A/N: Another chapter coming up. This time around it has a little more of a Tru/Jack theme, as the story has been lacking that so far.

Disclaimer: I try not to own things.

A big thanks to Habita for reviewing again and again. Your comments are sweet, kind and thoughtful and you never have a bad word to say. And remember, no English is too terrible for me to appreciate :)

Blood of a Stranger
Chapter Four: Lapse

Hope was a precious thing. It tended to hoard itself deep within people until it needed to rise to the surface, bubble at the top while gasping for air, then when there was no immediate need for it, sink back down into the depths of the human soul. In a minor, though, sometimes that hope was lost for all eternity. Never was a soul born without hope; it merely faded into the darkness of despair when the soul rejected it, spat it out and abandoned it. When hope was lost within a soul, that soul would darken, swell and become impure. Lost. Almost as it if were dead.

There was no pulse as Tru moved her warm fingers around the neck. No beating heart, no blood pumping through the veins. Dead. Of course that was to be expected of a body brought to a morgue.

Tru looked down at the body, the light brown hair mattered and wet from the falling snow. It was brushed back over the face, revealing the sunken cheekbones and thin lips, a deep blue in the dense light of the room.

Hope had been lost.

The body had given up, though only in that last second of life.

Tru started when a voice rose from the darkness of the room.

"Third body," Davis spoke as he walked briskly towards the table where the body lay, and Tru stood looking down at it. "Our serial killer strikes again."

Swallowing a rising lump, Tru glanced at Davis with a fleeting hesitation, confused and evoked by a sudden, choking emotion. "I thought you said you didn't want me on this…"

Davis looked at her pointedly, a comforting knowledge flashing in his eyes. "I don't. But you do."

Tru gave a small nod and tired to hold Davis' gaze but found herself looking away. The mere thought of someone being so cruel as to take the lives of those he sees around him every day chilled her. She couldn't imagine the mind of someone so…evil. Harsh word, brittle and cold, but it seemed right to describe a serial killer as evil. No matter the pain that would flow each waking day in a killer, it did not give them the right to take someone's life. Their force. Their very existence. No right.

Davis hesitated, glancing at Tru. He didn't want to disturb her thoughts, didn't want to ruin the sacred gaze she geld with the dead. "Do…do you think she'll…ask?"

Tru blinked clear her mind and looked to Davis with an unsure gaze. "I don't know."

The silence grasped them again, clasping tightly and sucking the life out of the room. There were hollow echoes that resonated from the halls of the morgue. Tru didn't hear them. All she listened for were those words that changed the coarse of destiny, that sent her back into the day so she could make a difference to someone's life, and hopefully prevent their death.

Tru traced her eyes over the lines of pain and unease that coursed through the young woman's face. She had been upset, stressed about something. There were slight wrinkles in the ridges of her features. Her killer had seen only her in a crowd of people, targeted her and followed her. Through broad daylight. He had been pushing the boundaries, edging closer and closer to that line so often not crossed. He had flirted with the idea all day, a killing in daylight, with people around. It seemed exciting to him, captivating and thrilling.

It sickened Tru to the pit of her stomach.

The killer had trapped her in an abandoned street, lured her into the corner. She couldn't run anymore; she had tripped on the cold stone. Fallen, grazed her palms. Panicked. Pleaded for her life, knowing death would befall her in a matter of malicious seconds. He had shown no signs of remorse when he pulled the trigger, the gun pressed against her head. Blood had spilled, splattering across his clothes, staining him.

Tru wiped away a stray tear with a ginger finger.

A figure slid into the room, black coat flailing out behind him. Tru looked up, stunned to see who it was.

"Jensen?" She spoke with a brave voice, knowing she was on the verge of tears. "What are you doing in here?"

Unfolding his arms carefully, Jensen reached into his coat and pulled out a small black wallet, waving it at Tru. "You left this at the diner. Thought I could reach you if I walked quickly."

Smiling, Tru moved away from the table and walked quietly over to Jensen, who stood in the doorway, hesitant to step into the room completely, afraid of what he might see. She took the wallet from him appreciatively, then glanced over her shoulder at Davis, who inclined his head towards the small office adjoining the standards room. She nodded, turning to Jensen.

Before she could say a word, he silenced her with his own. "I know, I shouldn't be in here. I'll get out of your way…"

"No," Tru spoke with a slight desperation, cutting him off with almost wide eyes. "I just have to talk to Davis for a minute and then after that we can go back to the diner. Just give me a second."

Jensen was left to shrug complacently as Tru slipped into the small office, Davis waiting. He glanced his eyes over the room, trying not to turn to the body in front of him. He thought it wrong that he should look at her. She was dead. Peaceful, undisturbed. Effortless in the wake of the cold afternoon.

Still, he found himself pulled to her lifeless form. Stepping, one foot in front of the other, he eventually reached the cold, metallic table. Her body, he could see, was finally at ease, her mind drifting somewhere between worlds. Her lips smiled at him, a deep blue they seemed to be as he peered down on her. She was peaceful as she slept in the eternal darkness.

A voice in the darkness soothed him with its sudden echoing. "Tragic, isn't it?"

Jensen looked over his shoulder at the owner of the voice, a formally dressed Carrie Allen, her dark hair framing her face as she sauntered over to him. Her eyes glanced upon his with a clear expectancy, promising something beneath the surface layer. A fleeting look of curiosity flitted through her eyes before vanishing altogether in the poor light of the room.

Jensen turned back to the nameless body, a face he would not forget from this day forth. "Yeah, sad for her family."

Carrie tilted her head, strands of dark hair following her face. "And for her. She had her whole life in front of her."

Knowing what was coming, Jensen decided to finish her sentence. "And it was just snatched from her. Unfair, I guess."

"God," Carrie whispered under her breath, emotion striking her suddenly as she looked down at the body. "Can you imagine someone taking your life like that? Tragic."

The room was once again overcome with a stiff silence. The last word spoken resounded and echoed against the walls. Tragic. Some people thought so, others didn't. The pendulum swung both ways. There were those who thought of death as a burden, a tragedy amongst the pleasures of life. And there were the others, who thought of death as a part of life, a blessing rather than a curse, ecstasy beside the pain of life.

Carrie tore her eyes away from the corpse to instead study Jensen, his young features, almost youthful in the smouldering light. Full of life. Dying to find more of it. His blue eyes were quietly remorseful; she could tell from the heavy eyelids. His blonde hair speckled his forehead, drooping slightly to one side. It rested in soft curls on his shoulders, which were broad and covered by the black coat that fell behind him almost to the floor. The collar was upturned, hiding the side of his neck. His shirt beneath the coat was open, baring the perfect flesh underneath. Strong, wilful. Alive.

Far from what his soul seemed to be.

His soul had been stolen from him when he died. It hadn't been brought back with him. Pieces of his personality, his life before, were slowly been etched away, erased from the person he was to become.

It saddened Carrie to know that Jensen would become a monster. He would be eaten away at by the hungry jaws of death until all that would be left were bones, hollow and devoid. Empty.

Casting her eyes away from Jensen, Carrie glanced towards the window that held a barrier between two separate rooms. She could see Davis, leaning against a table with his hand to his chin in thought, and Tru, towering above him and talking in a subdued manor.

She could barely hear what they were talking about. Remembering it was her job to pry, Carrie took a few steps towards the window, hiding in the primitive shadows of the dark room. Tru's voice was suddenly clearer, louder though muffled by the restraints of the window.

"…don't think she'll ask. Not now. I think we should just wait until the next one. I know how that sounds, but…"

Carrie knew why the body hadn't asked for help; it didn't want to. Just like Jensen hadn't wanted to. And yet, Tru brought him back anyway. She just couldn't let him die, like he wanted.

Davis spoke with a quiet voice, distracted and somewhat hesitant. "Okay, whatever you think. But don't leave it too late, because, well, you know. We don't want more bodies than necessary. If there's an opportunity to change fate, then you have to take it."

A small smile tugged at the corners of Carrie's lips. Davis, always knowing more than he's saying. He was always loyal to Tru, even when they disagreed on things. If he hadn't been that loyal, Jensen would be long dead, just a fading memory in the minds of those he left behind. And he wouldn't have this obsession with death, this unnerving reaction to being pulled from the other side.

Carrie turned back to Jensen, suddenly curious as to how he was affected. A realisation flooded her mind like a giant wave collecting a mass of bodies. He was the killer! In that moment it took for Carrie to understand what that meant, Jensen had moved, turned his body around to face her. There was a distance between them but Carrie could see it, clear and bright as day. Jensen smiled at her from across the room, an innocent smile that lit up his face in the darkness. But one thing was missing from the perfect picture; his eyes were round and hollow, dark. Barely there. There was no warmth in them, no colour or depth. Just pure darkness.

The smooth, pulsating music seeped out of the speakers above, filling the room with a liquid sensation of being fluid, soft like velvet. It was almost seductive, despite itself. For what it was, nobody really cared about it. It just set an atmosphere, an air that accompanied the acquired taste of alcohol and the drowning intoxication of cigarette smoke.

It relaxed an edgy Jack Harper, who sat alone at the bar on a glossy wooden stool, glass in his hand, scotch swirling as he stared forward absently. Not good. The situation had escaped his grasp and was flourishing. Not in a good way, if he believed Carrie's theory any. Why hadn't he tried harder to put an end to Jensen when he had the chance? It was perfect, what he had set up. Nobody could have known the outcome that would have been. None, all except for Tru Davies, a master at what she did, yet she had no idea why she did it. Why she persisted, when all that was going to visit her was heartache.

If she hadn't figured out his plan, his way of ensuring the cycle of fate - well, who was he kidding – his way of disposing of Jensen, none of this would have happened. Innocent people would not have been killed in such a murderous way.

This monster would not have been created.

Still, he couldn't say that he was surprised. After all, he knew what could happen if a soul had been lost forever. No, lost wasn't the word. Gone. Jensen's soul had simply gone.

Someone sidled in beside and him and Jack had no need to turn around to know who it was. "Scotch, on me."

"Kind of you, Jack," the man's voice spoke smoothly as he rested his cupped hands on the counter before him, "but I don't need it."

Jack gave a small smile and tilted his head. "Didn't say you did, Richard."

Richard Davies shifted beneath his long, heavy coat and blinked a few times rapidly, a habit he had acquired long ago. "How's our little problem going?"

Jack moved two slender fingers and motioned for the man behind the bar to refill his glass. He watched as the liquid sprinkled onto the rim and sides, before pooling in the center and filling to the top. Fluid, like the music, the night. He breathed in deeply through his nose, as if seeming refreshed. He hated the choking smell of cigarettes.

Coughing quietly, Jack surrounded the rim of the glass with his lips, capturing the alcohol that slid gently down his throat. It didn't burn anymore. "He's the killer." He shifted away from the barman. "He's killing girls just because he wants to. He wants to know how it feels."

Richard bit down on his lower lip, resolving to draw blood. "It is not your decision to end it. Tru has to make that call."

Jack's throat felt dry. He felt the familiar prickling start to crawl up his fingers, and his head began to spin slowly. "And when she does, I'll be waiting."

Richard was silent, only as a courtesy to Jack's inner thoughts. He was well aware of the affection his young intern held for his daughter. Affection probably wasn't the right word for it. It was more like admiration. He noticed how Jack's voice differed from normal when he spoke of Tru. There were varying degrees of it, as well. Tonight Jack spoke with a solemn nature, saddened by the fact that Tru had to be caught up in all of this.

It was odd that Richard should be so fatherly protective of his daughter. He felt a venom pulse through his veins at the mere thought of Jack having such thoughts about Tru. Strange, since he had never really been a father to her.

He stood from the stool, gave Jack a final menacing look before vanishing in a blanket of black trench coat. Jack didn't even bother to watch him leave, just as he hadn't when Richard arrived. He could see in Richard's glancing looks the protectiveness, the awareness, and the challenging. He was daring Jack to move in on his daughter, just so he could catch him out.

Jack smirked as he let the rest of the dull scotch glide down his throat. It tasted almost moldy, not rich and potent like it should. It was strange how the taste of such a thing could die; wilt away to near nothingness in the short moments it took for intoxication to overwhelm. It was nothing to him anymore, the burning of being drunk, the blurred vision, the dizziness. Nothing. Just…life.

He hated to admit he was lonely. It made him feel uncomfortable. Degraded, almost. Like he was lesser than others because of his condition. He knew there was no one out there who could feel the same. Loneliness was common among perfect strangers, every day when somebody would revel in the company of only themselves. They would tell themselves they were happy, content to be alone. Deep down, though, they yearned the company, the warmth of another. The comfort of their pain being shared.

No, his loneliness was different.

His was a pain no one could share with him. Because nobody had been saved like he had. Nobody had died before, then come back without any recollection or knowledge of the other side. Nobody but him.

It frustrated him to no end how deftly that other side kept him away. It only came sometimes but if he was lucky, mostly at night, something from the other side would come down and touch him, remind him of what he had been taken out of. It was like a force that drove down into him and possessed him. It was during that brief moment of time that he would remember things, fragments of his death. Images that flashed rapidly through his mind and reminded him of what it was he was destined to do. What fate wanted of him.

Tonight was one of those nights.

It was cold but not bitter as he wandered through the winding streets of the city. He was searching for fate's new sacrifice. A woman in her early to late twenties, attractive but fazed by the calling of her busy life. Stressed, in a hurry. In trouble or desperate for something. That was what he looked for when he searched…

…something to remind him of Tru.

She had been the one to pull him back, prevent him from stepping through to the other side. She was fazed by her calling. She was often stressed with the workload of her job, medical school and the meticulous demands of fate. As of late she seemed to be troubled, desperate for something she may or may not have been aware of hunting.

He resented her for saving him, a sharp sting in the middle of his chest where he knew he had been shot before. He remembered seeing the man come into the store and demand the owner for money. He remembered the gun the same man had flashed around as he shouted for everyone to remain calm and quiet.

And he remembered trying to be a hero, trying to disarm the man. Then the shot went off, loud and hollow. Then…darkness. Nothing. Until he felt a tug, a strange pull that sucked him backwards into the previous day. But Jensen would not remember this. Jensen could not. No. Because he wasn't the one that was called by fate to go back and save lives. Jensen did not remember. But this force from the other side did, and it was reaching out to Jensen, flowing memories into his mind, a mind that would not remember a thing come dawn.

Still, dawn was long into the next morning. Hours. He had time to take another life.

This one was young, naïve. He could see it in the way she walked. Steady, almost hesitant but not too anxious. She didn't seem to be in any hurry; there was no brisk step in her walk. She had short, blonde curls that bounced above her shoulders as she took another corner.

In the poor light of the moonless night he had to squint into the darkness to see her. He was thankful for the occasional streetlight or passing car. It gave him a fleeting glimpse of her. She was wearing a jacket, most likely mohair. He couldn't be sure. Brown with a fluffy white lining. She wore black jeans that cut off just above her ankles. Heavy boots covered her feet and her legs up to her shins.

Her arms were folded over her chest, hands moving to produce heat. She blew cold puffs of smoke into the night as she walked. They were fast, erratic. She was growing tired.

The gun grated along his skin with each step. It was tucked neatly into his belt and he began to regret not wearing anything beneath his shirt to reduce the annoyance the gun created. He reasoned that it would not persist for much longer.

There was a heavy step behind him that interrupted his thoughts. A foot in thick fallen snow. Slow, methodical. Someone was following him.

He glanced to the young woman he himself had been following and felt her slipping further and further from his grasp. He would have to let her go. He couldn't risk someone seeing him, being witness to his sacrificial killing. It would not be right.

He watched as the girl grew fainter in the darkness, her figure becoming a slender slither of shadow. He stood to one side, shifting to step in front of a plump tree. There he slipped his gloved hands into his pockets, lifting a leg to place his foot on the stump of the tree.

He couldn't see anything but he heard no footsteps after that.

The person following him had stopped, given up. He looked forward, searching fruitlessly for the girl he had been watching. Not a thing.

The hardened eyes of Richard Davies stared into the darkness. However implausible, he remained to see clearly through the night. He felt the cold bite into him and he let out a slow, careful breath, watching the white steam flow out in a long strip. He watched as Jensen receded into the night.

A/N: Finished. Next chapter on its way. Reviews are appreciated as always.

Peace.