He woke to the smell of cleaning products and cooking. He was lying on the sitting room couch, which was odd, since it had been too laden with truck to sit on for months. His eyes wandered about the room. From where he lay, everything in sight was picked up, put away, clean and fresh. The carpet was bright and unstained.

He heard her low voice from the door. "Thank you, Sean. It would have taken me twice as long to put the groceries in the cupboards by myself. I'd have had to get up and down on a chair."

"My pleasure, Anne, truly." He recognized the voice of Sean, his grocer's twenty-year-old delivery boy. "I'm very glad to meet you. And glad someone's here to look after him at last."

"It took a while to find him. He just dropped out of sight, didn't tell a soul."

"That's no way for a man to treat his family." A pause. "No way to treat himself, either, if I may be so bold."

"It was all over a girl. He lost her. It was so tragic. Not his fault, but he blames himself."

"Ah," the lad said, caught up in the story. "Well. That puts a different spin on things, I guess. Folks around here just had him figured for a tosser."

She giggled and traded a few more words before she sent him off. As she shut the door, she said, "You've been awake awhile."

He felt too good to move. "Long enough to hear that tear-jerker you told him."

She leaned over and smoothed his hair. "Every word true. Just not entirely the truth. Hungry? I'm not up on local cuisine, but my beef stew has gotten good reviews at home."

He hadn't eaten anything resembling a scratch-cooked meal since he'd come here. His stomach growled at the thought, then turned over for another reason. He swallowed. "I suppose ye've poured the last of it out."

She studied him with heavy-lidded eyes. "No. And I didn't cancel your order, Alistair. I just added decent food to it."

He thought furiously. Sean must have already been on his way when the two of them were at the cliff. "When?"

"Before we took our walk, while you were in the bathroom. The number's on the fridge."

"So it is. Taking a bit of a chance, aren't you? Letting folk see you here?"

She shook her head. "IO has no records of anything that went into that warehouse. If it ever kept them, they were purged years ago. Our year together is just a vague and misleading entry in your file."

"Wha- how?"

"Miles Craven. The warehouse and everything in it was his personal project, separate from IO's. You remember Research Directorate's compartmentalization, and their paranoid secrecy. Made it easy to transfer personnel in and out of it without anyone the wiser."

"Back to the original subject. Whiskey?"

"Coming right up." She raised a forefinger. "After a pint of stew and two slices of fresh-baked bread."

Half an hour later, she regarded him critically as he pushed his refilled bowl to the center of the kitchen table, still half full. "You're done already?"

"Little girl, that was the biggest meal I've had in months, as well as the best. If you want me to keep it down, you'll not force another bite down me." He leaned back to ease the unfamiliar tightness in his shrunken belly. "Thank you, Buttercup."

She dimpled. "Never thought I'd hear you call me that again."

"Does it earn me a bottle of Scotch?"

"Hmp." She turned and stood on tiptoe to retrieve a bottle from his cupboard. But she didn't give it to him. Instead, she produced a shotglass he didn't know he had and filled it, then set the tiny vessel before him.

His eyes went from the impossibly small portion to her face. "What's this about, then?"

She sat opposite. "It's about giving your poor liver a rest. The shape it's in, it doesn't metabolize alcohol properly any more, so you can get a perfectly serviceable buzz on a fraction of what you're used to drinking." As he reached for it, she laid a finger on the rim. "Sip it like a gentleman. It's Glenlivet, after all."

He drew it towards him, lifted it to his lips, and swallowed half of it; it was the best he could do. "Going to wean me off, that it?"

She shook her head. "I won't be here long enough to dry you out. I just want to keep you alive until I leave." She dimpled again. "It would be nice if you were able to carry on a conversation, too."

He set the glass down on the table. "Don't suppose you think much of me, seeing me like this."

"Addiction's not a moral flaw, Alistair. It's crossed wires in your survival instinct. An addict thinks he'll die without the very thing that's killing him. He feels the exact same urgency chasing his fix that a man twenty feet underwater feels as he seeks the surface."

"Too right." He reached for the glass, to find her finger on it again.

"But people conquer that instinct all the time, with training, if they want to bad enough. Firemen run into burning buildings, and skydivers jump out of airplanes. If you want to bad enough, someday you'll conquer your fear of living sober."

"Hmph. And why should I deny all my other fears the pleasure of its company?"

She smiled at that and lifted her finger, but he didn't raise the glass. Instead, he asked, "So, how long are you staying, then?"

"A night at least. Maybe two."

"This cottage has one bedroom, and one bed. You spend the night here, it'll set tongues wagging. Don't think for a minute Sean will keep it to himself you're here. Who does he think ye are?"

She laid a finger on her cheek. "Well, I don't know how he came up with it, but he seems to think I'm a half-sister our father sired out of wedlock and you haven't seen in years."

He scoffed. "He'd a been fifty when he put you in her."

"Stranger things have happened. Was your mother still living?"

"No. Yes, I mean, but not around."

"Mom really should have let Dad make an honest woman of her, but she's so independent. I don't think you ever met."

He shook his head, smiling. "Good story, but it's not enough. I'll have neighbors hanging on my bell all day until you leave, and for days after, just for a look at you." People who haven't so much as waved at me in the street for months. "I'll have to show you off in public. Put paid to the worst of the gossip to buy us some time alone."

"All right. Where?"

"The only public place I go is pubs. There's a little spot up the road called 'the Southender' where the locals gather. No doubt you passed it on the way here."

"It looked quaint. But won't it seem odd that I don't take anything but water?"

"I'll just say you're from California. Nothing's too outlandish for those folk."

She quirked a smile. "If I come back, I'll wear a mystic power crystal on a chain around my neck."

"Perfect. But of course everyone knows that girls from California can't go a night without sex, so you'll have to put up with advances from the worst sort."

The smile grew dimples, and she leaned back. "Guess I should have let Jack buy me a ring."

"Jack?"

"My husband."

Stupidly, he said, "Husband? A man?"

Her eyes got sleepy-looking. "Definitely."

"Does he ... I mean ... do you ..."

"Very well, I'm told. But perhaps that's just love talking."

"Well, I'll be dipped."

-0-

The Southender sounded busy, Alistair thought. Even standing outside, he could hear conversation and laughter through the heavy plank door. Occasionally, a single voice would rise above the background noise as a patron called to the proprietor or another barfly across the room.

Anna nudged him. "Are we going in, or should we wait for someone to open the door?"

"Not likely. Nobody's coming out for awhile. And considering the hour, I expect we're the last to arrive for the night. It's that sort of place. People come here and make a night of it. Everybody knows everybody else. It's our version of a community center, you might say." He pressed down on the latch and pushed the door open.

The watering hole measured about ten meters by thirty, and held about thirty people, a largish crowd for a weeknight. Sean sat at a table with a couple of his pals; Alistair was sure the pub had already heard everything the boy knew to tell, and likely a bit more. Patrons at the bar and tables glanced their way, and conversation faded as they stepped inside. But before it could die, the man behind the bar called out, "Alistair Bryce. So, you've finally crawled out of your cave to rejoin the world of men and hear human voices again. Even if they sound like a bunch of bloody Englishmen."

Alistair took off his cap and held it in both hands. "I come to apologize about that, Alex, to you and all present. Also, to show my little sister from the States a real Scottish pub and introduce her, if I haven't ruined her chances at a proper welcome."

"Of course not." Alex beckoned them to the bar. "But whether you get through the door again depends on how you behave tonight. What's your name, little miss?"

Alistair's companion offered the barkeep a hand. "Anne. Pleased to meet you."

Alex took it, and it disappeared into his paw. "Faeilte. What'll you have, Anne? I have a small selection of wine a lady might like."

"Just water, if it's no trouble. I don't drink." She looked around and back at the proprietor, breaking out the dimples. "The atmosphere is intoxicating enough. This is my first time out of the States, unless you count Quebec."

"I surely do. How much time did you spend there?"

"About ten years. Mom moved us there when I was six."

"Ainsi, parlez-vous français bien?"

"Hardly. It's amazing how quick you forget with no one to talk to. Je peux à peine remonter une phrase maintenant."

Alex smiled as he poured water from a bottle into a glass. "Same here, Anne. School was a long time ago." He filled a small glass with Glenlivet for Alistair, then looked past them and raised his voice. "If there are any gentlemen in the house," he said, "perhaps you can find a table. An empty one, with plenty of room to put your elbows out."

Immediately, Sean and his friends stood, beers in hand, to approach the bar, smiling.

Anna said, "Oh, no, please."

Alistair joined in. "We're fine right-"

"And who taught ye your manners, Bryce?" Alex frowned. "You don't bring a lady into a place like this and drink at the bar."

One of the three leaned on the bar, on Anne's side opposite Alistair. "Pleasure, miss." Sean discreetly nudged him with an elbow.

Alistair felt a strange twinge. Jealousy? Protectiveness? Ridiculous, whatever it was. "Fine, then. How much, Alex?"

"I'm buying hers tonight. And your first is on the house. Also your last, since they're one and the same. Manners, Alistair."

When they were settled into seats, Alistair said to her, "I'll nurse it, don't worry."

She smiled. "I'll probably worry anyway. I'm feeling very proprietary towards you right now." She closed her hand over the one around his glass and gave it a little squeeze – a hand that he'd watched crush a golf ball in another life. "Why did you come here? You don't need to hide, you know. No one's after you. They're done with you. It would be bad for morale if…" she glanced around "…something happened."

"And who'd ever know?" He started to toss the drink into his throat and caught himself, taking a tiny sip instead. The fluid spread warmth all through him. Is this what it's like to drink like a normal person, instead of one who's chasing oblivion like the White Rabbit down its hole? "I didn't leave a single person behind who cares whether I live or die."

She looked across the table at him with eyes grown large and dark. "Oh, that is so not true."

"Well." He stared into the glass. "I really left you behind, didn't I?"

"Obviously not." She smiled. "Here I am."

A young man appeared over her shoulder: Stephen Watson, a boy with a reputation among the local girls that was very good or very bad, depending on the sort of girl you talked to. He wore a green Celtics jersey, which meant that a Rangers fan like Alistair couldn't talk football with him without risking a broken nose. He held a dart in his hand. "Care for a game, pretty lady?" His smile was indecently suggestive. "Or do they play another game where you come from?"

She looked from the boy to him and back. "Well, where I come from, the most popular bar game is billiards. You go to a bar, you're more likely to find a mechanical bull than a dartboard." She smiled up at him. "But I pick things up pretty quick."

Stephen's smile changed in a way that made Alistair clench his teeth. Stephen was champion of the local league. "Care to make it a sporting game, then?"

"A bet, you mean?" She looked uncertain. "I don't have much local money."

He smiled a little wider and bent low, his cheek nearly touching her hair. "Oh, I'm sure we could come up with an exchange of some sort."

She blinked. "Well… let's start with money."

"That'll be fine." He straightened. "For a start."

After he led her towards the board and a pack of young studs, Tom, another regular, dropped into her seat, mug in hand. "Christ, Alistair. You really gonna let her go off with him?"

Alistair touched the glass to his lips and took a cautious swallow. "He won't have the price of a beer in his pocket ten minutes from now."

Tom grinned. "Heh. Shoulda guessed, what with that story she dropped on him. 'Mechanical bulls.' What a rip."

"She wasn't kidding about that, actually."

The man stared at him. "Pull the other one. Mechanical bulls?" Tom was one of those folk who likely would die without ever traveling a day's walk from where he was born. He didn't read anything but the paper, and was generally suspicious of outsiders. Alistair had been a long time getting friendly with him, and was glad the man hadn't been in the pub the night Alistair had been banned.

Alistair nodded seriously. "They ride em. Try to hang on for seven seconds before they get tossed off."

"Christ." Tom's eyes were huge.

Alistair kept his poker face on while grinning inwardly at the image that must be in Tom's mind: a robot bull rampaging through a pub like The Southender, a drunken patron clinging to its back for dear life, only to end up flying through the air to crash onto the floor or a table. "Oh, it's great sport. Always draws a crowd to cheer the riders on."

Tom shook his head. "And I thought rugby players were bloody lunatics."

A sudden chorus of shouts sounded from the dartboard crowd.

-0-

"Well, we're home." Anne swung the car around to train the headlights on the cottage's door. "Come on, I know you're not asleep."

"No, indeed." He shifted against the passenger door and closed his eyes again. "But I'm verra comfortable."

"That accent thickens up at the oddest times."

"When I'm tired or upset, or so I'm told." He slumped a little further in the seat. "Praps I'll just sleep here."

"I think not." She got out and slammed the door. A moment later, the passenger door snapped open. He would have spilled out onto the gravel if she hadn't caught him. He looked up into her face, upside-down and smiling down at him. "Walk or be dragged?"

"Why not carry me?"

"Cuz dragging you is less conspicuous and more uncomfortable. Specially if I drag you by your heels."

"All right then," he mock-grumbled as he got himself upright and swung his legs out of the car. "Do you suppose I could have a bit a that stew before bed?"

She laughed, a whispery sound that almost disappeared in the wind. "Bed? I was planning to keep you up all night talking."

"I'll be hard-pressed to finish eating before my face is in the bowl. Give a fella a little break. I'm not used to dancing anymore."

"You didn't have to spend all that time on your feet," she said with a little smile as they walked arm in arm to the cottage. "Sean or Stephen would have kept me entertained."

"Or any of a dozen others, I expect." He found his feet and shuffled to the door with her close by his side. "You say you're staying another night?"

"I said I might. But now, I really think I should. Alistair, what's 'handfasting'?"

"Eh?"

"Sean's sister is handfasting tomorrow. There's a reception. I accepted for both of us. If you don't want to…"

Alistair was sure the invitation hadn't been meant to include him; no one here who knew him would invite him someplace where drink was being served. He resolved to not embarrass his little … friend? "Sounds like fun. Handfasting's a sort of marriage ceremony for folk who want to pledge each other without the church or the magistrates getting in on it. It's got popular with the younger crowd because there's no age of consent."

"Hm." She went through the door first at his urging and switched on the light. Once again, he was filled with wonder and sadness at the change she'd wrought to his little hideaway. He inhaled slowly, drinking in the mild scents of cleaning and cooking replacing the odors of dirt and spoiled food and general decay. She turned him towards the bathroom. "I think you should shower and get comfy. What do you sleep in?"

"Err… what I got up in, usually."

"Hmm." She moved towards the kitchen. "I sent almost everything you owned to the laundry this afternoon. But you're not climbing into those clean sheets in your street clothes. If you can't find something better, it's undies for you."

"Not under my roof for a night, and acting like a nagging wife already." But he headed for the shower. The curtain was a sort of dusty rose, he noted; quite pretty. He smiled at the sparkling tile and fixtures as he lathered up under the stream. When was the last time he'd actually enjoyed a shower? Got to talk that cleaning girl into coming round again, before I'm hip deep in garbage once more. Or, God forbid, perhaps I should start picking up after myself.

The door opened partway, and a pair of gray gym shorts and sweatshirt were tossed in. "Here. They're mine, but skinny as you are now, I bet they'll fit."

"Great," he muttered as he shut off the water. "Half the sods at that watering hole we just left expect me to get in your pants tonight. And now-"

"I didn't travel five thousand miles to listen to crude jokes. Are you going to go to sleep or talk?"

"Touchy." He toweled off, the soft sweet-smelling fabric a delight to his nose. "Sorry, Buttercup. I'm done in, really. Tomorrow, I'm all yours. All right?"

"All right. Sweet dreams." The door closed.

Some time later, he woke in the dark, lying on his side with his knees drawn up. Something warm and soft pressed up against his back. "Shh," she whispered. An arm rested on his waist and another slipped under his neck, the hands meeting over his sternum. "It's all right, it's okay."

His cheek and ear nearest the mattress were wet. His throat felt tight and his nose runny. He placed his hands over the tiny ones on his chest. "I've been such a fool. Such a weakling. A failure."

"No. You've done so well, Alistair."

"I've lived in fear all my adult life. My whole life is a waste. I've helped do research that could change the world, and watched it all be buried or twisted into some new way to kill, or herd people like sheep."

"No. You've been a man trapped in circumstances beyond his control. You stood up to them for me whenever you could. But you're wounded. Creator, how I wish I knew what to do."

He drew a breath and let it out with a shudder. "So do I. I'm all right now. You can let me up."

"Would you mind if I stay? Just like this. I don't want anything else." He felt wetness on the back of his neck, and his breath stilled with wonder. "I've wanted to hold you for so long."

-0-

He woke to the smell of coffee. He was alone in the bed. He rolled to the edge and planted his feet on the floor, waiting for the usual morning nausea. It put in an appearance, but only as a ghost of its usual self. A trip to the bathroom was enough to banish it. He took a leak, ran a sweet-smelling washcloth over his face and neck, brushed his teeth, drank a glass of water from a clean glass, and stepped through the bathroom door, feeling like a younger man.

Anna met him before he'd got two steps. "Not quite yet. Back in there and shave."

"I shaved yesterday."

"And you'll shave tomorrow. Shoo."

When he left the bathroom a second time, he returned to the bedroom to dress. Then he headed for the kitchen. "My God," he said when he arrived. An array of plates on the counter held scrambled eggs, fried bacon and sausage links, shredded potatoes. "An American breakfast?"

"It's the only kind I know how to make. Well, unless you count quiche or crepes. Or croissants, I can do that too. You'd rather have something else?"

"I don't eat breakfast at all. And you made enough for three."

"I guess I'm used to cooking for teenagers. Eddie or Caitlin could down all this alone."

"You've got kiddies too? Where did they come from?"

"I'll skip the obvious joke. Jack has a son from a previous marriage who lives with us. He also has four wards, a boy and three girls, children of dead friends. Jack is an IO tough guy, like Andy."

He sat at the table. "I haven't eaten an egg at breakfast in years."

"Don't try your stomach's tolerance, then. Toast, maybe? Oatmeal?"

"Toast and coffee, maybe. Have you learned to eat too, then?"

"Only for show. But I'll sit with you, if you want company." She stuck two slices in the toaster and poured a cup. "Otherwise, I'm going to get busy in the kitchen."

"Doing what?"

"Cleaning and cooking. When I leave here, your fridge is going to be full. And if any of it spoils before you eat it, I'm going to be very unhappy with you. How do you take your coffee?"

"Black."

"Hmph. Seems like every guy I know takes his coffee black." She set the cup on the table in front of him. "Ready to talk a little?"

He sipped. "Fire away. Might need a drink before we're through."

"We'll see. How did I get my name?"

"Name? You mean, why do I call you Buttercup?"

She smiled like sunshine. "We can start with that one."

He shrugged. "Don't know, really. It's a pretty little flower, is all. And it seems… innocent."

"I'm far from innocent, Alistair."

"You always seemed innocent to me. I knew that would change before they were done. Their plans for you seemed clear enough, even if they were taking a mighty roundabout way to get there."

"Hm. And my real one?"

"Real one?"

She smiled. "Anna, you dolt."

He frowned. "You never had a name. You were just 'the test subject.' Seabrook would have wigged out if we'd given you a name."

"Alistair, it was Dr. Seabrook's name for me." The toast popped up with a soft chime. As she spread jam on the bread, she said, "How did you get assigned to the project?"

"Don't know. I was between assignments and this was the one I got. Just showed up on my desk one day, no explanation. I had six hours to pack and wrap things up, then I was winging my way across the country to that Godforsaken desert."

"And the others?"

"The same. Except for Seabrook. He didn't talk about it. Didn't talk about anything but the business at hand, really, even when you were locked away in that damned box. I got the impression he and Randall knew each other from somewhere before, likely another project, but you didn't ask about such things at the Shop."

She nodded. "Do you know where any of them are? I know you and Andy kept in touch."

"Just Christmas cards. I'm not sure I sent one last year, now I think of it."

"You didn't. But your address hasn't changed. How about Randall, or Dr. Seabrook?"

"Not Seabrook. Randall might know where to find him, I suppose." He looked up at her. "You're not thinking of paying Randall a visit?"

"Definitely. I want to learn where to find Dr. Seabrook, and whatever else he knows." She dropped the dishes in the sink and began wiping the counter. "And he and I have some unfinished business."

He felt cold. "Buttercup, what he did, he paid for with interest. He'll never get out of that damned chair. Let it go."

"What he did? Alistair, I thought you knew me better than that."