AN: After this it is all drama and seriousness. Consider this our last lull before the storm. On the bright side, after this chapter Jazz pretty much takes the reigns and starts standing up to her parents. Also, thank you to my reviewers. I can't believe anyone's interested in this. I'm glad people out there are willing to give this a shot. Thanks, guys.


Rakin had coffee going and breakfast in the making when Jack woke up.

Jazz was in the kitchen, not helping – she'd never been a good cook – just talking. Rakin's responses were a mix of English and Arabic, but Jazz seemed to understand regardless, and the conversation flowed smoothly. For a moment he took the sight in with the knowledge that this was what it would be like if the two were married, a thought that made his stomach twist. He could see them together, spending their mornings with Jazz hovering over the paper, Rakin over-thinking the simple process of making pancakes, the smell of coffee and olive oil hanging in the air. There were two plates of some kind of flat bread on the counter with olives on it, and judging off the color of the glass next to him, Rakin was drinking straight lime juice. They were quietly warm and domestic. They were at ease as if they'd done this a hundred times before, and could do it a hundred times more.

Every part of him rejected the idea. Because Jazz was his daughter, because Arabic shouldn't roll off her tongue in return like that, because she was too young, because Rakin would want her to go off and live in the middle of nowhere with him or worse, convert her to Islam entirely; there were so many reasons this was a horrible idea. There were so many reasons he hated this entire week and knew it was only going to go downhill. His baby girl was his greatest treasure; who did Rakin Farhan think he was? He couldn't just swoop in and sweep her off her feet like this.

Jack made his presence known by asking what was for breakfast. Rakin responded by pushing a platter of pancakes towards him. Jazz was half-eating her plate, half reading, a sight so familiar neither man questioned it. No one who knew her could deny Jazz was smart as a whip. Though she'd chosen to major in Psychology, she wasn't only gifted in that area, and it was easiest to let her have her newspaper in peace if you wanted to stay on her good side. Her newspaper reading had begun when she was eight and had simply never stopped; she was always alert, always thinking, from the time she woke up to the time she went to bed. In her teal pajamas, she looked younger than she was, while Rakin, clad in black pajama pants and a gray T-shirt, looked older, a bit solemn for his age. Jack wondered vaguely if it was a religious thing or an Arab thing.

Before he could ask and ruin a perfectly good morning, Danny sleepily stumbled down the stairs. "I smell pancakes," he announced sleepily. "Are there any chocolate chip ones?"

Rakin and Jack gagged at roughly the same time at the thought. Eyebrows rising and then descending, the young Muslim repeated slowly, "You want me to put chocolate in a pancake?"

"I'll do it," Jazz volunteered, as Rakin continued to look baffled by what he'd just heard. "Oh, get over it. This is like the pumpkin spice latte thing all over again."

"Those would only be the same thing if they actually tasted like pumpkin," Danny put in, sitting down at the table. "Last I checked, they don't."

"But if they did, why would you mix them?" Rakin asked, earning a shake of the head from his girlfriend.

"It's America. We'll mix anything. I thought you liked that about us."

"When your people created cheesecake ice cream, caramel corn, chocolate covered pretzels, deep fried ice cream, Boston crème cake, seven layer cake, pecan pie, five-fruit crepes, Mississippi mud pie, pralines, and the entire Dairy Queen franchise, yes, but… what?"

Jazz was grinning, and giggling as she made Danny his chocolate chip pancakes. "Name one item on that list that wasn't pure sugar."

He faltered, pausing before raising a hand, one finger extended, hope dawning on his face. "…there's some salt in pretzels."

She laughed and flicked him with pancake batter. "Your mom is right. America is going to make you fat."

"I love you too," he muttered, dejectedly taking his own pancakes and sitting down. "If I said something like that to you, you'd leave me for that guy in your Literature class with the ponytail." It was meant as a joke, but she shot him a dirty look. "What? If I had exes you'd make fun of them. Or psycho-analyze them and my relationships with them prior to this."

Jack looked up sharply from his food. "What guy with a ponytail?"

Rakin sighed, planting his face in his palms. "…you didn't tell them about the other guy you dated? Oh, ya'allah."

"I told Mom," Jazz objected, and Jack joined Rakin in facepalming.

"Smooth, sis," Danny muttered. "Well, at least I know what not to do when I get to college. Or dating. Whichever comes first. Somebody pass the butter?"

Jack did, and then turned back to important matters: the guy with the ponytail.


Maddie was drinking tea, something she did in order to reduce headaches.

She couldn't take pills – her gag reflex was such that she'd throw up, and she had an allergy to something in aspirin that left her sick and flat out on the floor. As a result, since Rakin arrived she'd gone through multiple kettles of tea, sitting up through the night researching his country. And his religion. And most importantly, she'd been debating whether or not her reaction was justified. He wasn't a bad man by outward appearances; it was all just so unknown. He could not be from a more far flung corner of the Earth if he'd tried. What little she could find painted a picture of a country struggling under the weight of the government, a place with a lot of issues but without any stereotypical terrorist connections.

It was just like any other troubled country in the world, making progress slowly but steadily. And oddly the split of religions didn't seem to be a priority for anyone there. Eritrea was a country with such poor freedom of the press that everyone united in protesting that and freedom of religion without pausing to be angry at each other for differing on the religions in question. There was a prevailing unity – of Eritreans, against Eritrea. She was oddly soothed by this information, as it meant the likelihood of Rakin being involved in anything more than maybe a protest or two were slim to none.

Also, apparently there were a lot of ethnic groups in Eritrea. She might have been wrong guessing he was Arab. They spoke Arabic there, but there was also a fair number of African languages and… Italian. Maddie still needed more tea for that to make sense. Apparently there were a lot of Italians in a country that sat on the border between the Middle East and Africa proper. She'd hoped to put together something to show Jack to help him 'get it', but she didn't get it. On reflection, Maddie realized her sum total knowledge of Africa and the Middle East was wildly outdated at best.

But Muslims were not allowed by the Quran to marry non-Muslims. So at least she had an actual fact she could get a grip on.

"Doing some research, Mrs. Fenton?" Rakin asked, startling her. He held up a pot of tea as if to say 'I come in peace'. "Jazz said you had a headache. I thought I'd get a brief break from hearing the hundred and fifty two reasons I should take up ghost hunting as a profession and bring this to you."

"That bad, huh?" She smiled weakly. "You have to understand, Jack and I are passionate about our work. And ghosts can be dangerous here."

"They're dangerous back home. But we have about as many in my country as Amity has in total," he said thoughtfully, placing the teapot on her desk. His dark blue eyes were a bit more guarded than they'd been last night, a bit less open. "I made breakfast if you'd like some. Your husband had an… unexpected appreciation for my cooking. Is there any chance of you talking to me instead of asking Google about my background?"

She bit her lip, leaning back in her chair. After a moment, she sighed. "I'm just concerned for you two. You're young and idealistic. The reality of the situation is that this isn't normal in America. It's not a great idea in Eritrea. And as a mother, I have a right to be worried about my daughter and her dating choices. Especially since she's had so little dating experience."

"Ma'am, if I can be frank, Jazz holds the cards here. She could end this any time she wants to. No one is forcing her to date me. When she dumped her first boyfriend it was very clear and clean cut, you'll recall. Your daughter is, and I mean this with as much respect to your family as I can have, a woman now. This is not in your power to decide for her."

"It's not in yours, either. What's your long term plan, exactly? How do your parents feel about all this?" When he shut his eyes and inhaled and exhaled slowly as a response, she felt a twinge of sympathy, but this was for his own good. Better that they break it off now before it became serious and-

"My brother Bayhas studied in New York. His wife converted to Islam before they were married. But my parents got over having an American in the family. They live in the city of Massawa now, back home."

Maddie felt chilled. "Is that what you have planned for Jazz?"

He opened his eyes and shook his head, looking at the floor. "No. I have no plans. There was never a plan. I didn't go looking for this, mashallah. But… it gives me hope, that if my parents could accept an American Muslim, perhaps one day they can accept Jazz as who she is. As I said, she holds the cards. If she converts, moves or does anything else, you can rest assured I didn't strong arm her into a word of it. And if we break up, she'll always be part of me. She's the best friend I ever had."

"Then can't you leave it at friends? Do you have to date her?" She ran a hand through her hair, frustrated, increasingly having problems holding anything against him but needing to, needing someone to blame for her uneasiness and the obvious stress on her husband from this. "Can't you walk away from this?"

He straightened up, and took a deep breath, glancing up and meeting her eyes. "I apologize for disrespecting you like this, Mrs. Fenton, but no. No, I can not. I will not."

Exasperated, she snapped, "Why not?"

"You are an atheist married to a Christian. You are approaching your twenty fifth anniversary, you have two children, a good home and your dream jobs. Mrs. Fenton, you are proof Jazz and I can work. Why should I walk away when you did not?"

She had no response to that, so he politely excused himself, clearly restraining himself from showing any of the emotional turmoil going on in his head. She'd noticed that about him, the way his eyes would flash but he would reel it in. That would make him Tigrinya; their culture valued an unemotional front as a sign of stability in men. Maddie vaguely wondered if his parents were native to Eritrea or had moved there after the war with Ethiopia, if they spoke the language or just Arabic, exactly where this young man with the ability to tolerate so much had come from. He had seemed so young and vulnerable when he shut his eyes. He had opened up to her. And in return Maddie had shot him down like… well, like her father had shot down Jack when they were dating. The thought made her head pound anew.

She poured herself another cup of tea. It was going to be a long week.