. He glanced backwards without moving, towards the door. They'd noticed he was gone before he even made it to the restaurant. They were right, of course. Still, it had been so long since he had felt…

Like Pearse. Not Father Harman. There was a difference, and it had been one that he hadn't really known of till last night. But there was one. Because, after all, it was Pearse dying, not Father Harman.

He'd cut it off today; he told himself, after he got the wallet, and lunch. He could do that easily.

Pocketing the card, Pearse turned and walked out of his office. He left the door wide open.

And the flowers sat, unaffected by the changes at all.