Disclaimer: I do not own the Hobbit or associated characters and works.


Chapter 2: Don't Ask Questions

"Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."

Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

Scott Parker had lived through a lot of shit. That was to be expected, after working for the Federal Bureau of Investigations for over thirty years. This week though... God, this week had been, without a doubt, the worst week of his life. In the span of days, two of his best agents, his friends, had been blown up, their funerals had been conducted, and he'd been not so subtlety prompted to retire. Scott was nearly sixty, but he was still in prime shape. Physically, at least. Psychologically... thinking back to the funeral of Chang and LaRoche only yesterday, he wondered if retirement really was the way to go.

This job took its toll, his division more than most. It was the reason that so many agents cycled through the Counter Terrorism Unit so quickly. So many came in with noble ideas of right and wrong and justice, only to find that they couldn't hack it, because they'd lacked the ability to see in grey. Gemma and Patrick were exceptions.

And now his longest serving, highest ranking agents were dead. More importantly, two of his best friends were dead. Scott had never been much of a family man, he was too married to the job, but he'd privately come to consider those two something like his children (and didn't that make him feel old). But you were never supposed to outlive your kids.

There'd been talks, before, about who would replace him when Scott finally retired. The majority thought it would be Patrick Chang, company man (though those who knew Patrick well would never have considered him such. A big softie, Patrick was, with an impulsive streak a mile high). Truly, the real majority thought Scott would never retire; as if he'd been born a fifty-something FBI agent and would die the same way. That, of course, was ridiculous. Scott planned to become a sixty-something FBI agent at least.

But really, when he retired, Scott Parker always knew who he would suggest as a replacement Unit Chief. Gemma LaRoche was no one's idea of a conventional agent; if Chang's impulsiveness was a mile high, Gemma's downright rebellious streak could reach the sun. She was a foul-mouthed, intuitive, trauma-hardened cop at heart, and sometimes Scott didn't believe she had a serious bone in her body. And then sometimes, he knew she did. It was fascinating to watch, really; the way she could switch it off and become the professional, world-class agent he knew she was. More than that, Scott would have suggested her promotion on experience alone; not only was Gemma willing to shed blood, sweat, and tears for the greater good, she actually had done so, several times over. And ultimately, she'd died for the agency. Well, maybe not for the FBI, Gemma was never in it out of some misguided loyalty to the Bureau. She suffered for the people, always for the innocent people. If she had lived, he would have offered her the Unit Chief job, but he'd never know if she would have taken it.

It was nighttime in Washington DC, and outside Scott Parker's window, only the moon was visible through the city smog. Scott was nursing a scotch, sitting in his old leather armchair, and reminiscing. Mourning. Both funeral's had taken place yesterday, and Scott had booked today off as well, needing the extra time to come to terms. He couldn't shake the juxtaposition of the two funerals. Patrick's had happened in the morning, and had been a crowded affair, as his entire extended family had migrated to DC in his honour. Gemma's, in sharp contrast, had occurred in the evening, the sun just beginning to set. It was painfully small, only attended by fellow agents and an elderly neighbour. He'd given the eulogy himself, though now he could only consider its utter inadequacy in conveying who Gemma was.

Finishing his scotch in a final, burning gulp, Scott contemplated the glass in his hand. For the briefest of seconds, he considered hurling it across the room at the opposite wall. It would shatter in crystalline shards, and he imagined he would feel some grim satisfaction. But then he would have to clean it up, and he'd probably cut himself on the glass, and he wasn't quite at the stage of grief where the pain would be welcome. Also, Scott Parker was a self-proclaimed neat freak, and it would probably damage his wall or wreck his carpet.

So he just rolled the tumbler absentmindedly between his palms and continued to wallow. He knew he ought to do something. Heaven knew he had mountains of reports to fill out, after their speedy take down of the main sect of the aforementioned terrorist troupe only two days earlier. They were amateur anarchists really, with no significant ties to any major organisation, thank God. It had only been their extreme paranoia that had kept them one step ahead of the authorities for as long as they had been. Of course, the utter insignificance of this group made the sting of his agents' loss even harsher. Chang and LaRoche had worked riskier, higher profile cases before and made it out alive, unscathed. Even when disaster struck, those two were fighters. Patrick had once been held at gun point in a shopping mall during a minor hostage crisis. And of course, there had been that scare with that neo-KGB sect when Gemma had been kidnapped and tortured; even two years later, it was difficult for Parker to think about. He'd become especially close to the female agent after that, and would admit that it was partly out of a misguided protective streak, despite the knowledge that Gemma was still a more than capable agent. Nonetheless, he'd felt a little more sure of her safety after having taught her the ins and outs of sharp shooting. Another misguided effort, really; realistically, sniper skills wouldn't come in handy in this field, and ultimately they hadn't provided any protection at all. Still, it had made him feel like he was looking out for her.

Parker returned his attention to the cool feeling of the glass rolling between his hands, and tried to think about nothing at all. He was unsuccessfully, the memory of the noise of their deaths returning to replay on a loop in his brain. The shouts over the comms, the brief roar, and then the silence as the ear pieces, and their respective agents, on the other end were disintegrated.

It was morbid and torturous to remember, but at least mourning was better than the alternative. Denial. There had been inconsistencies in their deaths, fairly major ones in fact. Where was the SUV? Where were the bodies? The events were quite unclear, but in the end, all the forensics agents had agreed that nearly all realistic scenarios ended in his agents' deaths, no matter what events had actually occurred. He could hold onto the hope that maybe, just once, the unrealistic had become reality, could obsess over the chance that somehow they had beat the odds, but Scott Parker was, quite frankly, too old for that shit. He knew by now that miracles didn't happen; the universe didn't work that way.

And yet, one should never presume to understand how the universe works, for it is in those moments that the universe will lob you a curve ball. For Scott Parker, it came as a blinding silver light in the middle of his living room, which dissolved to reveal one Gemma LaRoche, formerly deceased, now very much alive, holding the bleeding body of a man who appeared to have come straight out of one of those medieval fairs. Parker's glass slipped from his hand and shattered as it hit the floor.

Gemma looked around at the sound, and he saw her straighten in an automatic way that was reserved for the few figures of authority she respected enough to pay difference to. "Parker," she greeted him as if saying good morning at the office. "Did we come out in your living room? Well, that's rather convenient. I don't think I can carry him all the way to the hospital on my own. Could you grab his feet?"

Scott was vaguely aware that his mouth was opening and closing like a gold fish. "LaRoche? But... you're..." It wasn't often that he was speechless.

"Dead?" she finished, quirking an expressive eyebrow at him with slight annoyance. "Well, clearly I'm not. I'm right here. You can go ahead and pinch yourself if you think you're dreaming, though, I'd like to question the idea of my being in your dreams. Really, sir, I know I'm rather amazing, but you're my boss and twenty years my senior. It just wouldn't be appropriate. Now, could you please grab his feet? I don't want my fiancé to bleed out on your ghastly shag carpet."

"But... Gemma. What... how... what on earth is going on?!"

Gemma made an angry noise in the back of her throat, and glanced down at the man in her arms. "Sir... and I mean this in the most respectful way, but really, this man has just been run though by a foot long jagged... arm... sword... thing... after battling a dragon and an entire army of orcs, and he's got maybe twenty minutes to live. For fucks sake, don't ask questions, just grab his goddamn feet!"

Scott did as he was told.

They rushed out of the apartment, only stopping so he could snag his keys off the kitchen table, and loaded themselves into the elevator. Jazzy muzak played as they rode down to the parking garage in silence, and Parker was acutely aware of just how surreal this evening had suddenly become. He took this moment to subtly pinch himself, just in case, and found it to be quite real.

They piled the man into the back seat of the Bureau standard SUV that Parker had on loan, Gemma still pressing on his wound, and Parker vaulted into the driver's side. The George Washington University Hospital was ten minutes away. Scott turned on the sirens and they made it in five.


Two hours later, the pungent odour of shitty coffee from the hospital cafeteria violated Gemma's nostrils. She looked up from her seat in the waiting area to find Parker holding out a cup of the black sludge and wearing a trademarked frown. Gemma accepted the coffee, taking a huge gulp and cringing at the taste. She took a second gulp anyway. Parker was still standing above her, arms crossed and looking intimidating as all hell. There were very few people who could properly intimidate Gemma. Parker was one. Perhaps it was because she respected him so much, or perhaps it was why she respected him so much.

"Look, sir, I don't know what to say. I wasn't prepared for any of this and..."

Parker cut her off by pulling her to her feet and wrapping her in his arms. Gemma nearly burst into tears. Again. Parker was the embodiment of stoic and professional. This intimacy was so out of character for him that it meant so much more than a simple hug. She had thought that there was nothing and no one left for her in this world, but she was wrong. Scott Parker was here for her, and that meant a lot.

"You're not going to believe me when I tell you what happened," she said into his shoulder.

Scott released her and straightened his suit. "LaRoche, you just came back to life in my living room." And that was that.

Gemma dragged her boss into an empty waiting room and sat him down. She paced back and forth as she told him the story. Scott said nothing, and maintained his world class poker face as he contemplated the tale for several minutes after. Gemma rubbed at the fresh stitches in her arm nervously as she waited for a reply. The doctors had carted her off to be fixed up an hour ago, and had decided to keep her for the next few days, worried about her mental state. Gemma had protested, but relented when the doctors had allowed her to sit with her boss rather than confining her to her room. Gemma had taken up her post in the ICU waiting room immediately.

"We'll have to forge his documents." Parker's reply snapped Gemma to attention.

"What?"

"Your Mr. Oakenshield. If he survives, he'll become someone who's never existed before. Even if he dies, we'll need documentation."

Gemma didn't know how to feel about his response. Angry or worried that he'd said "if" Thorin survived? Embarassed that he'd called Thorin hers? She decided perplexed was the best. Perplexed at his perfectly reasonable and logical response to a completely unreasonable and illogical response.

"I think it would be best to go with the amnesia approach, actually. That way he'll be considered a John Doe and eventually be granted legitimate documents. And I know a guy who can speed up the process. You're lucky, I know a lot of people and I've accumulated quite a few owed favours over the years."

"Sir... you're... well quite frankly , the fact that you're taking this so easily is freaking me out. I just told you I travelled to another world where I freed a kingdom from a dragon, fought in a battle, and fell in love with a dwarf king, and your first thought is about paperwork?!"

Gemma watched Parker's eyes flick briefly upwards. If he had been as dramatic as Gemma was, he probably would have gone for the full eye roll, but Parker was the opposite of dramatic. Instead, he adjusted his features into a look of mild reproach and said, "Yes, but we've established that I believe you, because appearing out of thin air in my living room is proof enough for me. So if we can move past that, we might actually get something accomplished."

Gemma stared at him for a minute more, and then replied curtly "Yes sir."

They spent the next hour drumming out possible cover stories. Ultimately it was decided that Thorin's appearance and Gemma's return from the dead should not be linked. Thorin would be passed off as a John Doe, whose case would be handled personally by Parker, allowing him to cover up any inconsistencies as he saw fit and validate Thorin's identity. Gemma's cover story would have to be more elaborate. The FBI had paid for her funeral, and would be expecting a pretty fantastic reason for their wasted money. After tossing around a few ideas, it was decided that they would play to Gemma's past and her current mental condition. She'd already lied to the doctors, so they'd work off of that. Following the explosion at the warehouse, they would say, Gemma had been attacked by two of the terrorists, but had escaped. Suffering a mental break and a bought of paranoia, though somewhat founded, she had come to believe that the terrorists were still after her, and had gone into hiding, with the help of Parker. She was only returning now that the cell had been captured. It seemed preposterous to Gemma, but Parker had been very convincing when he'd described the story to her, and they really had no other scenarios. He'd promised that he'd pull some strings and convince the higher-ups that, if anything, she deserved compensation for the trauma and their mismanagement of her original situation.

This raised three major concerns with Gemma. "So, I'm not going to be able to see Thorin, then?"

Parker shook his head. "Not for a little while. Perhaps we can sneak you in at night, but it would do no good for the rumour of your connection to spread. We're trying to sweep Thorin's case under the rug, and connecting it to your case would do only the opposite. In fact, you really shouldn't be here right now."

It made sense, but Gemma wasn't happy about it. The worry she felt for Thorin still buzzed through her every nerve. He wasn't even out of surgery yet, and though they'd been informed that his chances looked hopeful, she wouldn't cease worrying until he was awake and in her arms. Unfortunately, with their plan, that might take a while.

"And you're sure that you can pull this off? Lying to the Bureau? Blatantly disregarding protocol and manipulating federal law?" Parker frowned at her, and she backtracked. "Not that I doubt your abilities, but I know those types of things are important to you and… you don't need to risk everything for me, Scott."

Parker's rough hands dwarfed her own as he grasped them tightly. "Of course I do. We're a team, LaRoche. That means more to me than the Bureau. I thought you were dead, but you're not. You're here, and I'm here for you." Gemma held back the little sob that formed in her throat. "And besides, I'm nearly ready to retire; I can afford a little corruption."

Gemma laughed, "Agent Parker, retiring? Oh, perish the thought."

They sat in silence for a minute, mulling over all the implications of their hatched plan. Finally, Gemma brought up her final point of concern. "So this means I'm going to have to do a lot of therapy, eh?"

Parker nodded solemnly, but she could see a slight twinkle in his normally hard eyes. "A shit load," he confirmed.

Gemma sank back into the uncomfortable waiting room chair and let out a dramatic huff. "Shit."


AN:

Mostly exposition, but this chapter was pretty fun to write. And a lot of work, because I'm establishing the first of many new secondary OCs. Almost all of the characters in this story are OCs, and I didn't realize what a huge endeavour that would be. Scott Parker, in my mind, is the personality of Gibbs from NCIS in the body of Denzel Washington. Like, an older version of his character from The Siege. I'd love to hear what you guys think of him so far.

Thank you so so much for sticking with me. Your reviews were lovely, and have put me in the mood to write even more. So, go ahead and leave some more review if you'd like even more chapters!

Super important side note: I'm going to be changing my pen name soon, for personal reasons and to correspond to my Archive of Our Own account name. I'm not going to do so right away because I want to give you guys time to read this note, so you won't be confused when you get an update from a different name. My new name will be Jens _Pen. I also hope to get both Home is Behind and The World Ahead up on AO3 soon!