(AN: I know. I know. I should finish the other one, first. But I just get these SCENES that pop up into my head, and I have to write them down. This is an AU fic. For those of you who don't know, an Alternate Universe fic is when you take all the same people you know and love and put them somewhere else. So here we are on good old Earth 1, and this is a modern-day romance. Sort of.)

Chapter 1

Devon Adair stepped out of her old Ford Taurus on to the gravel in front of her apartment building. The car was a dingy red, and even when it was sparkling clean (which it usually was not), it looked sad and tired. Getting the car cleaned inside and out was a task for another day, when she had more time and energy. Just like getting a new car was going to have to wait for another day, when she had more money.

Even then, it would probably have to be another used car. But Devon wasn't picky. She just wanted a car that didn't break down every few months, and didn't need any "love-kicks" just to get started sometimes in the winter.

With a sigh she cast a wary glance at the darkened sky and rounded the hood of the car to open the passenger door. There was a storm coming. The silver-lining-Devon said that would take care of the cleaning of the outside of the car. The cynical-Devon said the storm would probably break a car window and ruin the interior of the car.

The warnings had been on the news for most of the morning and afternoon. The worst storm in 20 years, the pretty news anchor had said, trying hard to look serious, but still looking bright and cheerful. Devon shook her head. If she got paid for being bright and cheerful, she would probably be worse off than she was now.

She had spent much of the day fervently hoping the storm would hold off until she was safely at home. Each extra errand she had to run made her feel like she was really pushing it, but now she had only a few more steps (well, a few flights of stairs), and she'd be safe at home, ready to weather the storm. A good thing, too, because the sky, darkened with angry looking clouds, looked ready to burst any minute.

Reaching into the car, Devon pulled out a couple of paper bags filled to the very tops with groceries. Paper bags were more environmentally friendly than plastic bags. Devon remembered very clearly that her parents had never used paper bags, because they were inconvenient. Devon, dear, they said, we give more than enough money to charity to let others worry about the environment.

As Devon hefted the two heavy paper bags, she wished, and not for the first time, that her parents weren't right about paper bags being more inconvenient than plastic. Or, that she didn't have three flights of stairs to climb. One or the other. Really, she wasn't picky. But she didn't have a choice about the three flights. For now, anyway. And in her mind, she didn't have a choice about the paper bags, either. When the lady in the checkout line said, "Paper or plastic?" Devon always heard, "Paper or your parents?"

Paper it was. And you kind of get used to the three flights of stairs.

She had just finished locking the car door (a process that takes at least 20 seconds when your arms are full of groceries) when she felt the first fat drops of rain plop onto her head. She quickly crossed the small parking lot, because another drawback of paper bags is what happens when they get wet. The middle of a storm is no time to waste chasing your canned goods around.

Another 20 seconds spent, while she got the door open to the apartment building, and her sigh of relief was almost audible. She debated stopping to get Uly on the way up the stairs, but changed her mind.

Her son was at his afternoon babysitter. The Martins apartment was on the first floor, and she usually collected him on her way up to their apartment on the third floor, but today she could use the extra 5 minutes to set down the groceries and calm herself. Her nerves were just a little on the frazzled side, due to the hectic work week and the storm. A few minutes to herself would do her some good.

Her son, Ulysses, was the center of her world. A rambunctious child of 8, he was forever getting himself into the type of trouble only a small bundle of energy could think up. He was intelligent and curious and in some ways, quite fearless, as only young children are. The worrying is always left up to the parents. Parent, singular, in this case, since Devon was a single mother. She'd known she would be a single mother since almost the same moment she knew she would be a mother.

She thought of the curly-headed child waiting for her, and proudly thought they'd done quite well, regardless of what everyone had believed. Her mind moved ahead toward the rest of the evening. Before she picked Uly up from the Martins, she might put some water on the stove to boil. Some hot chocolate would be a welcome treat for the end of the day. They could spend some time planning what they would do during the rainy weekend.

Devon had only made it halfway up the narrow staircase, her mind occupied with potential "indoor" games, when a quite different bundle of energy barreled into her.

"Oh, for crying out loud," she thought, exasperated. "Now what?" She clutched frantically at the bags in her hand, trying to move out of the way of whatever was trying to get by, and not spill any of the items she had worked so hard to bring in safely. She had a vague idea she knew what—or who—was in her way, but the sobbing sounds coming from the other side of the paper bags didn't sound like True Danziger, the young daughter of the apartment manager.

One part of Devon wanted to set down the bags, see who it was, and figure out what was wrong. The motherly part of her, she supposed. But the other part desperately wanted to close her eyes, and push through to her apartment.

She did close her eyes. And said to herself, "Devon Adair, you are a bad, bad person with bad, bad thoughts." And then with a firm voice, she ordered the loud, gulping sobbing sounds to move backwards to the landing. It did much to confirm who it was, when the person actually responded to the authority in Devon's voice.

A small sigh escaped from Devon as she set her bags down on the stairs. To her credit, she didn't even glance longingly up the last flight of stairs to the door of her apartment.

With hands on her hips, she turned to face a disheveled True. "Disheveled" could have been True's middle name. She was a lively child of 12. The only child of a single father, she was more prone to running races with the neighborhood kids in patched up jeans (a size too small) or tinkering with some greasy metal parts, than playing the piano or having a tea party or whatever other 12-year-old girls did.

Devon approved, usually, memories of her own piano playing days lingering in the back of her mind. She liked to see True enjoying herself, and being herself.

But today, through the tear-streaks and puffy eyes, True's face reflected none of the joy of her usual hoydenish ways. Today all Devon saw was fear and despair.

Her heart softened automatically. The girl was scared half to death. In a carefully-pitched calm voice, Devon asked, "True, are you okay?"

"I—I—I—" True gulped between tears. "I can't find my dad." She was bravely trying to choke back the tears now, sniffling mightily. "I need to find my dad."

Devon placed a comforting hand on the girl's shoulder. "Oh, True, I'm sure you're dad is fine. The storm just started to break. He'll be home soon. He knows how to take care of himself." The words were meant only to soothe, but Devon knew them to be true. If there was one thing John Danziger knew how to do, it was how to take care of himself. If there was another thing John Danziger knew how to do, it was how to create an all-terrain/all-weather land vehicle out of a straw, a toothpick, and the trash in his pocket.

Either way, he was in no real danger.

But Devon was surprised when True's tears stopped just long enough for her to throw Devon a disdainful look. It would have been a look with real power behind it, if it wasn't for the runny nose beginning to drip down her face. "Of course my dad can take care of himself."

Devon raised a single eyebrow at the scorn in the comment, but chose to refrain from replying to it. Trying a different tack, she asked, "Is there something wrong, True? Can I help you in some way?"

The stammering started again. "I—I—I just need to find my dad." Tears welled again in her big brown eyes, and in a small voice, she added, "I think I have to go to the hospital. I just—I need—I want my daddy." She tried to suppress the sobs, but the hitches in her breathing gave her away.

The motherly instinct in Devon took charge. "Where are you hurt?" she demanded. She knelt closer to True's height and started checking her arms and her legs. She couldn't see any visible damage, and she was obviously walking, so it shouldn't be anything too bad. But if she was sick, she shouldn't be up and about. Devon put a hand on her forehead, checking for a temperature. "Where are you hurt?" she asked again. There was no discernible fever, but Devon was never really good at the hand-checking-method. She always did it, but never noticed it to be useful. Uncharitably, a voice in the back of her head started to say, "What kind of father leaves a sick child…?" But she didn't let the voice finish.

Without waiting for an answer from True, she grabbed True by the hand, and started pulling her upstairs, groceries forgotten on the steps. "You should go back inside the apartment, True. I'll find your dad for you. He shouldn't be far. I want you to go inside and lay down on the couch real still, and I'll come back and check on you every few minutes."

True started struggling in her grasp. "No! I don't need to lay down! I need to find my dad. He'll know what to do." The tears were still falling thickly, but they seemed to be the only thing wrong with her.

In front of True's door Devon stopped again to look at her. In a gentle voice, she said, "True, I'm the only one here right now. You need to tell me where you're hurt, so I know what to do. I'll go find your dad, I promise. But if you're hurt, you can't be moving around." Still silence from True.

It was then that Devon saw it. She didn't know what instinct alerted her, but she supposed it was a feminine one, as old as time. It was the way True was standing. The way she was holding her body as if standing were uncomfortable, but not painful. It was the confusion in her eyes, and the way she didn't answer the question. And it was the slightly dark spot on her pants she'd originally taken as mud or dirt.

An even gentler voice this time, as Devon knelt down on her knees. "True. I need you to answer me, okay? If it embarrasses you, just nod your head." A sniffle for a response was enough for Devon. "True, are you in any pain? Anything at all? Even a little bit?"

A pause, while True thought about it. And then a nod and a sniffle.

Devon pointed at True's stomach. "Is it there? Is there a little bit of pain in there?"

True nodded. Tears were still falling, but the hitches in her breath had evened out. "Just a little bit. Maybe I ate something bad for Lunch. But that's not what's wrong."

Devon pointed lower. "Is it here, True?"

True's eyes got a flash of panic in them again. Before True could respond by crying only harder, Devon hurriedly added, "It's okay, True. I think I know what's wrong, and it's okay. But I need you to be absolutely honest with me. Are you hurting right there?"

True shook her head.

"True, are you bleeding right there?"

Silence. And then the barest of nods.

Devon sighed, and looked longingly toward her door across the hall. She couldn't possibly leave the girl here to search for her dad. She hated when other people stepped in to parent her own child, but this obviously should have a woman's touch. And the girl was distressed enough, without having to deal with the awkward discussion with a man. What did they know about it, anyway?

She made her decision quickly and turned back to True. "True, I want you to stop crying now. I know what it is that's wrong, and you're not in any danger, okay? But since your dad's not here right now, we do need to talk about it. There are some things I really need to tell you. So I'm going to go back down those steps and pick up those groceries, and I want you to wipe your nose, and go wait by my door." She waited for True's confirmation.

After a pause, and an indecisive sniffle, there was a very small, "Okay." A grubby sweater sleeve moved up to wipe at her nose, smearing her face even worse and making Devon wince. Her fault, for telling the girl to wipe her nose.

She quickly went down the steps and picked up the two paper bags, and mentally ran over the things every woman should know. How in the world was she going to do this? She'd never considered a conversation about matters like these, seeing as how it was unlikely her son would ever need to know.

She thought back to her own childhood, but could glean no helpful experiences there. Her own mother had refused to discuss those aspects with her, leaving it up to her tutors to explain all the biological parts. And, though her mother would die to know it, the servants in the great big house had been the most help with practical advice.

It was those small kindnesses that really stuck in Devon's mind. The most awkward conversation can be handled with kindness and understanding. But someone needs to take the time to do it.

True was standing in front of the door, as instructed. Tears were no longer pooling in her eyes, but her face held a look of doubt, and so Devon smiled for reassurance as she fidgeted for 20 seconds getting the door unlocked.

"Come on in, True." She closed the door with her foot as the young girl walked through the doorway. "Let me just set these bags down." She crossed the small apartment to the kitchen, and let down the paper bags with a small sigh. Nothing in those bags that couldn't wait 15 minutes to be put away.

True stood by the doorway, until Devon walked over and motioned her towards the bathroom. "First things first," she said, with a cheeriness that she hoped the girl didn't take for the tiredness it was.

Devon didn't have to wonder what her own mother would have done. Good thing for True that Devon Adair was nothing like her mother.

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(AN: I know the whole Devon-True thing has played out in other fics before, I think. But this chapter has been sitting around forever, because I haven't actually written the rest of it, so I just thought I'd post it, and see if you all can't manage to inspire me to write more. I've got another AU Devon-John fic that may show up soon…set in the wonderful world of High School Seniors…DON'T STEAL MY IDEA!)