So here's the first chapter, enjoy!

Again, a big thank you to Diane, and to the people who reviewed the rough draft of the prologue so kindly.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything. I'm just playing for a little bit during my holidays.

CHAPTER ONE: REMINISCENCES

Part one: The new kid in town

Sweden, July 17th, 1969

Damn

You knew this guy was bad news. You knew it.

Big arms, big fists, big mouth.

Big asshole.

You were sure of it and now you have a vicious black eye and sore ribs to prove you were right to anyone willing to listen to you. Big Sven Mörner, captain of the local school hockey team is an authentic bully, the kind of kid that can make your life a living hell when you're the new kid in town. Damn. Wherever you and your mother follow your father, Europe, Asia or the good ol' USA, it's always the same crap. You escape from the new house just not to listen your parents arguing –no, scrap that, yelling- about the central heating that isn't functioning correctly, about the kitchen which is too small or your late grandmother's service which has lost another of its diminishing crew during the move. Your mother cries it's the last time she accepts to follow your father's every move; he yells back she doesn't understand him, she never understood him and both don't notice their ten-year-old son had vanished from home one more time.

Damn.

It's always the same crap. Your parents fight and you decide to discover the place you're going to call home for, what, a year, maybe more, on your own. However, as hard as you try to be transparent, there's always something different about you that attracts much unwanted attention, that inevitably brands you as the new kid in town in the best cases or as the stranger, the Army brat, the Yankee kid in the worse ones. It's when your problems usually begin. You walk in this new place on your own and kids notice you. After the first contact, there are two options: you're in an English speaking place or you're not. The first one helps the communication but doesn't make the integration an automatic process. The second one comes and complicates the matter a great, great deal. Nonetheless, wherever you move, being the new kid in town is always a problem; the only thing that varies from a place to another is just the difficulty of this problem. Indeed, even if you're lucky enough to avoid a painful first contact in the streets, there's always the first day in your new school when the teacher introduces you to the whole class, a seemingly protective hand on your shoulder, and asks them to welcome you as best as they can. Of course, most of your new classmates are ready to do as they're told, thankfully. However, there are those kids whose lips the teacher's words inevitably put this same ironic smile on. In bloody Arkansas, last year, there were this kid and his dumb friends who always made fun of your accent from Pennsylvania until you tricked them by leading them to old Casper's backyard, then letting them deal with his two dobermans. The two previous years in Manilla had been a living hell but, in the end, they had taught you a thing or two you didn't wait to put into application.

First, being smarter. It had worked wonderfully in Arkansas since, after the incident, you wonderfully succeeded into getting those kids off your back for good.

Second, being tougher. This last lesson is definitely the one you'll need to remember to get rid of big Mörner's bullying.

Damn.

Your ribs ache horribly as you miserably push you bike back home in the Swedish fresh summer. Your black eye stings as you try to imagine some plausible story to explain the way you look to your parents. However, your mind and muscles are too sore from the vicious beating to let you be creative, so you settle for the classic but always reliable tale of the stupid dog that ran across the street chasing some no less dumb cat. With a bit of luck, they will be too busy fighting each other to think and verify your story further. It's not you like it when your parents fight, on the contrary, but right now you really don't need their attention, just a full night of rest.

Damn.

You can't help a grimace as you push the front door open soundlessly. The pain from your ribs has worsened since big Mörner left you on the ground an hour ago. You throw a tentative look across the bright living room and discover your father quietly sitting on the sofa and reading the daily newspaper while you hear your mother busying herself in the backyard from the open window. Wherever you and your family moved, she always found a way to try and, when you stayed in the same place for more than a year, create wonderful, colourful gardens; a non-ending task she stubbornly started up after each move just like Queen Penelope and her weaving in the book you finished last week. From your tentative look, everything is calm and serene, something you'd be delighted to witness and enjoy if you didn't have a black eye and aching ribs to explain. You take a calming breath before announcing your presence.

On with the show…


Saturday, October 14th, 2006

Vivian took a deep, trembling breath as she contemplated the immobile, lying form in the ICU bed.

Not again.

Her operation from the year before had prevented her to stay at Martin's bedside. Of course she had tried to convince Marcus and the doctors to let her visit her young friend, but, in the end, their logical, reasonable arguments prevailed over her obstinacy. However, not being able to see her unconscious, wounded colleague as soon as she would have wanted hadn't prevented haunting images from alimenting her recurring nightmares, on the contrary. Moreover, she was sure the images had been all the more vivid as she hadn't been able to reassure her fears by seeing Martin with her own eyes, and not through her friends' optimistic words that contradicted their red eyes so much, by touching his immobile but warm hand with her own. That was the reason why she still stood there outside Jack's room when everybody else, even Anne and Samantha, had finally gone home, silently watching his chest rise and fall thanks to the breathing assistance, quietly listening to the regular sounds coming from the heart and brain monitors, avid to perceive any tiny evidence confirming her old friend was well and alive even if the doctors weren't going to let him wake up before they were satisfied with the evolution of the haematoma. At least, that was what she had understood from Dr. Thomas' explanations the day before. In a nutshell, Jack wasn't out of the woods yet, but there were good chances that all these emotions would be only bad memories in the end.

Hopefully.

Her eyelids were heavy from exhaustion, her feet and back were beginning to ache from standing for too long. Marcus had called an hour ago to check on her and tell her to come back home, to get some rest, but she was unable to walk out, as if her whole body was petrified. She just couldn't move: the weight of old, bitter, unresolved arguments and unsaid words of reconciliation was simply too heavy. An ironic smile formed slowly on her lips. It was amazing. Even after the shooting and Martin's injuries, she had taken for granted that she had more than enough time to rebuild her friendship with Jack. As a result, more often than not, she let the reasons why, most of the time legitimately, she was pissed at him prevail over the need to try and soothe their disputes, to reduce the growing gap between them. First, she had blamed him for months for her aborted promotion. Of course she knew it wasn't his fault, at least entirely. To be fair, he certainly didn't choose to be dumped and left behind in New York this way by Maria. However, the way he had acted afterwards, as if there had been no way to foresee what had hit him, had literally enraged her, even more than the matter of the promotion actually. And, boy, she had made sure he knew how she felt about his recent and less recent behaviour that evening almost exactly two years ago. Blinded by rage and disappointment, she hadn't been able to stop the harsh, hurting words from flowing and filling the darkened car. She had blamed him for the rampant machismo and veiled racism in the Bureau, for believing he could cheat on his wife then not facing the consequences, for endangering Samantha's brand new and much needed relationship with Martin, for preventing her from moving on at last simply by staying in New York. She almost blamed him for the awful weather they were driving in. Something had been broken during that fateful summer 2003. This Jack wasn't her Jack anymore. At least, her Jack, as far as she remembered, wasn't this pitiful cheating guy. Of course, there still were glimpses of his old stubborn and generous personality, thankfully, like during the Knowles twin brothers' case or when he offered her his hand the night after she had learnt about her heart condition. She could have taken it. She should have taken it and offered her own in return. That's what friends are made for, aren't they?

Hopefully...

Finally, Vivian let go the tears she had been too proud to shed in front of the others while she placed her opened, slightly trembling hand on the separating glass. It wasn't she regretted her harsh words. Regularly, he really deserved a metaphorical kick on the butt, just like no longer than five months ago she had told him her mind about his poor supervision of the black boy and white girl's cases. No, she didn't regret telling him her mind more than once. Those were all the times she didn't find the courage to utter the friendly words stuck in her throat she bitterly regretted. You can't be mad with someone if you don't have great expectations from them, can you? Maybe she had expected too much from him in those moments of crisis. She certainly had expected too much when she had wanted him to stay this same brutally honest, ever reliable hope-junkie whereas his entire world was crumbling down. She had forgotten that even the great Jack Malone has the right to be merely a flawed human being.

Hopefully…

Anyway, as the doctor had told them, the guy was a tough and damn lucky one. A timid smile appeared in spite of her tears. Soon he would wake up and she would tell him all those words which had stayed unsaid for much too long. The recriminations about how much he had scared her by acting so boldly, how he had confused the poor Samantha once again and put Anne through hell would come later.

Hopefully…

Vivian shook her head, her smile more firm on her lips. Damn, she was just another hope-junkie.


Sweden, July 20th, 1969.

Great!

Your eyelids are heavy but you struggle to maintain your eyes wide open and keep on contemplating the bright moon from the roof of the house. You stayed up all night and continued your anxious vigil next to the television even when your father had called it quits two hours ago whereas your mother had given up much earlier in the evening. You stayed up all night and you were rewarded at last a little before 4 a.m. by the ecstatic voice of the journalist that announced to the world that Apollo 11 had landed on the moon. Then the blurry images and cracking sounds came…

So great…

It's strange to think that at the very moment you're staring at the white crescent, Armstrong and Aldrin are walking on it, or doing whatever they need to do. You're so absorbed by your contemplation you don't hear the quiet footsteps in your room.

"So they landed at last?" your father asks in a whisper, careful not to wake up your mother in the bedroom nearby.

"Yeah," you answer in a dreamy smile.

The tall man leans on the edge of the window to take a look at the moon himself.

"How was it?"

Your smile deepens.

"Honestly?"

"Yep."

"Awful. Dirt everywhere and ink black sky."

"What did you expect, son?"

Your father is smiling too and, in the middle of your quiet excitement, your chest constricts a little. Those peaceful moments are too scarce, much too scarce and fugitive. Why isn't he always like this? But tonight isn't the time for melancholy so you're still smiling when you finally answer in a shrug:

"Dunno. Nothing. But…"

"But?"

"It's wonderful, really. Y'know, they wear these huge space suits that could crush you here but out there they can move as if they were hung up by invisible threads. It looks like they're as light as air balloons. I read this article in the science section the other day about the absence of gravity but I've never imagined this, y'know…and then Armstrong said this stuff when he made his first stuff… and… " you go on enthusiastically as you sit up on the roof and emphasize your description with wide movements of your arms. Your ribs don't hurt that much at this moment.

Clearly amused by your sudden enthusiasm, your father comments lightly:

"I see your stubbornness has been rewarded, my boy."

You resume your lying position, your smile bigger than ever.

"Yeah, it's great…"

Totally, utterly, unbelievably great…


Sunday, October 15th, 2006

For the tenth time in the last fifteen minutes, Samantha took a deep breath and tried to convince her left hand to leave the wheel it was stubbornly clenching for the door handle of her car.

In vain…

She couldn't do it, she just couldn't do it. What if the nurses out there told her his state had suddenly worsened? What if she found Anne there, or, God forbid, Maria? Deep inside, she knew she should have accepted Martin's offer and come with him to visit Jack. This way, she could have maintained the deceitful façade of the concerned colleague. However, despite her gratefulness for his attention, she had turned the offer down. She didn't want to be the concerned colleague anymore. In fact, she couldn't remember a time when she had wanted it since she had always desired more. This idiot had risked his life for her, for God's sake! The young woman hit violently the steering wheel in front of her with shaky fists, barely registering the pain. She was crying again and, one more time, it was his entire fault. Twice he had told her it was over, and twice he had put his own life in line to save hers. Hitting the wheel once again, Samantha desperately tried to chase away much unwanted memories.

In vain…

Ashamed of her weakness, she remembered the bench in the park where he had confirmed it was over before, a few weeks later, walking into this bookstore and carrying her out. God! How she had clung to his neck, not wanting to let him go ever again! How she had maintained this tiny contact of her hand on his cheek as long as possible! How much she had hoped everything would be different after this event! And, indeed, everything had changed after that, for the worse as far as she was concerned. He had saved her and he had gone back to his wife. His dear wife who had dumped him less than a year later, and, in the process, pushed her to convince herself it was high time to move on.

In vain…

How can one move on when one discovers that the object of their affections isn't going to go away after all? It's impossible and she learnt it the hard way, by making herself miserable in her stubbornness to try and make it work with Martin, by hurting Martin, who didn't deserve it.

In vain…

Painful sobs had replaced the silent tears now. Finally Martin had taken the decision she had been too coward to take. For the first time since she had met Jack Malone, they were both free. But Martin had been shot and guilt had led her to his bedside for a while. Then, they finally had been able to talk to each other freely after the Skye Petersen's case. It had been a long, honest, even if painful conversation. They had talked for hours, both perched on the back of a bench in Central Park, about the guilt he felt for wrongly having sent this guy to prison because he had despised this cheating jerk at the time, about her guilt for having destroyed his family. He had told her how sorry he was for her and Martin and, when she had asked him if he was perfectly honest, a nostalgic smile had formed on his lips. She had thought it could be their moment and had put a tentative hand on his shoulder.

In vain…

Then he had made her cry once again. His sad, defeated words still rang painfully in her ears while he had shared his bitter realisation with her. They had no future; it was as simple as that. The Bureau rules weren't a true obstacle since one of them could have asked for a transfer, or just could have resigned. It would have been painful to leave a job and colleagues they loved so much, of course, but it wouldn't have been that much of a sacrifice if it had meant they could try to start something. The real obstacle was Maria; Maria who had wordlessly promised that he would never see the girls again if the idea to go back to his former mistress ever crossed his mind; Maria who had assured him she would make her life a living hell if he went back to this blond bitch; Maria who was perfectly able to keep this kind of promise, he had learnt it the hard way the year before.

In vain…

Then they had agreed they couldn't do this to each other. She couldn't make him lose his daughters for good. He couldn't bind her to a miserable life imposed by a spiteful ex-wife. So they had decided to move on. And he did move on indeed, just three months later. This old friend of his had made her apparition in their lives and everything had snowballed from here.

The visits in his office.

The new ties.

More visits.

His goofy smile. His infuriating goofy smile actually since it wasn't hers anymore.

His panic last spring when Anne had been abducted.

The pregnancy news followed a millisecond later by the miscarriage news. Samantha had discovered then how cruel and heartless jealousy could turn somebody. She had blamed herself for it, but all she had felt then was relief. As if a single, little rock on a road could change its direction.

Pathetic.

And now, on this Sunday of October, she was crying for an idiot who wasn't hers to cry anymore but who had shattered her best resolutions once again by saving her. She was crying in her car unable to get out of it and make the visit she wanted to pay so badly.

He was her idiot after all.


Sweden, August 17th, 1969

So much for peace and love…

For two days stunned newspapers have kept on repeating that, back in the States, thousands of people are gathered just to listen to Dylan, Hendrix, Joplin and many others right now and celebrate the peace and love philosophy. Unfortunately, this "spirit" as they put it in the papers hasn't touched big Mörner at all.

Big arms, big fists, big mouth.

Big asshole.

That's all he is anyway. Once again, you try to ignore his stupid provocations. It's not you don't want to make him bite the dust once and for all, on the contrary. But you just bought the single Joe Cocker sang in Woodstock and the radios have kept on repeating since then, and you don't want to take the risk to see your brand new disk destroyed before you had a chance to listen to it. So you push on your pedals with more force. However, the idiot doesn't seem to understand the message as he begins to run in order to catch up with you. And what must happen when a dork is running next to a cyclist happens indeed. His left foot hits your back wheel and both of you fall miserably along with the bike and your precious purchase.

So much for peace and love…

Totally oblivious of your bleeding knee, you check immediately on your Cocker single before letting out a sigh of relief.

Intact.

It's intact.

Then you look up just in time to have a glimpse of big Mörner throwing himself at you, his right fist ready to hit. But this time, those are both your feet that violently connect with his stomach. Sometimes, being smaller can have real advantages, and being more agile is one of them. Besides, you learnt your lesson last time. Take advantage of your ability to move faster. Hit first. Don't let him recover.

So much for peace and love…

And you don't let him recover. Right in front of his petrified dumb friends, you jump back on your feet and run towards him, aiming at his sternum with your shoulder to make him fall back. And you don't stop. The guy just has time to try to stand up before your left fist collides with his nose as you repeat this very efficient semi uppercut you learnt in Manilla. Finally, you take a distrustful look at the guy's buddies, silently hoping that your demonstration with their "boss" was dissuasive enough, and actually, from the look in their eyes, you discover that the view of big Mörner crying on the sidewalk, his nose broken, is the card that can buy you tranquillity for the rest of your time in this goddamn place. So you square your thin shoulders as you take your bike and purchase back, trying to appear stronger and more confident than you really are, and you ride away without a single word.

So much for peace and love…

In the summer of '69, you suffered your first true humiliation, you saw Armstrong and Aldrin walking on the moon, you listened to Joe Cocker again and again and, above all, you stopped being afraid of being the new kid in town.