Chapter 10

The air was heavy with humidity. The once playful, swaying boughs of the trees now remained deathly still without the provocation of the wind. The sky was an ominous grey, and as if to prove its point, it gave a warning rumble. If it stormed tonight, which it would, the downpour was sure to last the entire night.

Those horrid flashes that made him feel like his head was splitting into two had finally ceased. When the last one was over, he saw that her nose was bleeding. With a troubled frown, he had told her that maybe they ought to take a rest. He didn't want to obsess over a bloody nose, but in the face of all the unexplainable events, he didn't wish to take a chance. Everything appeared to be without change, looking as it did before, but he was a firm believer in nothing ever happening without a reason. He only hoped that once they hit the other side of the island, he'd have come up with a better idea. His original plan was to put as much distance in between them and the barracks, but at the moment, they would have to find shelter.

She came to a stop beside him and joined him in gazing up at the darkening sky, which didn't look too promising. "We should stop for the night," he said. Even the critters in the woods had fallen silent, probably hiding from the impending storm. The unnatural silence made him feel like they were entirely alone. Within a few minutes of keeping a lookout, they found a spot where the full branches of two thick shrubs had formed an arch, providing the perfect covering against the oncoming rain.

He left her to set up camp while he attempted to wrangle a couple of the mangoes from a tree. Since they were hanging relatively low to the ground, all he had to do was to clamber onto the short trunk and pluck them with little resistance. With two in each hand, he returned with the satisfied air of one who had just accomplished a great mission, and was about to crow about his findings when the sight that met his eyes stopped him.

A tiny butterfly with emerald-green wings fluttered by her, grasping her full attention. The expression of awe on her face was reminiscent of the one she had worn when she had stood before the glass doors of the hotel room, watching it snow in Alabama. Warmth emitting from his heart encompassed him, and he smiled to himself, appreciating the little things that made her let her guard down and wishing he could capture all of them. He ducked his head to get into the shelter. "What's on the TV," he remarked, a lilt in his tone.

"National Geography," was her smart answer.

He grinned and tossed one ripe, yellow fruit to her. It fell into her hands, heavy and promising of sweet flesh. "Can we flip to HBO?"

"Afraid we're stuck with this, honey," she said, not at all sounding sympathetic. "We take turns to choose the channel, remember?" She held the mango to her nose, indulging in the fragrant smell that permeated her senses. Then, she set the fruit down on her lap and surveyed their supplies with a contemplative expression. "What do you say to breakfast for dinner? We've got lots of cereal. Dry cereal," she specified, wrinkling her nose. "Because I forgot to get the milk at the grocery store today, along with the steak and potatoes."

"Well, ain't no better time to exercise my huntin' skills, Jane," he said, merriment in his eyes. The idea that they could still play house in such a dismal situation was of comfort to him.

About an hour later, the air was still refusing to budge, as though too laden down with moisture to move. The entire forest seemed to hold its breath, just waiting for the release from the skies, to have the blanket of heat flung far from them. He knew he sure was waiting for it. They sat, legs stretched out, backs against the rough bark of the tree, exhausted, drained, and wishing for relief from the humidity.

Then he heard her say something. He turned a questioning gaze in her direction, waiting for more. She stared hard at the tips of her tennis shoes, smudged with dirt and worn out from the endless walking. "For everything that happened," she said softly. "I'm sorry, James."

And even though it was vague, he understood what she meant, and why she apologized, even though none of it was her doing. He pulled her closer, letting her rest on his shoulder. There was no need for a worded response. It wasn't what she was expecting. He was appreciative of what she offered, and the fact that he knew how she felt was enough.

A lone cricket chirped, daring to break the fearful silence of nature. In his soothing baritone voice, he sings the words of Marley's Redemption Song in the quietness, the night's lullaby.

At the utmost top of a redwood tree, a little leaf quavered.

He saunters to work, a bounce in his step, humming under his breath. His colleagues eye him with strange looks but he ignores them, only caring that he feels more buoyant than he ever has in a long time. He called her right after he checked out of the motel, which was yesterday, but no one picked up. He assumed work was keeping her from answering any calls, and he was right. She got back to him that evening after getting his message, apologizing for not picking up his call.

The more he gets to know her, the more he feels that she is like a closed book, which intrigues him because you never know what you'll find in those pages. He plays with the thought that perhaps she is his soul mate. How else can it be explained that they share so many things in common, that she just seems to get him?

He plops onto his chair, their conversation springing to mind. "Do you like to read," he asked, because reading is one of his favourite pastimes, and she replied, "Yes, I do. A lot, actually. I enjoy the classics a lot. I particularly like novels from Dickens, Twain, Steinback…and occasionally, Stephen King." They delved into a long conversation about books, and he found out that those she is fond of are the ones he enjoys the most as well. They also touched on music, and it turns out that the music that she listens to doesn't fall too far from what he has in his collection as well. He smiles, recalling how she mentioned the day she put on Bob Marley's Redemption Song, and it delights him. Isn't a relationship easier to nurture and build when both parties have common interests?

As he further ponders, he decides that it is more than just the sharing of interests. As much as he likes knowing that their budding relationship will always have these similarities to bond them together, he feels a deeper connection to her. He remembers that when those stunning blue eyes first collided with his, it felt as though she already knew him.

He signs a couple of documents and reviews a case file that someone has left on his desk. There isn't a heavy load for him to do today, just to type up a report and get started on his new assignment. He will get to knock off on time for his dinner appointment.

Someone in the cubicle across the room calls out to him and asks if he will be going to the briefing on Friday. He yells back and asks what briefing. The man rolls his chair out into his view. "Don't tell me you've forgotten it already, Ford. The big man just emailed it to us yesterday. You better not miss this one." He gives a warning glance. "You've already skipped the last meeting."

He shakes his head. He must be getting old to have his memory already failing him. He pens it down on a sticky note and positions it on his desk where he will most certainly not miss it. There. Now he will be in attendance.

Every so often throughout the day, he finds his gaze straying to the clock, wondering why time seems to crawl. The days usually pass much faster when he is out doing fieldwork. At five till six, he stops tapping his foot impatiently and starts clearing his desk.

"Heading to the bar today," the same colleague inquires before he leaves. He says he isn't and that he has got other things planned instead. The man with the jet-black hair throws him a knowing look, which he returns with a grin, and then, he ambles off to his vehicle. Out in the evening air, he lifts his face to the setting sun, basking in the warmness. A strong gust of wind sweeps across the parking lot and playfully ruffles his hair, bringing with it the sweet smell of autumn approaching.

It takes close to half an hour to get to the dining place situated on the corner of Main Street Ave. A red Chevrolet Impala pulls in next to his black Audi, and as he steps out of his own car, he realizes who it is.

"Right on time, Blondie." He flashes her a teasing grin as she meets him at the front of their vehicles.

She arches her brows in response. "And I see you are too."

He just grins widely and holds the restaurant door open for her. It is a small, comfy place where one can choose to either occupy a booth of deep scarlet, or the 4-chairs-to-a-table on the other side of the area. It has a little bit of a homely feel to it, but he enjoys the atmosphere. Classic rock of the late 70s play in the background. Once the waitress settles them into their seats, he gives her furtive glances over the top of his menu, and she does not notice, or at least, pretends not to. She tucks her hair behind her right ear when it gets in the way. Her eyes flicker up to meet his, and she gives him the cutest smile. His heart trips over itself. He feels like a youngster again with a hopeless crush on the most popular girl in town again. He ignores his racing heart, and hopes he won't begin stuttering. He leans back, assuming a confident stance, and crosses his legs at the ankles. "So…we gonna talk about what happened?"

She bits her bottom lip, and then, with that particular gaze that enthralls him, answers, "Are we?" She gives him the half-smile that he can never read. Some people may call it a smirk, but it is part of why she fascinates him.

The waitress returns with a bottle of Merlot wine, interrupting them, and tips the bottle to fill the conventional one-third of the glasses. They clink them together, holding each other's gazes and only breaking eye contact to sip the wine.

"You hit the bars often?" He asks, purposefully injecting nonchalance in the inquiry.

"Not often." She swirls the smooth, rich redness in her own glass with the practiced skill of one who has done it often. "Do you?"

He shrugs a shoulder. "Only to sing some country, listen to some bands, and meet new people." He studies her. "Sure didn't expect to find a doctor where I was. Sittin' at the bar, downin' one hell of an Alabama Slammer."

The corners of her lips tilt upwards ever so slightly, the beginnings of a teasing comeback. "Can I tell you a secret?" He lifts his eyebrows, and she leans forward just the slightest bit. "Where I work, we have a lot of practice with alcohol too."

He is amused and thinks he is enjoying their easy bantering way too much. He hasn't met anyone who has managed to match him in terms of sarcasm and wit, at least, not until now, and she surprises him by holding her own. With that almost indiscernible smile still playing across her face, she proceeds to drain the rest of her beverage. By the time they are done with their appetizers, they have accomplished consuming half the bottle of wine.

"Sometimes they hold a little swing dance party. You should come."

Her laugh is music to his ears. "Dancing isn't one of my strong points," she tells him.

"Aw, c'mon," he says with gentle persuasion. "It'll be fun. I'll teach you."

"Maybe," she replies in an indecipherable tone, and he settles for that.

Their entrées arrive, pan-seared scallops and angel hair pasta in a tomato-based sauce. He tells her this place has a reputation for serving good pasta. The oddest expression, much like a pained look, crosses her face. Within the second though, the frown disappears, and he wonders if perhaps he has imagined it.

They exchange information about their work, and he tells her that about a year ago, he switched jobs to another department because he got stationed elsewhere. He does not notice how her eyes have lit up, and she asks about the place where he used to work before he was transferred. He tells her, and he sees that her face falls slightly at his answer. He wonders why. Trying to make up for the unintentional mistake that he has committed, he compliments her about the necklace she wears.

Strangely enough, it seems to backfire on him. He receives no expression of pleasure. One would think it is the norm after being complimented. She fingers the silver dove pendant, brows drawn together. "Thank you," she hesitates, as though contemplating if she ought to say more. Her gaze flicks up to meet his. "It's a gift from someone I used to know."

Right at that instant, there is a little niggling feeling that troubles him, the kind of feeling he gets when a word evades him, and for the life of him, cannot figure out what it is. He senses that the someone she is referring to still means a lot to her and wonders if it is from a past lover. He doesn't probe, watching as yet again, she swallows the last drop of wine in her glass. She has come across as an independent woman who is perfectly capable of taking care of herself, and he is sure that she is well aware of her own limits, but his worry supersedes his assumptions. "You keep drinkin', sweetheart," he remarks lightly. "And you ain't gonna be able to drive home."

She chuckles softly, fingers brushing the slender stem of the glass. "I'm a grown girl, *Five-0 Sir, but I appreciate the concern. I think you have no cause to worry."

And she was right. He didn't have to, because she doesn't drive home. In fact, she doesn't drive anywhere that night.

He takes her home with him. She lies on his bed, hair spilling around her like a golden halo. Her cheeks are flushed, the wine having heightened the colour in her face, her eyes an electric blue. His hand slides up to caress her face, but when he leans down to kiss her lips, she turns her head away. "Not today," she says in a low voice. He is confused for a moment until she refocuses his attention. Once more, the passion takes precedence over everything else. Even as the first flutters of bliss start to converge in his world, he wonders who she really is, and what is that deep secret she hides.

The call jostles her from her sleep, and she awakes with a start, heart pounding as though she has just finished a marathon. She looks around, panicked for a second at the unfamiliar surroundings, but as her eyes land on him, the feeling ebbs away. He breathes deeply, still in the clutches of sleep.

But there is no one else. The voice is but a memory.

She bends her head, face twisted in an expression of agony. What is she doing?

Wrapped up in anguish, she does not notice that there is a shifting beside her until she feels a hand on her back. He is awake, his features arrayed in concern. "What's wrong, sweetheart?"

She cannot answer, because at that moment, it seems like he is really here, and every bit of her wishes to believe that he is. How often has he been where he is right now, saying those words in that very same tone, and wearing that expression of worry as he rubs her back? She escapes to the bathroom, finding herself to be incapable of carrying on the masquerade, and she buries her face in her lap to stifle her cries. She hears a hesitant knock on the bathroom door, and his voice asking if she is all right, but she ignores him, gripping elbows tight to still the trembling. When it is over, she pulls herself up, using the blue porcelain sink as a support, and splashes cold water on her face, over and over until she can remember the hotness of her tears on her cheeks no longer.

When she emerges from the bathroom, there is but a slight trace of what went on hidden behind the closed door. In his shorts and white singlet, he scrutinizes her. She tells him that she has got to go, and without a kiss or a hug, she is gone, leaving him sitting dumbfounded on the edge of the bed.

She hails a cab to take her back where her car is, and by the time she reaches her house, it is eight in the morning. She throws her clothes in the laundry basket and pulls on track pants and a tank top.

Running has become part of her weekly routine. Sometimes she runs, feet pounding hard on the ground, as though trying to leave certain memories in the dust behind her, as though if she runs fast enough, she can escape the nightmares that ensnare her.

She bends over and tightens the laces on her shoes. The look on his face when she left this morning flashes through her mind, and her stomach ties in a knot.

How could she even have considered leading him on like this?

She runs, almost sprinting, until all she feels is the heat from her body and the burning pain in her calf muscles. She collapses to the ground at the end of the track, panting and gasping, and for that moment, thankful that all she feels is the physical discomfort of struggling to breathe.

When her heartbeat has returned to its normal pace, she picks herself up, wiping her face with the white towel around her neck and trudges back to her car. She sees that she has two missed calls, both from him. The guilt, a heavyweight in her heart, is back with new fury. She tosses her phone into the glove compartment. Perhaps if it is out of sight, it will be out of mind.

She turns on the radio to mute the thoughts crowding in her head. Some news broadcaster goes on in a bleak tone about the death of John Lennon. In some sadistic way, it makes her feel better knowing that she isn't the lone person that is drowning in misery. As she pulls into her driveway, she turns the radio off and retrieves her phone without looking at the screen.

She exits the car and enters the house again. It is now a quarter past nine. She will have to call him at ten to check in, and he will be more than happy to receive her call. During last night's conversation, she obtained the name of his latest suspect. It shouldn't take much more effort to extract more details with this opening, such as the whereabouts of the suspect.

It suddenly occurs to her that she is musing over these things in a most callous manner. Revulsion creeps in. What has she become, a thought exclaims, aghast. She pushes it away and heads down the hallway to take her bath, but right before she reaches the bathroom, something stops her in her footsteps.

There is a door, very plain and simple in its appearance, and built out of red oak like every single one of the doors in the house. But this one is different. It is one that she has kept shut for months now. Whether she is merely unable or just unwilling to open it, she doesn't know, but today, it beckons to her, and she is drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

Slowly, tentatively, she cracks it open as though by doing so, she would release the monster within, one that would leap out and consume her. What meets her eyes is the same picture that she remembers from before. It is as though nothing has changed, though she knows everything has. All is as it has been the day she firmly shut the door, resolving to never step in until all is right again.

Perhaps it is his reappearance that has awakened that yearning in her.

It is a square room with a little chandelier hanging from the cream-coloured ceiling. On the calming green-blue walls, the colour of the sea under the clear sky, there is a wall decal of a branch extending from the ground, its pink and white flowers hanging over a little cot with dark teakwood panels. By the white drawer, a rectangular mirror with a bronze patterned frame is positioned over a light pink dresser, its surface empty sans a small vase and dried petals scattered around it.

She takes all of that in with the look of one who knows every nook and cranny, and is seeing it all again after years of being absent from home.

Almost against her own will, her legs carry her to the mantle, where photo frames are meticulously positioned in a crooked line, each at a slight angle, collecting dust. She stops before one, eyes fixated on the two people captured in a moment of perfection, faces wreathed in grins of happiness that now seems so foreign to her.

She touches his face, a lump rising to her throat. Her gaze shifts to the little blond girl that rides on his shoulders. The wide baby blues that stare back at her are identical to hers, but the playfulness that sparkles in them comes from her father. She wears the mischievous smile that is so similar to his, complete with the heartbreaker dimples. She even takes after him when it comes to the confidence.

"Daddy," she hears in her head, the very same childlike voice that woke her this morning. "Daddy, carry me!" Then, his deep rumbling laugh sounds as he complies with her request.

A faint smile wanders onto her face as she strokes her daughter's face through the glass.

**Rachelle.

A/n: *Five-0 Sir is from the American police drama 'Hawaii Five-0' that ran from 1968 - 1980. **Rachelle is a nod to Rachel, Juliet's sister, the storyline which TPTB have so conveniently dropped in Lost. Seeing that Rachel named her son, Julian, I thought it was fitting to name Juliet's daughter Rachelle.