When reactions turn into hurricanes
And the middle course seems a little tame
Whether full or empty it's all the same
It's so easy to see, everyone can agree, you're not to blame.

Silversun Pickups

Monday October 27th, 2009, Outside Ziva David's Apartment

"Morning!"

Ziva had already detected the woman leaning against her Mini Coop'; oddly, she was having a difficult time trying to choose a response.

"What are you doing here?"

Blunt always worked.

"Coffee?"

Ziva frowned and pulled her car keys from her pocket. "I am on my way to work; perhaps some other time?"

"I'm going there too, thought maybe-" flash of hazel eyes, a little too big, a little too sad – Ziva rolled her own eyes – "I could catch a lift with you and maybe ask you 'bout something? But, coffee is kind of important . . ."

Ziva shook her head. "Get in." As she climbed into the driver's seat, she smiled.

They had stopped for coffee – Buffy insisted on buying coffees and donuts for everyone – and had driven – silently – for two minutes before Ziva's curiosity prompted her to speak.

"You had a question?"

Buffy nodded. "Yep. What's it take to get into Miss Sciuto's good books, other than a degree or ten, fatherly affection or persistence, cause I'm getting homicidal vibes – I can feel them already – and I really don't want to play 'dodge the vial of lethal non-traceable poison'."

Ziva smiled as she recalled her own efforts to befriend Abby. "It will take time. If we do work with you, Abby will have an opportunity to get to know you; perhaps, then. I will warn you, she is very stubborn."

Buffy grinned. "So am I."

Ziva pulled up to the NCIS gate and flashed her ID. Buffy offered her Department of Defense card to a second Marine; he inspected it carefully and returned it with a small nod.

Ziva entered the parking lot, found a spot and parked. She grabbed her bag from the back seat and got out of the car. Buffy followed. Before she could tackle how she would carry everything, Ziva joined her and took one of the trays of coffee and the bag of donuts.

"Thanks. I could've juggled them – maybe – but I could see much embarrassment if I missed." She slung her duffel bag over her shoulder and picked up the second tray of coffees.

Ziva glanced at Buffy as they approached the front doors of NCIS. "Why did you need to know about Abby? We aren't officially working together yet?"

Buffy blew a strand of hair from her face. "Your Director called me last night; said Miss Sciuto wanted to get a look at the storage units and asked me to go with." She blew harder on the strand of hair, to no avail. "Since I kinda wanna have a look myself when it's all," she looked up at the low grey clouds moving slowly across the sky, "cloudy like and hopefully death free, I said yes. As long as he knows that I know that he thinks that I don't know-" She stopped; her brows narrowed. "I screwed that up. Point is, I'm pretty sure he didn't call me just to play bodyguard; he wants to check me out and he wants you guys to check me out as well." Ziva opened the glass door and Buffy stepped into the lobby. "Thanks. Not that I mind; I mean, it's only fair, right?"

Ziva's response was forestalled for a moment as she showed her ID to the guard and stepped through the gate. Buffy set the tray of coffees on the counter and pulled her wallet from her jacket pocket. She opened her wallet and held the ID up for inspection. "I'm armed, too, just so you know. Don't wanna get shot when your detector thingy starts beeping."

The guard glanced at Buffy's card and then down at the monitor behind the counter. CLICK CLICK went the mouse.

"You've been cleared by the Director. Here's your visitors pass. Please wear it somewhere visible at all times. Do you need an escort?"

Buffy shook her head. "No thanks – got one. Agent David's taking me to her leader. Hope he likes donuts."

The guard didn't respond to her flight of whimsy. He passed her her visitor's badge, asked her to step through the gate and waited for the next person in line. Buffy quickly clipped the badge to her jacket lapel and stepped through the gate. She breathed a little easier after she rejoined Agent David; she still expected alarms to squeal and guards with guns to yell, "Freeze!" She hated this, being confined to a big building filled with armed men and women. She felt the same way when she met with the CGR – especially when the Secretary of Defense and the Attorney General were in attendance. She didn't bother carrying weapons on those occasions; she avoided wearing anything metallic if she could.

By the time they stepped off the elevator she had managed to calm her breathing; 'course her hands were shaking so bad the coffees were gonna be frapped by the time that anyone opened them.

NCIS

Buffy greeted Gibbs, McGee and DiNozzo cheerfully and began passing out coffees and offering donuts. When she reached Gibbs desk, after handing him his coffee, she reached inside her jacket , extracted an envelope and handed it to him. He looked curiously at her. "It's a warrant thingy for the airport in Manassas. In case you wanted to see who rented the hangar or have a look inside."

Gibbs took the envelope. A brief look of irritation creased the corners of his mouth and eyes. "How?"

"Uh – Paul asked if you guys had a warrant yet for the hangar and since I didn't know - actually, didn't really know what he was talking about – he said he would try again; I guess the first time was a bust – something about a lack of provable clause or something. He dropped it at my place this morning."

Gibbs shook his head and smiled very briefly. "Thanks."

Buffy smiled back. "'Welcome."

Ziva joined Buffy at Gibbs desk. "We should go and see Abby."

Gibbs picked up his coffee and stood. "Mmm-hmm. Should be interesting."

"Oh, look, it's crazy lady." Gibbs smiled. Buffy cocked an eyebrow and smirked. Abby did not look amused. "Gibbs, why is she here?"

"You wanted to go out to Winkler's Safe Store."

Abby frowned. "Yeah . . . Ziva and Tony were going to take me."

"Change of plans. The Director wants to make sure you have adequate protection."

Abby's eyes widened. "Gibbs – no. I don't need to be protected. I'm just going to look, in the middle of the day, with two armed agents. I don't need . . . her."

Buffy took a step forward and linked her fingers behind her back. "Do you remember the big thing with the horns and the bad attitude from the video, Miss Sciuto? Things like that don't care if it's sunny, rainy, hurricane-y . . . and they really don't care about guns. You can't outrun them but if you're lucky they'll kill you quick – before they start ripping off body parts."

Abby looked abstractedly disgusted. "Jeez, you couldn't've just said 'they'll kill you'?" She focused on Gibbs again, pleading with her eyes. "Does she really have to come?"

Gibbs' lips twitched. "'Fraid so."

Abby 'humped' and crossed her arms. Looking pointedly at Buffy, she said, "Fine. Don't get in my way and don't touch anything – I don't want you contaminating the evidence."

Buffy nodded sombrely. "Understood. No getting in the way and no touching. Thank you, Miss Sciuto."

Ziva, who had masterfully contained her amusement thus far, added, "Call me when you are ready, Abby."

Ziva glanced at Buffy and nodded at the door; together they left the lab.

Gibbs crossed his arms and leaned against the evidence table. His eyes followed Abby as she finished packing her kit. The watching did not go unnoticed; Abby turned and crossed her own arms, almost defiantly. "What?" Gibbs' eyebrows rose fractionally. "She scares me, ok? It's bad enough that she's been stalking you guys for months . . . And now she's brought all this craziness with her, stuff that makes no sense and completely contradicts . . . well, everything. And then," Abby's voice rose, "when she's supposed to be protecting you, she's not and you end up with a broken wrist, Ziva almost dies – again – and Tony – well, Tony's always getting hit in the face – but still . . ." She lowered her eyes and her voice. "I don't think I can do this again, Gibbs. I will, if you guys agree to work with her, but I'm not sure how sane I'll be when it's over." Gibbs pushed away from the table and approached her. "If you're planning on giving me a pep talk . . ."

"Nope. Not this time. You don't need me to tell you how strong you are."

Abby hugged herself. "Could ya tell me anyway?"

Gibbs smiled affectionately and kissed Abby's cheek. "You'll be fine, Abby. And before you make up your mind about Summers, you should know, what happened the other night - that wasn't her fault." Gibbs' voice became bland. "We were set up. Only reason she knew where we were going was because Ziva called her."

Abby looked scared. "Who set you up?"

"Don't know, Abbs; kinda hoping you could figure that out."

Fear became determination. Abby picked up the phone. "Then I guess we better get moving, huh?"

" . . . Nothing? And no one's seen either of them at Winkler's house? No nosy neighbours? . . . . . Yeah, alright – I'll let him know . . . . . Yep. Well, thanks and I'll let you know if we find anything . . . . . I will! . . . . . Courtney – would I lie to you? . . . . . Ok. Ciao."

Tony stared at the handset of the phone for a second before he hung it up. "Huh. They grow up so fast." He went to his e-mail and opened the message Agent Krieger had sent him.

"Boss, I've got something." Tony sent the open files to the plasma and got up from his desk. "Just spoke to Agent Krieger. Still no sign of Harry Winkler. They checked his home, talked to the neighbours and talked to a few people in Winkler's other businesses: a body shop in Langly and a bar in Dupont Circle."

Gibbs stare suggested a growing impatience. "That's what you've got?"

"Ah, no; just thought I'd start with the obvious . . . moving on. Winkler had a girlfriend, Marie McDowell; she and her son, Owen, moved in with Winker three years ago." Tony loaded the photos on the plasma: a pretty woman in her mid thirties and a man, who bore a striking resemblance to his mother, and looked to be in his late teens, early twenties. "One year ago, Marie McDowell died of a brain aneurism. Owen stayed with Winkler and together they started a security company, McDowell Security. From what Courtney and her team gathered, Owen was the brains – he put together the security systems, wrote the software, all that geeky stuff – and Winkler was the salesman."

"Why didn't we know about this sooner?" Gibbs asked; his impatience was becoming evident.

"Actually, Courtney didn't know either until about an hour ago. Seems that someone stopped by the Third District to file a missing persons on Owen McDowell. Said she hadn't seen or heard from Owen in days."

McGee frowned and looked at Tony. "Who was she?"

Tony smiled smugly. "His girlfriend. Apparently, they were supposed to go away for the weekend and he was a no show. She searched around for him – contacted friends and co-workers – before she tried the cops."

Gibbs rubbed the side of his chin with his hand. "Let me guess – missing since Thursday?"

"You got it, boss."

Gibbs grabbed his gun and badge from his desk drawer and stood. "McGee, with me." He grabbed his trench coat from the back of his chair, put his arm in the right sleeve and hung the coat over his left shoulder. Before he stepped from his desk, he picked up the warrant Summers had given him. "DiNozzo, find out who owns the hangar in Manassas. Have a look inside while you're there."

Tony looked curiously at Gibbs. "Boss? Didn't think they were going to let-" Gibbs handed him the warrant. Tony unfolded it and read quickly over the contents. "How'd you get this?"

Gibbs, half-way to the elevator, called out over his shoulder, "I didn't – Summers did."

Tony frowned and then he realised – "Hey! I'm going alone? What if-"

Before he stepped on the elevator, McGee turned his head and smiled, "Just stay in the light, Tony."

"Fine. Just so you know – if I get eaten, I'm coming back to haunt this place – you'll never get rid of me!"

Winkler's Safe Store

They were waved on to the lot of Winkler's Safe Store by one of the bored agents posted to guard the location. Ziva pulled up in front of the office and stopped.

"Where would you like to start, Abby?"

Abby looked down at the satellite photo of the storage facility. Each of the five units the FBI had discovered open and the office had been indicated on the photo with a small label: Office; Unit 37; Unit 43 etc . . .

"I'll start with the office and then I'll go to the unit you guys went to the other night."

Ziva nodded. "All right."

Buffy opened her door and got out. Without hesitating, she started towards the office. Over her shoulder she called out, "Back in a sec'."

Ziva paused on her way to the open trunk of the car and turned her head to respond – to an open and empty doorway. She joined Abby and held her hand out for her bag; Abby grinned and handed her the camera bag instead.

"You get to be my photographer."

"I can do that," Ziva said, as she removed the camera from the case.

Abby slipped the strap of her bag over her shoulder and picked up the laptop case. Ziva closed the trunk.

"Ready?"

Abby frowned. "Where's crazy lady?"

Ziva shook her head. "Inside, clearing the rooms?"

"Oh. Isn't she being just," Abby held up her free hand, thumb and index finger an inch apart, "a liddle paranoid?"

"No." Ziva's voice was harsher than she'd intended. The healing wound on her neck and the memory of her helplessness had a tangible quality here. Abby could not understand how close they had been to death or the emotional stress that followed. Ziva suspected that she hadn't quite come to terms with that night either; there were new nightmares now. Was it weak of her to be grateful that Summers had joined them? With a small, conciliatory smile, Ziva added, "She is being careful; that is all."

Abby shrugged and began walking toward the office door. Ziva pulled the strap of the camera over her shoulder, rested her palm on the butt of her Sig and followed.

Forty-five minutes had passed by slowly. Worse than slow. Buffy remembered High School . . . History class . . . on the wall above the blackboard had been the one inevitable clock with the minute hand that only followed the laws of time when it felt like it. It wasn't that time had stood still – eventually the minute hand had caught up – but it had really felt like it. Like now. Except her watch was accurate. Maybe that just made it worse.

Buffy had chosen to remain outside – with the cool damp air and light wind – after she'd checked out the bare office and washroom. She'd paced, stretched, done a little Tai Chi . . . Now she was listening. Miss Sciuto had rechecked the office and declared that there was nothing new.

"The FBI did a good job for a change."

"Washroom next?" Ziva inquired.

"Washroom next," Abby agreed.

A moment later . . .

"Ew! Ew! Ew! Ew!"

Buffy chuckled. Maybe she should've warned them. The washroom was repulsive. It looked like it hadn't been cleaned since it had been built. And, while there was a toilet, she wasn't sure what exactly its function had been because it was probably the cleanest item in the room; the floor, however . . . Roaches, silverfish and flies completed the decorum. The smell had been the worst of it though; it had caused her to gag and retreat outside where she had sucked in sweet, wonderful air before advising Miss Sciuto and Agent David that the office was safe to enter. Relatively safe, anyway.

Abby took two hurried steps back from the washroom, stumbling on the last step; Ziva caught her before she could fall.

"Abby, what is the matter?"

Abby looked over her shoulder and made a face.

"She's mean. I mean, she could've warned us, don't you think?"

Ziva pulled her head quickly from the washroom, her forearm pressed against her nose and mouth. "I have another word for her."

Outside the office, Buffy giggled.

Abby had braved the washroom, wearing gloves and a mask. There were, thankfully, few places to search; Abby was thorough, regardless. Her dedication paid off. While examining the inside of the toilet, she discovered a slit in the filler float and when she lifted the float to examine it closer heard a rattling inside. The source of the rattle turned out to be a key.

A few moments later, Abby and Ziva appeared; both of them were grinning in a way that made Buffy nervous.

"Here you go," Abby said, holding out the brass key. "While Ziva and I are looking in lockers, you can take this around and see what it opens."

Buffy had sighed resignedly and held out her hand.

After receiving the key from Abby, Buffy had walked to the first unit. She suspected that this task, as much as it was payback for not warning them of the washroom, was also meant to keep her out of Abby's way while she processed the storage unit that had been the focus of all of the excitement Thursday night. She didn't mind; it was better than doing the 'boredom shuffle'. She had arrived at Unit 23. She lifted the Olympus padlock and tried the key; it slid in and turned without resistance. The lock opened easily, like someone had oiled it recently. She pulled the hasp back and hung the lock on the u-bolt. The door protested as she pulled it up – a steely screech she felt in her spine, not particularly loud but, in contrast to the quiet of the cloudy morning, loud enough to stir a crow from his perch on the edge of the building's roof. Her anticipation dulled when the contents of the unit were revealed; it was filled with stacks and heaps and mounds of junk. Kind of reminded her of the homes of those people with that disorder – there was a TV show about it – or the basement of the Magic Box, except that clutter had been a little intriguing, a lot sinister and quite possibly hazardous to one's health while this was just junk: boring and garish. About the only thing that would hurt her here was the dust (already tickling her nose) and maybe the god awful canary yellow jacket hanging from a clothes rack. It was painful to think that anyone with any sense of self respect had ever worn it.

As she studied the junk in the unit more closely, she noticed that there was a vague path leading from her position to the back left corner. She considered Abby's earlier warning:

". . . don't touch anything – I don't want you contaminating the evidence."

But really, how badly could she screw things up by having a look? She decided to chance the possible lecture and went in. Sidling a stack of milk crates that held LPs in dusty plastic sleeves and carefully avoiding the horrible jacket, she followed the path to the end. Sitting atop an old trunk that had been pushed up against the interior wall was a metal box, maybe two feet wide, a foot high and a foot and a half deep. The hinged lid was unlocked.

"I hate mysteries."

She knelt in front of the box, placed her fingertips on either end of the lid and lifted it very slowly – ¼", that was all. Holding the lid steady with her left hand, she drew the stiletto from her boot sheath and delicately ran the the tip of the blade through the narrow opening.

"Maybe I should've waited for Agent David; she's probably much better at this sorta thing."

A minute later, she took a breath and re-sheathed her stiletto; there had been no obstructions. She raised the lid a little more and opened up her senses; amid the musty smell of old clothes and rat shit, the drone of traffic and the almost intelligible voices of the two guards: there were two other scents, another sound – an acrid chemical aroma and the smell of human sweat, and a very faint electrical humm. The chemical odour reminded her of the smell of Spike's lighter – she had no idea why; it wasn't like they were all that similar. That happened sometimes, out of the blue like: she'd hear a sound or smell something and Angel or Spike – or both – would pop into her head. Now, she wondered what Spike would say if he were here; probably something not helpful. He would have stuck around though. She felt an ache of melancholy in her heart as she realized that she couldn't remember what his voice had sounded like – not in the ways that mattered.

"Well, Spike, if you happen to be watching the latest episode of 'Buffy Does Dumb', try not to laugh too hard – and stop staring at my ass."

She held her breath and opened the lid.

"Ok, you can laugh now."

Sitting on the bottom of the box was a device she'd seen enough on TV and in movies to recognise as a pipe bomb: two capped steel pipes, each with a wire leading from the cap to a device that reminded her of one of those card swipe thingies they had in stores except without the slot for the card. On the narrow screen above the keypad was a display and on the display: 00:00:21. Below the countdown, a cursor flickered. Buffy didn't think it was waiting for her PIN#.

"Shit. Big smelly shit."

Her eyes darted over the rest of the box's interior: a Flash Drive; a thick, legal sized manila envelope, which rested on something a few inches thick; a handgun and a small box with 'American Eagle' and '9mm' printed on it. Her eyes returned to the bomb, looking for any indication that if she removed it or the less explosive contents of the metal box that she wouldn't have to worry about that cremation clause in her will. Actually, if she remembered right, at this range she wouldn't burn she just have her insides turned into something resembling gooey porridge. She opted with removing the items – carefully and quickly. She found out what had been beneath the envelope – bundles of money held together with elastic bands. She didn't have time to appreciate the discovery, though an image of, maybe, a new bike might have popped into her head. When everything had been removed, she grabbed a few old t-shirts poking out from a half open suitcase – tried not to scream when a rat poked his nose out from the nest he'd made in the remaining clothing – tucked them tightly around the bomb and laid a few more on top. She closed the lid on the box and picked it up.

"Now what?"

Silently, she counted off seconds.

She moved cautiously back through the junk until she'd cleared the storage unit.

00:00:09

She tried to remember, from the satellite image, what was around. There was a railroad yard or something across New York Ave; she would have to jump down to it. Not something she wanted to try from the bridge, but there was a strip of woods that ran along an embankment that overlooked the tracks, maybe she could find a better way down there.

By the time she reached New York Ave, she was flying. She crossed the street on an angle, aiming for the trees –

00:00:06

She heard car horns and squeals . . . felt branches slap against her face as she leapt over rock and brush. When the edge of the embankment came into view, she pushed harder and didn't stop. She landed lithely and shut out the sharp pain in her feet. The soles of her boots tore into the gravel as she launched herself forward. Sharp eyes spotted a large metal tank with no top. Behind that was a corrugated metal shed. She aimed toward the shed. When she passed the tank, she tossed the box inside and without any visible hesitation

leapt.

And out of the blue, kinda like the way she felt Spike and Angel sometimes, she felt a Slayer – strong and proud and panicking.

And then,

the morning exploded.

Outside the second to last storage unit, Abby was packing her kit; she and Ziva had decided to stop for a mandatory – Abby's words – bathroom and beverage break. Ziva was leaning against the brick wall between the units, hands in her coat pockets, head tilted back and eyes half closed. Abby grinned as she closed her bag. The soft thump-thump-thump of Ziva's boot against the pavement belied her apparent composure. Ziva, Abby knew, was a woman of action and playing 'Abby-guard' really didn't require much action . . . mostly.

Abby slung the strap of her bag over her shoulder. The laptop sat on the ground by Ziva's thump-thump-thumping boot.

"Ok, I'm ready," Abby said. "Let's go before they detect seismic activity and send someone to investigate."

Ziva turned her head and looked quizzically at Abby. "Why would they send someone to investigate – and who are 'they'?"

Abby smiled playfully and pointed at Ziva's now still boot. Ziva's brows narrowed. Abby shook her head. "Never mind."

Ziva picked up the laptop, though she still appeared puzzled.

On their way back to the car, they heard car horns and the screech of skidding tires. Ziva frowned and quickened her pace. They had just passed the last unit in the row and turned towards the car when they heard the blast and saw the smoke across New York Ave. Abby froze. Ziva reached for her phone and dialled the police.

Abby looked left and right; where was crazy lady? She saw one of the guards approaching at a run. He stopped in front of her.

"The other woman who was with you – short, blonde? She took off across the street less than a minute ago, carrying a box. She disappeared into the woods and then," he nodded at the cloud of smoke, "that happened."

Abby paled. "Maybe crazy lady really is crazy."

Guardian Support Communications, Black and Tan, 2nd Floor

Paul swivelled in his chair and reached for his coffee. He drank the cold remains, chewed on a few grounds, and put the cup back down on his desk with a sigh. It was only his second cup of the morning, something he was going to rectify, just as soon as he'd read the last of the Activity Reports from the FBI and the GSC (Guardian Support Command). There hadn't been much activity in the last month; Buffy had cleaned house pretty thoroughly during the first three months of her post in Washington. International activity was less sparse, but he was only concerned with the American postings of Slayers and Guardians. He did receive and send summary reports to the RCMP, MI5, the SVR, and the Police Nationale as well. The sharing of information wasn't something he was familiar with, but he was grateful for it. It was much easier to see evolving patterns when the input came from multiple sources. He loaded a report from Agent Krieger – they had improved in the last few months. He suspected that the improvement was a reflection of her developing confidence as a Lead Agent and her familiarity with the subject matter. Buffy had helped, as well. As he read, he half listened to the police scanner that occupied a small table on his left. It was more of a formality now, but during the months Buffy had been cleaning up Washington it had been a very useful tool.

Those days had been exhausting, especially the early days when his attendance had been necessary to establish protocols with the local PD and the FBI. He rubbed his forehead and chuckled. Buffy was not very tactful when she was pissed. The CGR had needed to dip into their 'Collateral Damage' fund much earlier than they had expected to cover the costs of Buffy's temper: a new door for a Crown Vic' (Buffy had removed it after she'd discovered that two FBI agents had tailed her); hospital bills for two cops (they had made the mistake of trying to shoot her when she wouldn't give up her weapon – that thing she called a scythe); a bottle of 12 year old single malt for the Chief of Police (a diplomatic gesture to encourage his support of the CGR mandates); three store windows (Buffy had been thrown through all of them); 1 city bus (he never did get the complete story on that; something to do with 'containment'). Additionally, she had angered the Arlington County Board, a senator and General Bradshaw, though Buffy really couldn't be faulted for the last. As part of her orientation, Buffy had spent a weekend at Fort Munroe. The idea had been to familiarise her with Army regulars, Rangers and CID. On the second day, while she had been working with CID, four Rangers had confronted her on the mats; Buffy, of course, hadn't backed down. Paul had heard that the fight had been spectacular and quick. In her defence, Buffy had said that the men wouldn't stop until she had, literally, stopped them. General Bradshaw, a Ranger as well, had not been happy. The Secretary of Defence had stepped in and soothed the animosity – backed by strong words to the General to keep his men and their egos in line.

Paul shook his head and logged off his computer. He needed coffee now, and some fresh air; the Activity Reports could wait.

He grabbed his coat from the back of his chair and put it on; picked up his cell phone and dropped it in his pocket. He turned to the door-

And a voice crackled on the police scanner. He caught 'explosion at the rail yard between New York Ave. NE and Harry Thomas Way NE' and pulled out his phone.

"Agent Krieger, please."

October, 2008, Beach House, Bristol Maine

"You've done this before?"

"Mm-hmm. Some, in Sunnydale, before things got crazy, and in Tibet – that was the last time."

"You should practice more often, you know; before you sleep, if you can."

"Wouldn't one of those anti depressants they advertise on TV work better?"

"No. Your condition can't be cured by popping pills; it's a piece of you now, and the Slayer. The enhancements she gave you weren't meant to be undone, I'm afraid. But the more you familiarise yourself with them, the better your control will be and, if I'm as competent as I believe I am, eventually you should be able to enhance and dampen your senses with little effort."

"And what about them – this gonna help? 'Cause it's kinda awkward when I suddenly start speaking Russian or Mandarin in the middle of a conversation."

"There are methods used by therapists treating patients with Dissociative Identity Disorder; we can explore those. Ultimately, however, you must master them.

"I imagine that both traits would be advantageous to a Slayer."

"Yeah . . . If I can find the on/off switch and the dials for the volume. What about something to help me sleep, you know, without the nightmares?"

"There's nothing you could take long term. Dreaming is important, though I'm not sure that anyone quite understands why; the human brain is very much a mystery. And even if there was a solution, I wouldn't offer it."

". . . Why?"

"As I understand, after your disaffiliation with the Powers, the Slayers no longer had prophetic dreams. And since the Powers were, essentially, the authors of prophecy, you are now the only Slayer with a connection to the future."

"Wait . . . You're sayin' none of the Slayers have the screwy dreams?"

"No. None. I've interviewed all of them – most, briefly – and when I asked about the Slayer dreams the answer was the same – none of them , including Faith, have had a 'screwy dream' since the last day of the war."

"Oh my god! Go me!"

"You're smiling . . ."

"That what that was? Huh. 'S been a while."

"Why are you smiling?"

"Because . . . I think I really did it. I mean, yeah, bad things are going to happen – they always will, Slayer or not – but at least we get to make our own choices now."

"You made a few dangerous choices on the last day. Why did you do it – other than the obvious, of course."

"She warned me before I agreed; she said her gifts were always in balance. I thought about it, seriously thought. Didn't matter though, I had to accept. Slayers were dying and Twilight wasn't giving me any options – none that I was going to agree to. The consequences were worth it . . ."

Present Time, North East of Winkler's Safe Store

Her first thought upon returning to consciousness –

'Stop screaming, I'm awake.'

The screaming didn't stop; it sounded like a 14 year old Dawn having one of her angst fests only amplified a thousand times.

Her head hurt, inside and out; so did her right cheek; the palms of her hands: minor pain. Annoyances compared to the screaming. She found her heartbeat, pulsing like a metronome, steady if a little fast. She focused on the beat, imagining the sound.

Fell into the rhythm.

Cassandra would kick her ass for not thinking before she acted; with many long and poignant words – Buffy doubted that Cassandra could physically kick the Easter Bunny's ass.

The screaming faded to be replaced by a ringing that would also fade in a few hours. Carefully, she rolled over, first on her side and then, when she was sure that she hadn't heard anything moving that wasn't supposed to, on to her back. She stared up at the low, grey clouds and blinked slowly. A face hovered above her looking concerned and nervous. She looked a little lower; between blinks, she discerned the uniform. Local PD. The cop was saying something impossible to decipher with no hearing and blurry blinking eyes.

"I can't hear you," Buffy said.

The cop opened his mouth and closed it without speaking. Buffy noticed the look of irritation that crossed his features. He stepped out of view a moment later. A familiar shape darted beside her; sank to her knees and looked down on Buffy with concerned hazel eyes.

Buffy smiled sheepishly. "Hey, Courtney. I can't hear yet but give me a sec' and I'll get up and tell . . ." She trailed off. Courtney had shaken her head; lifted her fingers so Buffy could see them – they were covered in blood. "Your head is bleeding," Courtney mouthed, enunciating each word slowly.

Buffy's expression became stubborn. "Unless you can see my brains, I'm getting up."

Courtney had never managed a proper glare in Buffy's presence; the intended look had always been softened by concern or uncertainty. She was much better at the glare now. Not the only things that had changed. When Buffy had met her, she had worn pants suits and button down shirts; conservative hair and make-up. And when she'd moved, her insecurities were displayed to all. Now though, she wore jeans, an open long sleeved shirt over a 'Washington Nationals' t-shirt and short black motorcycle boots. Over that, she wore her blue FBI coat. Her hair was shorter, though not as short as Buffy's, and generally, she kept it in a pony tail or braid.

Courtney had changed as well; she liked to think, for the better. A week after she had agreed to join the FBI team that would be assigned to the Guardians, she had tried to quit. Why? Because Buffy Summers, their instructor, had scared her. Only one woman had made her nervous before – Ziva David – and Buffy was far more dangerous than Ziva, which, a few years ago, would have seemed impossible. But, as she had with Ziva, she found a much less scary woman behind the cold shining eyes and implacable expression.

June 26th 2009, FBI Academy, Quantico

"Agent Greer, give Agent Crutcher a hand to the Infirmary. And next time, Agent Crutcher, block or duck but don't stand there staring at the fist about to knock you on your ass."

"Yes ma'am," Crutcher mumbled.

"Erikson and Olivera, you can go. See you Monday."

Courtney froze, mid step, when she realised that her name hadn't been called. She put her foot down and crossed her arms protectively over her chest. Summers waited for everyone else to leave before turning and facing Courtney directly.

"Agent Krieger . . ."

"Ma-am?" Courtney's arms tightened around her chest.

Summers took a step forward . . . and smiled. It was kind of a sad smile. "I get it. Being afraid isn't always a bad thing. Being afraid of me though is . . . well, it's kinda funny."

Courtney hoped she wasn't supposed to laugh because, at the moment, she could barely breathe; figured her heart might stop when Summers grinned and held her hand out.

"Take it."

It wasn't a demand but Courtney complied like it was; she took the offered hand: it was hot and dry. Summers fingers curled around her own gently, like she was holding the hand of an infant.

"Now, breathe, before you pass out."

Courtney took a deep breath, followed by another. She was relieved to feel her heart thump in her chest.

"Good. Now, sit."

Again, not a demand but she sat, cross-legged, on the training mat and lowered her arms. Summers disappeared from view; she reappeared on the mat behind Courtney, her legs stretched on either side of hers and her hands . . .

Courtney tensed. "What are you doing?"

Summers applied pressure to her neck: thumbs and palms. "I'm trying to work some of the anxiety from your muscles. 'Course, you're probably all worried I'm gonna snap your neck. I could but just 'cause I can do something doesn't mean I'm going to. I really don't like killing humans; these days, I'm kind of partial to getting to know them." Courtney groaned and felt her cheeks become very hot – the groan had sounded too much like surrender. Summers didn't mention it, just kept massaging her neck. "I figure I'm a little rusty in the 'getting to know you' department; probably why I can count my friends in Washington on one hand . . . um, if I cut off all my fingers first. Guess I need to work on my people skills."

Summers' hands moved to Courtney's shoulders and continued their ministrations. Powerful hands and yet so careful. Outside of the pleasure those hands delivered, Courtney considered Summers' admission. It was a surprise and yet, it wasn't. While Summers was attractive and charismatic, in a stand-offish way, she emanated an aspect of menace that seemed to make everyone around her uneasy, or, like Courtney and a few others, afraid.

She didn't get a chance to finish her thought, Buffy started speaking again.

"You were my first choice. You had all the qualities that make a good agent but . . . more. You want to do good and you don't expect a parade for doing it. You're devoted and you care about the agents you work with. And you're not jaded; there's still some innocence in you; some hope. Don't know if they consider those things important here – I'm thinking not. I do. 'Course, your kickass-y-ness on the mat helped a lot. Where'd you study?"

Courtney's brain was in a jumble. Praise was rare in the FBI, even rarer for young female agents. Summers hadn't been any more generous with the praise in the week they had spent together; certainly nothing like this. "I was learning from a friend; she was a liaison for Mossad and NCIS. She went back to Israel at the end of May."

Summers hands stopped moving. "Mossad . . . Ha! That's where I recognise it from; she was teaching you Krav Maga."

Courtney nodded. "Yeah. I asked her to teach me how to fight after a case we worked on together. She's very good."

Summers legs and hands disappeared and then she stood. "Show me."

Courtney rolled her shoulders and stood. She turned to face Summers, who was smiling benignly. "Show you? You mean attack you."

"Yep. Don't worry about hitting me, I can take it."

So, she had.

Following that day, the two of them had started meeting for coffee; coffee had progressed to lunches and lunches to dinners or going out for drinks. They had stayed at each other's homes when the bars held no interest; movies, take-out and wine, which usually evolved to conversations that carried into the early morning hours. Courtney had taken Buffy (it was 'Buffy' after that first talk – when they were off duty at least) to a Washington Nationals game; spent most of it laughing while Buffy bitched out the umpire and the batters who couldn't connect and cheered the rare acrobatic displays of the players on the field. Courtney didn't think that Buffy had really understood the idea of supporting one team or the other; but she'd been having so much fun, she'd let it slide.

She hadn't quit the FBI team after all. She was glad that she hadn't. She still wasn't quite comfortable with her role as Lead Agent but time and experience would ease her doubts. More important, she had a friend; she was pretty sure it was a mutual deal.

Present Time, North East of Winkler's Safe Store

Courtney wiped her fingers on her jeans and took a notepad and pen from her coat pocket. She flipped through the pad to a new sheet of paper, wrote, 'Wait for the EMTs – please' and held it up for Buffy.

Buffy shrugged. "Fine. Was anyone hurt?"

Courtney shook her head very slowly from left to right and back.

Buffy grinned. "Courtney, I'm deaf, not blind. Have you seen Agent David or Miss Sciuto?"

Another headshake – normal speed – and a curious look bordering on panic.

Buffy reached out and grabbed Courtney's arm. "No. They weren't with me. We were at the storage place when I found this bomb in one of the units."

Courtney nodded and pulled out her phone. Buffy closed her eyes and waited; 'course, that's when it started to rain.

Someone touched the back of Buffy's hand lightly; she opened her eyes. Courtney was looking down at her, smiling anxiously. A few behind her stood Agent David.

"I guess the EMT's are here?" Courtney nodded. "Ok. Before they take me, I need to tell you a few things . . ."

Washington Hospital Center, 3rd Floor

Buffy stepped out of the examination room at the hospital and pulled her jacket back on. Her cheek and palms had been cleaned – her left hand was bandaged – and she'd had four stitches half an inch above her eyebrow. Oh, and she could hear again; she wasn't sure if she was happy about that or not – as soon as she stepped into the hall, she was assaulted by two voices – many words:

"What the hell were you thinking?"

And,

"Wow. You really are crazy."

The first from James, who had elected to come to the hospital and check on her since Paul was busy – soothing political nerves, no doubt – and the second from a wide-eyed Abby Sciuto who was standing by a calm Agent David.

James didn't give Buffy a chance to respond. "Seriously, Summers, did it occur to you that the device could've detonated if you moved it?"

Buffy's head hurt, quite a bit, and her entire focus was on getting out of the hospital and breathing fresh air; she hadn't planned on a welcoming committee.

"Box goes 'boom' no more evidence. I let the box go 'boom' somewhere with no people around. No one got hurt, evidence is safe – end of story."

James studied Buffy with inexpert subtlety. "No one got hurt? Funny, seems we're all in a hospital – again – waiting for you to get stitched up – again."

Buffy forcefully stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jacket and stared blandly at James. "Can we do this somewhere that's not here, please?"

James breathed deeply through his nose, held his breath for three seconds and released it slowly. "Fine. I'll drive you home."

"Actually-" Buffy left the words hanging and turned her head to look down the hall. Dr. Watts, who looked harried but still managed to smile, was approaching; she'd called Buffy's name, too softly for the others to hear. She stopped abruptly in front of Buffy, like she'd forgotten where the brakes were, and held out a prescription bottle.

"Sorry, Buffy, I meant to get you these sooner but the damned pharmacy had some difficulties verifying my status. Twenty Tylenol 3's for your headache. Take two every four hours – if you need them. You really should eat something first."

Buffy took the bottle and shoved the ache back long enough to smile. "Thanks, Audrey. And food is on the menu." She grimaced. "That was bad, even for me."

"If your headache persists, or gets worse, I want you to come back. You shouldn't take chances with head injuries."

Buffy's smile fell. "Yeah, I know: tumours and aneurisms."

Audrey nodded. "Any questions, call me, ok? I have to get back. Every time you come in, I spend three days in the lab. You are an amazing study." Buffy raised an eyebrow. "A little too clinical?"

Buffy nodded. "'Make me sound like a lab rabbit. Speaking of small furry animals, if you have anything else for Mouse, can you send it? She's been pacing for two days."

Audrey smiled abashedly. "Of course. I'm still getting used to the routine so I sometimes forget one thing for another. I'll send her the data from your last visit and, if we can compile it quickly enough, this one as well."

"Thanks, Audrey."

Audrey waved and returned back down the hall.

Buffy returned her focus to the three individuals standing with her. "I need air and coffee. Actually, switch those around."

She didn't wait to see if anyone had acknowledged her; she hadn't been asking a question, she'd been stating a fact. Pocketing the pills, she started walking towards the elevators.

The drizzle and breeze of earlier had strengthened; it was raining now, heavy drops swept up by the stronger, chillier currents of air. Buffy had found a bench partially sheltered from the rain, until the rain danced again at least. She could suffer the dampness for now, the air was refreshing and while it wasn't free of its own acrid smells, it was at least free of the depressing scents of human suffering. Holding her coffee in her right hand and an open bottle of water between her knees, she fished the bottle of pills from her pocket. She popped the lid off of the bottle, dumped four tablets into her mouth and swallowed them back with half the water.

"I need more hands," she remarked absently. She put the lids back on the pills and water, put the bottles in her jacket pockets and opened the lid of her coffee. Her headache hadn't abated yet but the fresh air and the promise of the painkillers had eased some of the tension in her neck and shoulders. "Now, if everyone promises to talk real quiet for half an hour, I'll answer your questions."

By silent agreement, or, perhaps, because she'd yet to speak, Ziva elected to go first.

"Abby found a motion sensor rigged to the door on the storage unit; we believe that was what armed the bomb. How did you know it was there?"

Buffy blinked. "Uh, motion sensor? Didn't know there was one. Saw a path through the crap and followed it. Found a metal box at the end and opened it." Before James could comment, no doubt about her stupidity, she glared at him and added, "I checked it very carefully. Twice. The bomb was already tick-tocking down though. So I took the stuff out, stuffed some t-shirts inside to hold the bomb in place and ran."

"You were very lucky that you didn't trigger the device; pipe bombs are notoriously unstable," Ziva said.

"I had my Lucky Charms for breakfast."

James shook his head. "You were still damned lucky though, Summers."

"Ok, got it, I was lucky. Let's move on shall we? Did you find what was in the box?"

Ziva sat down on the bench, facing Buffy. "Yes, Courtney is taking it to NCIS. The rest of her team is searching the contents of the storage unit. They will call if they find anything."

Buffy nodded and sipped her coffee. "Cool. So, were you guys going to check out the treasure and, if you are, can I come? I'll buy lunch . . . or dinner. What time is it anyway?"

"4:30," Abby answered. "And yes, we are . . . I guess an extra pair of eyes could be helpful."

Buffy smiled; it was easier this time. She looked at Agent David next.

Ziva responded promptly. "I am fine with it, though I think you should call Director Vance first."

Buffy reached into her jacket and unzipped the inside pocket. She took out her phone, turned it on and entered the security code. "Good idea. I should probably call Paul and let him know-"

James interrupted. "Already done. He called the Secretary of the CGR as well and updated them on the situation. The FBI have taken control of the scene. They're claiming that the explosion was staged as part of an emergency response drill."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Of course they did. Good idea, I guess. Don't want people in a panic." She dialled the number for NCIS and lifted the phone to her ear. "So, what do you guys wanna eat?"

Abby's phone rang. She stepped away, closer to the hospital doors, and answered. "Hello?"

Tony's voice hissed in her ear. "Where the hell are you? I've been calling for an hour."

"We're at the Washington Hospital Center with Ziva, Summers and some either guy. Summers almost got blowed up; they just released her. We – um, she – found some stuff in a locker; we're going back to have a look. Where are you?"

"Walter Reed Medical," Tony answered. "Gibbs and McGee are here. They were bitten by something at Winkler's house. They're . . . well, I'm not sure what they are, since no one's telling me anything, but it doesn't look good-"

Abby's eyes widened alarmingly and her free hand shot up to cover her mouth.

"Abby? You there?"

Ziva and Buffy had turned to look at Abby after she had stepped away to answer her phone; both saw the look of horror on her face and heard the voice on the phone calling her name.

Ziva hurried over. "Abby, what is the matter?"

Buffy ended her call and followed a little more slowly. Quietly, she said, "Something not nice. Miss Sciuto, can I have your phone?" Abby held it out reflexively; her hand was trembling. Buffy took it gently from her fingers and lifted it to her ear. "Hello?"

"Summers? Where's Abby?"

"She's right here, Agent DiNozzo; just needs a minute. What happened?"

Tony sighed. "Gibbs and McGee went to Winkler's place to look for the son of his dead girlfriend, uh, Owen McDowell. While they were there, something bit them. They found Owen and brought him here. Whatever bit them, well, McGee had a seizure in the ER admissions and Gibbs passed out. They're both on respirators and have really high fevers – whatever the hell that means. They won't tell me anything else."

Buffy didn't bother with questions; there would be time for those later. "Ok. I'm gonna need you to trust me and do what I ask you to – just for now. Think you can do that?"

There was a pause and then, "Guess it depends on what I'm trusting you with."

"Gibbs and McGee's lives."

"Oh. Is that all."

"I'm going to make a few phone calls and have them transferred here. They have resources here that none of the other hospital's have."

"Like what?"

"Their own lab; a bunch of science-y types who are supposed to be some of the best around; a lot of hi-tech do-dads; and some pretty awesome doctors: that kind of stuff. Gibbs' and McGee's life expectancies will be a lot longer if they're here."

Another pause while Tony considered. "Alright. I'll trust you. Just keep in mind, Summers, if this backfires you're going to have a lot of people looking for pay-back."

"I'll take my chances. I'll pass you to Agent David. Stay put."

Buffy handed the phone to Agent David and took out her own phone. Before she made her first call, she turned to James. "I need someone at Henry Winkler's place. Make sure no one goes in unless they're NCIS or FBI and warn them about bite-y things; Agents McGee and Gibbs were bitten by something – 'k?"

James nodded. "Done."

Buffy hit redial on her phone. "Hello, it's Buffy Summers again. Sorry for cutting you off. Is Director Vance there? . . . . . Ok. Can you ask him to call Agent DiNozzo and myself as soon as you hear from him – it's kind of an emergency . . . . . You can do that? . . . . . Great, thank you Mrs. Gilmore." She entered her phone book and called another number, one she had only used a few times before. "Hello. It's Buffy Summers. Any way I could talk to Mr. Blackwell? It's an emergency . . . . . Thank you . . . . . Hi. Sorry for bugging you, but I need a little favour . . ."