May 25, 2012

Knock! Knock! Derek Morgan paused the football game he'd been watching on television, glad he spent the extra money for the fancier system with such capabilities, and went to answer the door. This late at night, it could only be his fiancée, Penelope Garcia. But no, baby Girl wouldn't want to get her infant son, Rich, out at this late hour.

Derek opened the door anyway, with Clooney at his heels.

Definitely not Baby Girl.

A willowy blonde who's obviously seen better days stood on the other side of the doorway. A young teenager stood at her side. The woman would have been stunningly gorgeous, but the Derek couldn't help but notice the look of steely hatred in her blue eyes. It unnerved him a little.

Oddly enough, the woman seemed familiar, and the girl, the girl looked kinda like him.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

The words were barely out of his mouth before the woman shoved a manila envelope into his chest with one hand, pushing the girl towards him with the other.

"It's your turn now." The woman said harshly. "The proof is in the envelope. If you have questions, call my lawyer. I can't get her to say anything."

With that the woman turned and hurried away - almost ran. Without the girl.

Derek stood there, unsure of what to do, of what to even make of the short, terse speech. But there was still a girl standing outside of his house, waiting to be invited inside, and he still stood there holding the door wide open.

Unable to think of anything else to do, he beckoned the teen, he guessed she was around thirteen, into his house and shut the door behind her. As she looked curiously around his living room, Clooney came out from behind Derek to sniff at the girl's hand.

She smiled and fell to her knees; crooning to the dog in a language Derek had no hope of understanding, not when his brain had turned itself to mush.

Derek flopped onto his couch and opened the manila envelope, tipping it upside down. He looked at the documents that fluttered out with a mixture of horror and disbelief. They stated the girl's name as being Sailor Ann Amsel, thirteen years old, born in Moscow, Russia and having moved to a D.C. boarding school three months earlier. They also testified to the fact the Derek had been named her guardian – and her father.

"Kak yego zovut?" Sailor asked, nodding to Clooney.

She didn't speak English, Derek realized. A wave of uncharacteristic panic hit him. He definitely didn't speak Russian. Then suddenly he had a "light bulb" moment. He flew to his laptop and got to an instant translation program up on the internet.

"Sailor." He said hesitantly.

"Da?"

Had she tried calling him "Da"? He entered the monosyllable into the program. Oh, it meant "yes". Okay, this might be time-consuming.

He entered in what he wanted to say and it translated. Then he hit the "listen" button and what he wanted to say came out in Russian. Let's see if we can get this to work for us.

She came over, her eyebrows creasing in an unspoken question.

An online translator, he explained.

Her face lit up with recognition. She motioned to the keyboard, asking for permission to try it. He nodded and she typed in the question she'd asked earlier. What's his name? She pointed to the dog.

A stupid question under the circumstances, but maybe she needed something to get her mind off the fact that her mother had just abandoned her with him.

"Clooney."

The terrier raised his head upon hearing his name. Sailor repeated, "Clooney." Derek nodded.

"Hi, Clooney." She smiled at the dog.

"You do speak English?" Derek asked.

"A little. Not very good."

I don't speak any Russian.

That's okay. This can work. Who is in your photos?

He looked around the room. There were a lot of photos. Which? She pointed to one of his mom and sisters. He typed in the answer.

And so went the rest of their night and their weekend. They stayed together by the computer, "talking" about anything and everything that came to mind. She learned about him and he learned about her; her school, she made a passing mention of her friends (friend according to her), her interests and hobbies, what she liked and disliked.

On Sunday night, she asked him, "When can I meet Penelope?"

He stared at the question on the computer screen as it dawned on him that he had no place to take her tomorrow while he was at work. He took a deep breath and typed his answer. You'll have to come with me to work tomorrow. You'll meet them all then.


I am SO sorry this took me so long! R&R! Thanks! :)