Time Frame: Just before the wedding ceremony in Do You Take This Spy?

Disclaimer: Warner Bros. and Shoot the Moon still own the characters, no matter how much I wish they were mine. The story is all mine.

Author's Notes: This was originally posted on 03/07/2003. This would not be the story it is without a little help from my friends, abitdotty, Shelly, Kris and Vikki. They took the somewhat lumpy clay I gave them, added a lot of water, and helped shape it into the final product you see here.

Jitters

He paced the floor, clutching the bouquet of flowers in a death grip. His hands were so slick, he was afraid the stems would squirt out of his grasp and fly across the room. Stopping at the end of the hallway, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath in a desperate attempt to calm his jumping nerves. When he opened his eyes, he found himself staring at a calendar.

With a smile, he reached out to touch the square for the current date. Who could have predicted four years ago that he'd be standing in a hallway at the Marion County Courthouse waiting to marry the woman of his dreams?

He chuckled, remembering his first meeting with the woman who, in a mere few minutes, would become his wife. It hadn't exactly been love at first sight. It hadn't even been like at first sight. On his part, it had been more like desperation—reluctant agreement to aid someone in obvious distress on hers. He had never been a big believer in fate, but it seemed like something . . . or someone . . . had been looking out for him that day, sending him straight to the one person who had the ability to save him. And she did a bang-up job at that, saving him from the immediate threat, and, eventually, from himself.

Turning slowly, he wiped one damp palm on his pants leg and transferred the bouquet to the slightly drier hand. He stared at the closed door where his bride-to-be was preparing—far too slowly for his tastes—for the ceremony. 'If we hadn't met that day, would fate have found another way to put us together?' At times, it certainly seemed like he had no choice in the matter. Right from the beginning, no matter how hard he'd tried to avoid her, she was always there—in his face, by his side, seemingly attached to him with glue, looking at him with admiration bordering on misguided hero worship. It had been annoying, frustrating, aggravating and, he had to admit, more than a little flattering.

His eyes crinkled at the memories that flooded into his mind. She might have looked up to him, but she never let his ego get the better of him. Whenever he got too full of himself, she had a way of bringing him down to earth without making him feel like a chastised child. Her experience as a mother must have taught her how to do that.

'A mother.' He shook his head. Nobody was more surprised than he that he'd gotten involved with someone with children. The reminder that he was about to become a father caused his mouth to go dry. Drawing an unsteady breath, he leaned against the wall. 'A father. Me!' It wasn't that he'd been unaware of impending fatherhood when he had proposed; it was that the concept was about to become a reality. In the past few years, he'd felt a certain protectiveness regarding her family, but now, he really was going to be responsible for them all.

Pushing himself away from the wall, he resumed pacing. His entire world was going to change in a few minutes, and it scared him more than anything he'd ever encountered. 'How can getting married and becoming an instant father be more nerve wracking than my job?' he wondered. As anxious as he was to take on the roles of husband and father, he felt a stab of pure terror that he'd be no good at it.

His eyes were once again drawn to the closed door. A scene from the previous weekend sprang immediately to mind. When he had expressed some reservations about his ability to be a father, she had gently cupped his face in her hands and forced him to look her in the eyes. With complete conviction, she had softly said, "You're gonna be a great dad." Now, as then, those words, and the image of her loving smile and warm, dark eyes, calmed him. He had nothing to fear. She'd help him navigate her world the same way he'd helped her navigate his. He said a silent prayer that he'd be at least half as good a student as she had been.

Suddenly, he felt a pressing need to see her, combined with a fear that the Justice of the Peace—who had made it clear how much he prized punctuality—would decide to leave if they didn't hurry. 'To hell with all the old wives' tales about bad luck,' he decided as he rapped on the door.

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She leaned over the sink to apply eyeliner and huffed in frustration when her hand refused to stop shaking. After taking a deep breath, she stared at herself in the mirror and asked, "Why are you so nervous? It's not like you haven't done this before."

'But I haven't,' she thought. 'Not really. That was another lifetime.' As she continued to put the finishing touches on her makeup, she reflected on her first wedding.

Her parents had gone overboard the way parents of an only daughter could go. She'd been completely unprepared for all the 'hoopla,' as her father called it, involved in planning a wedding of the scale her mother had envisioned. Within days of announcing the engagement, she'd been caught up in a maelstrom that had lasted until the last "Thank You" note had been written.

Their parents had insisted that everyone be invited to the church wedding—even distant relatives the bride and groom had never met. They hadn't wanted to chance slighting anyone. Her mother's calculation that at least a quarter of the invitees would not attend had proved false. It had been a bit of a shock when every response had been in the affirmative, but her parents had taken it in stride. "It's the event of the century! Everyone wants to see my little girl get hitched!" her father had jokingly proclaimed the evening he opened 'yes' number 250.

It had taken a week to choose a cake and close to a month to decide on flowers. At one point, she'd naively asked, "Can't I just have a simple bouquet of wildflowers?" and thought her mother's eyes had been in danger of popping right out of her head in horror.

Flower selection had been a breeze compared to finding the right dress. It had come as a surprise to learn that her mother, whose taste in clothing was as conservative as her own, had her heart set on seeing her daughter in yards and yards of silk and lace, a shoulder-length veil . . . and a six foot train! Fortunately, Mother had understood her need to choose her own dress. Less fortunately, weeks of searching had failed to locate what she had wanted. Then one day, after a fruitless morning scouring shops all over D.C., her mother had suggested lunch at an outdoor café in Georgetown. Over salads, a decision was made to take a leisurely walk before going to the rest of the shops on their list. A few blocks from the café, they'd found a small bridal shop and, miracle of miracles, the dress. There had been enough silk and lace to satisfy her mother and little enough so it wasn't too fussy for her. It had been incredibly expensive, but her mother was firm that she had to have the dress she wanted. And that was the dress she wanted. The minute she had laid eyes on it, she had known.

Everything had been extravagant, from the hand-stitched lace on her gown to the pearls threaded into her hair, and that's exactly the way her parents had wanted it. Over and over again, her father had said, "Nothing is too good for my little girl." In their defense, she hadn't objected to the extravagances. After all, she'd expected it to be her only wedding. And it had been a perfect day . . . or so she'd been told. All she really remembered was her husband smiling at her after the kiss at the end of the ceremony, and she suspected she only remembered that because it had been the first time she'd taken a normal breath the entire day.

She sighed, stood back from the mirror, and fluffed her hair. "Then why does this wedding—an elopement, with no flowers, no cake, no fancy dress and no family or friends here—feel more real?"

The thirty-something woman in the mirror replied, "Because that was a fairy tale." After a pause, she added, "And you have the right man this time."

Smiling sadly, she recalled that she'd thought her first husband was 'the right man.' He'd been her college sweetheart, and neither had dated anyone else from the moment they'd set eyes on each other. Marriage had seemed inevitable for them. They'd been in perfect synch about everything . . . for a while. Two years and two children after they'd taken their vows, their lives had diverged. Work had become his life, and family had become hers. It had taken several years to realize that their paths would never again connect. Divorce had been the only answer.

For months before and after the final paperwork had been signed, she blamed herself for everything that had gone wrong in the marriage. She hadn't been supportive enough of his work, or loved him enough, or done any of the million things that would have made everything right. Slowly, though, she had realized that there was no blame to be placed. They had simply become different people than when they'd met, and the two 'new' people didn't belong together. Once she'd understood that, she'd been able to shake off the self-recrimination.

Her mother had been supportive every step of the way. Although crushed about the divorce, Mother had respected the decision and never uttered a word of criticism. A mere three months after the divorce was final, however, suggestions—all geared toward nudging her daughter back into the dating pool—started. "Bait the hook and find another fish" wasn't exactly subtle, but subtly had never been Mother's strong suit. The unspoken implication was, "You shouldn't be alone, and your children need a father." At least there was one idea that was too sensible to ignore: "Take a class at the local community college. I'm sure you'll find something there to interest you."

Returning to school had been daunting, but interesting. She'd eased herself in by taking a refresher course in typing. Happily, she'd found that her skills, although rusty, were still quite good. Successful completion of other classes in administrative and clerical work had given her the confidence in herself that she'd needed to begin looking for her first ever paying job.

Her renewed confidence, coupled with determination that her failed marriage would not define the rest of her life, led her to begin dating again. Coffee with men she'd met at the college or drinks with divorced fathers from the P.T.A. were her first forays back into the dating scene. To her mother's great joy, she'd become 'excusive' with someone within a year of the divorce. Eventually, though, his desire to wed had caused the relationship to fizzle. As much as she'd grown since the divorce, her insecurities about marriage in general—and specifically about her ability to be a good wife—had floated to the surface. Not knowing how to handle the situation, she'd put him off with "I've only been divorced a year," as if that explained everything. His increased pressure coincided with her accidental meeting with her fiancé, which had led to a part-time job. She'd, somewhat guiltily, used the job as an excuse to see less and less of her boyfriend until they'd simply stopped seeing each other at all.

Now, here she was, ready to give marriage another try. Why? "Because the man waiting for me in the hallway really is the right man," she said. Seeing a bit of doubt creep into her eyes, she asked her reflection, "Isn't he?"

Having made one matrimonial mistake, how could she be sure she was right this time? She loved the man who was most likely wearing a path in the hallway carpet, but how could she know this marriage would last when the first one hadn't? As much as he would deny it, her fiancé was like her first husband in many ways. They shared a passion for their work, dedication to 'doing the right thing,' loyalty to friends, and they were both more sensitive and caring than most people knew. She was drawn to those things, but it was the differences between the two men that intrigued her most. Her first husband had been idealistic, but had fallen short in the romance department. Although an incredibly detail-oriented person regarding work, he had been surprisingly inattentive regarding other areas of his life. It had taken him days to notice that she'd painted their dining room! Her fiancé would rather walk barefoot over hot coals than admit he had a romantic side, yet he was probably the most romantic man she'd ever known. Grand gestures—like whisking her away for a romantic weekend precisely six months to the day from their first official date—delighted her, but small, everyday moments touched her even more. Finding her favorite flowers on her desk, having him finagle 'impossible to get' tickets to a play her mother desperately wanted to see, even taking her for a moonlit walk along The Mall—those were the kinds of things that spoke directly to her heart. He noticed everything about her, which was both flattering and unnerving. Even now, after more than three years together, he was the only man who could make her blush just by remarking on her outfit. His voice, especially when he spoke in a low tone or with his lips close to her ear so only she could hear him, could make her forget her own name. She'd never had that kind of reaction to any other man.

There was no doubt that she'd loved her first husband, and a small piece of her heart would always belong to him, but the love she felt for her fiancé was different. It was . . . deeper? More mature? Mature. She nodded. That was a big part of it. They'd met as adults, not wide-eyed innocents. Both had experienced and survived any number of romantic entanglements, and they didn't jump immediately into something hot and heavy.

With a smile, she noted that, when they'd first met, the only thing her fiancé might have described as 'hot and heavy' would have been her meatloaf. Their relationship had been rocky at the start, and there had been nothing remotely romantic about it. In the first few months of their association, he was as indifferent to her as he was to his stapler. Gradually, and quite grudgingly on his part, they had become friends instead of 'just' co-workers. Her smile grew as remembered the look of surprise on his face the day he'd first referred to her has a friend. It was as if it was as astonishing a concept as men walking on Mars.

As she applied her lipstick, she recalled how working side-by-side for close to two years strengthened their relationship to the point where she knew it was definitely something more than a friendship. Her stomach still did flip-flops when she thought about the night they had inched toward their first real kiss, only to be rudely interrupted a split-second before their lips could touch.

That night, she had almost told him she loved him. Just before the words slipped out, something told her that he wasn't ready to reciprocate her feelings, so she should wait. It had definitely been the right decision. He had needed time. She'd experienced much love in her life, but he hadn't. It had been difficult to keep her feelings to herself until he felt the same way, but she knew it was necessary. Eventually, he realized what was right in front of him, and they had no choice but admit they were completely in love with each other.

She dropped her lipstick into her makeup bag and tucked the bag into her carry case. In a very few minutes, they would be husband and wife. Married. Grinning at her reflection, she nodded and stated with conviction, "To the right man. The only man for me."

The knock on the door startled her, but her fiancé's voice had a calming effect. Smoothing her plain jacket, she took a deep breath and one last look in the mirror then turned the knob on the door.

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He knocked once more, impatient to see her, and even more impatient to make her his wife.

When she finally opened the door and stepped into the hallway, he thought his heart would jump right out of his chest. She was beautiful. And she was about to be his. Forever.

Silently, he offered her the small bouquet, holding his breath while waiting for her reaction. He smiled widely when she lifted her eyes to look into his, her eyes shining with emotion. As one, they moved toward each other, only to be interrupted by a discreet cough from the Justice of the Peace's assistant, Mrs. Bowman. They grinned at each other, knowing that this would be the last interruption before they officially became man and wife.

He slipped his arm around her waist to guide her into the Justice's inner office. As they began to follow Mrs. Bowman, another couple, obviously very much in love, exited the office. Even though their eyes were locked on each other, the man seemed to sense the presence of others and neatly maneuvered them to his right, narrowly avoiding a collision. The woman, also apparently realizing someone else was in the hallway, turned her head slightly to smile and say, "Hello," but the man's eyes never left his companion's face.

Before he could return the acknowledgement, the woman's entire focus returned to her escort, the love they felt for each other clear in the look they exchanged. The man pulled her close and whispered something in her ear, eliciting a throaty laugh. The two left the building chuckling over their secret joke.

Watching them, with his arm possessively around his bride-to-be, he realized it was like looking in a mirror. It had nothing to do with physical appearance and everything to do with emotion. The look of love, the ease in which they fit together, how natural they looked as a couple—it was everything he felt about himself and the woman at his side.

Looking at his fiancé, he smiled. The silent connection between them told him that she had recognized herself reflected in the woman who had just passed them in the hallway.

Mrs. Bowman again cleared her throat to get their attention, raising her eyebrows slightly as if asking if they were ready. He nodded, and she opened the office doors with a flourish while announcing, in a singsong voice, "Byron and Jennifer!"

The End