"Can I ask you a question?" Ellie inquired as she finished scrubbing the grainy skin of the zucchini and handed it to him.

"Sure," John replied, slicing off the top and bottom of the vegetable and cutting it into thin strips.

She misted the yellow squash with veggie wash and applied the brush. "Why do the Buy More boys always call you by your last name? What I mean to say is, do you prefer to be called 'Casey' or 'John' or some other heretofore unspecified nickname?"

Her eyelashes brushed against her cheeks as she smiled at him, and he noticed that she was wearing makeup. Not too much, just a little mascara and lip-gloss. She didn't put on the war paint those nights she and Captain Awful stayed in for dinner, but she'd put it on for him.

Jesus, had it only been last night that they'd made utter fools of themselves in that karaoke bar? Less than twenty-four hours since they'd made out like a couple of horny teenagers in her aunt's bathroom and he'd fallen asleep holding her in his arms? His hands shook as he imagined what it would be like to hold her again.

"Not a lot of people call me by my first name," he admitted. "Most people call me 'Casey'."

"Even your dad?"

John shrugged a shoulder to alleviate the tension in his neck as he scooped the zucchini into a bowl. "My father isn't real big into nicknames.'"

"What does your mom call you?" Ellie asked, as she placed the second vegetable at the top of the cutting board he was using.

His concentration slipped as he watched her pump some liquid soap into her hands, and start washing them in a manner that reminded him of what he'd done earlier with her Oil of Olay with Crème Ribbons.

I am so going to Hell for that.

He fumbled blindly for the second vegetable. "She, um, calls me…"

"John?"

Her wet, slippery hand reached out and came to rest atop his. She gripped it gently. Their eyes met and held. His heart rate sped up as time slowed down and he forgot to breathe.

"You were about to take a slice out of your thumb," she notified him as she glanced down at the knife.

Jesus Christ, that was close. Almost lost a body part there…

"My mother calls me 'Johnny-Boy'," he admitted in a rush before clearing his throat and adjusting his hold on the squash.

"Hmmm…'Johnny Boy,'" she said, testing the name as she dried her hands. "Nope, doesn't work for me. I really like 'John,' but if most of your friends call you 'Casey,' then I should really get with the program, right?"

He bit his lips to keep from protesting. Very few people called him by his first name, mainly because he preferred to maintain a level of formality between himself and others. His fellow officers in the Corps, other intelligence agents, even the women he'd dated never called him anything but 'Casey'. It was a barrier that kept things from getting too personal. It was different with her. He didn't want any barriers between them, but they were there all the same, those little reminders of the life he'd chosen: the bugs he'd used to infect her kitchen with, the fake identification tucked inside his wallet, that piece of compressed coal twinkling like a distant desert star on her left hand.

She was all but leaning against him, but she would always be light years away.

"You can call me anything you want," he replied nonchalantly. "Just don't call me 'late for dinner.'"

"You? Never!" she countered, a teasing tone in her voice as she hip-checked him. "I set my clock by you on Sunday nights – always fifteen minutes early."

Their eyes met and her smile shifted imperceptibly, her lips softening as her gaze slid down to his mouth.

Now if that wasn't the universal signal for "I want you to kiss me," he didn't know what was.

Any other operation, any other woman, and they would've been halfway to her bedroom by now, dinner be damned.

But this was good, sweet, wholesome, innocent Eleanor Fay. He'd barged in on her life and she'd welcomed him with open arms. He'd infiltrated her home, invaded her privacy, insisted that her brother lie to her on a daily basis, and she fed him, laughed with him, and confided in him. It ate away at his conscience like salt and vinegar on a dirty penny every time he looked into her eyes, the he could see her faith in him mirrored there.

She trusted him, even though there was absolutely no reason in the world for her to do so, and it interfered with the ruthless, livid energy that fed his ability to mobilize, execute, and function.

It was cruel joke, that every time he felt himself getting hard for her below the belt, he also felt something growing soft up in his ribcage. When she looked at him like she was now, he didn't want to be a cold-blooded killing machine; he wanted to marry her, make love to her, raise a pack of dark-haired, grey-eyed babies in suburbia with her.

But who would be there to keep the bad guys at bay? Who would hold back the religious fundamentalists, the filthy rich, and the corrupted politicians who threatened the safety of their nation from within and without, all in the name of God, gold or glory? Who would care enough to put his life on the line every day so women like her could live the kind of life that she chose for herself?

There weren't many men anymore who understood the need to defend the innocent from all that was harsh, brutal and evil in this world. There were countries where women were treated little better than animals, bipedal wombs that had to keep their eyes lowered and speak deferentially lest they be judged to be "disrespectful." He'd seen what those "men" had done to those women, how they had violated, mutilated, degraded them. When he looked into Ellie's eyes, John knew without a doubt that he'd have no problem terminating every last one of those motherfuckers with extreme prejudice before they ever got near her, but how could he keep his head in the game when she could calm the rage he needed to operate with a touch of her hand?

Holy hell, it was crippling, this need to shelter her from everything that could hurt her, especially deceitful assholes like himself. She didn't deserve the kind of shit that the intelligence community had brought into her life. He wondered what it would take to protect her from the inevitable fallout.

Isn't it obvious, dickhead? Get her and Dumbass married and out of the state. You do a little revising on her government documents, make sure every one of her lines of communication are encrypted so they can't trace it back to Brother Dearest and "hello, goodbye!" – baby girl's off the grid. Of course, that mean you'll never see her again, but that's the price you've gotta pay for choosing this life.

"So, have you figured out how you want your wedding to go?" he asked, bracing himself for a dose of reality.

Ellie pushed her bangs back from her forehead. "What I want and what's going to happen are two different things."

"Why? You're the bride. It should be your day, shouldn't it?"

She folded her arms and rested her backside against the counter. "Technically, yes, but I've seen the writing on the wall. My future in-laws are footing the bill, so I predict that it's going to be 'The Wedding According to Honey': fussy dress, festooned church, four hundred guests, five feet high flower arrangements – the kind of over-the-top orgy of spending that reality TV addicts thrive on."

"Ouch," he murmured as he finished the yellow squash.

"Yeah," she agreed, twisting her lips as she toyed with her engagement ring. "The only thing she's letting me choose is the brand of champagne for the reception."

John wanted to put his arms around her, but he knew it was stupid to tempt fate. He kept his hands to himself as he crossed to the stove and dumped the contents of the bowl into the garlic butter sizzling in the skillet. "So what kind did you pick?"

"Bollinger," she replied as she pulled down two plates and two wineglasses from the cabinets.

"Good, solid choice. Not too expensive, but not bargain basement either," he observed as he manipulated the spatula.

"I didn't want them to think I was marrying Devon for his money," she joked. Her face dimmed as she opened the flatware drawer and took out forks, knives, and spoons. "My parents served Bollinger the last New Year's Eve we were together. I was fifteen. Dad let me have a sip, made me promise not to tell Mom."

"You were close, weren't you?" He knew he was heading out into deep water, but Big, Quiet John from the Buy More didn't know that Papa Bartowski was a sensitive topic.

"Yeah," she said, her voice shaking as she chose serving spoons. "He was a great dad. Chuck's best friend, when we were growing up. Mine, too. We would all watch Star Trek: The Next Generation on Monday nights. He taught me how to tie my shoes, ride a bike, make pancakes. He was going to make us pancakes for dinner the night he…left."

John risked a glance, and knew straightaway that he'd hit a nerve. She was looking at the future place settings, her chin quivering, her breathing slow and measured.

He turned down the heat under the skillet and moved towards her, put a hand on her shoulder. Her bottom lip trembled as she put her hand over his and focused on the tiles that decorated the backsplash. He knew he was playing with fire, but he couldn't help himself. She was in pain, and that was not okay with him.

"I'm okay," she promised, squeezing his fingers with her own. "I just wish he were here. I could use some familial moral support."

"And someone to walk you down the aisle, I bet," he added.

She nodded, a miserable grin creeping over her face. "That, too. Porno-Boy-Shorts the First is begging to do the honors."

"Did you tell him to take a flying leap at a rolling doughnut?" he asked as he made a mental note to have the IRS audit the tax returns of the doctors Woodcomb for the last five years.

Ellie snort-laughed as she wiped at her eyes. "Take a 'what' at a 'what'?"

"It's an old saying of my grandma's," he explained. "It translates roughly into 'did you tell him to fuck off?'"

"No!" she laughed. "I can't say that! He's going to be my father-in-law!"

"Yeah, but he shouldn't be volunteering himself for a position that he's not qualified to fill," John replied, his eye straying to the vegetables. "If anyone but your dad should be walking you down the aisle, it should be Chuck."

"My thoughts exactly," Ellie agreed as she went to the fridge and took out the mustard.

"You need a serving dish for that?" he asked her as pointed with his spatula to the place where she kept her condiment crockery.

Ellie cocked her head to the side. "No, I don't think so."

"You sure?" John pressed, indicating the platter and dishes she'd selected. "This dinner's getting a five-star tjutzing. One would think that the mustard would have to be served from something made of crystal."

She grinned as she placed her index finger atop the nozzle and began shaking it. "Trust me, John, this stuff is best straight from the bottle."


"So," he began as he placed his napkin on his lap. "If you could plan the perfect wedding, how would it go?"

"I've always wanted to get married on the beach," she answered, lifting her plate up for two slices of ham. "In the late afternoon, when the light's beautiful. Simple gown, no veil, just some begonias and the sand between my toes."

"Sounds like good times," he said as he helped himself to the sautéed squash.

"You ever been married?" Ellie asked him as she twisted open the mustard bottle's top.

"Me? No," he replied quickly as he reached for the spoon for the peas.

She swirled the mustard in a counterclockwise spiral on her ham. "Like being a bachelor too much?"

"Nope," he answered as he took the mustard from her.

"Then why?" she pressed. "I don't mean to pry, but look at you: you're tall, gorgeous, considerate, completely ripped – I expect the women would be lining up."

"Stop, stop, you're embarrassing me," he protested halfheartedly as he picked up his wine glass.

"I'm just telling the truth," she shot back.

John considered his glass for a moment. "Well, the truth is that I tend to fall for women I can't have."

"Like who?" she asked, picking up her glass.

He didn't dare look her in the eye because if he did, he might end up blurting out something that would make it impossible for them to ever again share the easy camaraderie they were enjoying right now. Best keep it simple and honest. "The kind of woman I'm attracted to – I can't give her the kind of life she deserves."

"Money isn't everything, John. If I had to choose between a good man without a cent to his name and an asshole who can buy anything he wants, I'd choose the good man, every time," Ellie declared quietly before she tactfully changed the subject. "So what shall we toast to?"

He smiled at her, desperately grateful that he'd managed to mislead her without lying. "How about friendship?"

She grinned tenderly at him as she raised her glass. "Absolutely – to friendship."


Friendship.

It was a word that encompassed their relationship, but it seemed such a pitiful descriptor for what she meant to him.

Yes, she was dazzling, but there was so much more to her than just her beautiful face and body. She had a huge heart, a serene and sympathetic soul, a strong sense of personal integrity. It was possible that if he spilled his guts about who he really was, what he really did for a living, and why he'd become part of her life, that she just might be ready to believe without reservation, willing to listen without judging, and able to deal without freaking out.

He almost wished that she had been the one to become the Intersect. That way he would have been the lucky bastard who got to be her cover boyfriend, to protect her and keep her safe, while Walker got to rock the fugly green shirt and work double shifts in the sixth circle of hell. But luck had never been much of a lady to him, so here he was, building trust on pillars of sand with this amazing woman he would have to walk away from one day without ever getting a chance to tell her how he really felt about her. When they were both sober, that is.

I know you're with someone else, and this is way out of line, but you need to know that I'm crazy about you, have been since the day you invited me to dinner, will be until the day I die…

That was just a fantasy because he had a job to do, priorities to maintain, an op to run, and her kid brother to keep alive.

The only way he had to express his emotions was to keep his goddamn trap shut and keep on fighting the good fight. Tonight was the end of his "shore leave," maybe the last night he would ever get to be alone with her like this. He wasn't about to go spoiling it by inserting his foot into his mouth and chewing to the motherfucking hip.

"You're so quiet," she observed as she picked up her fork and knife. "What are you thinking about?"

He grimaced as he felt his heart crack right down the middle. "I was thinking about the fact that I have to go back to work tomorrow."

"Yeah, it kind of sucks, doesn't it?" she commiserated.

Lady, you have no idea.


"We need some 'muzak,'" Ellie announced as she stashed the large plastic Tupperware container that she'd officially designated as "his" the first night she'd had him over to dinner in the fridge. "What are you in the mood for?"

"You choose," he told her as he put the plastic washtub in the sink and squirted some dishwashing detergent into it.

"Any objections to jazz?" she asked, inspecting her collection of kitchen tunes.

"Negatory," he answered as he turned on the hot water.

There was a series of clicks and whirrs as she loaded up the CD player, then the strains of a jazz trumpet filled the room as she sidled up to him. "Got your towel?"

"Right here," he answered, holding up the dishcloth.

She pumped some hand lotion onto her palms, slathered her fingers, and held them up. "Gloves?"

He helped her into the sunny yellow second skins that she wore while she did her sink-work. "Gloves."

"Let's begin," she intoned, plunging her hands unto the hot, soapy water and coming up with a plate. She scrubbed it, rinsed it, and handed it to him. "Dinner plate."

"Dinner plate," he repeated as he took it, grinning at her as she pretended to be all stern and serious.

"No smiling in the operating theater, Nurse," she scolded him as she handed it over.

"Sorry, Doctor," he replied contritely before taking it as he winked at her.

Ellie insisted that Mary Poppins was right on the money with "you find the fun and 'snap!" – the job's a game!" so naturally she made a point of playing as many games as possible when she had work to do. He enjoyed this one a lot because he could indulge in other less than innocent fantasies while he dried her dishes.

"Eyes on the task at hand, sir," she advised him as she held up a clutch of clean cutlery.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, standing a little taller as he applied the towel to the forks.

They operated well together, he thought as they made short work of the chore. It was like the way he felt when his platoon had run the obstacle course together down at Coronado during the last round of training he'd done before getting reassigned to track down Bryce "the-douchebag-responsible-for-fucking-up-my-life" Larkin. The smoothness, the rhythm, the awareness of each other in relation to the terrain, it all blended together to make the exercise into some kind of perfectly choreographed dance, just like it was now with her.

The dishes were done so quickly that he had to fight the wave of regret that came with the act of spreading the towel over the loaded drying rack. They'd eaten all of the raspberries and cream, drunk all of the wine, blown out the candles, wiped down the table. It was time for him to collect his leftovers and head on home.

John could've sworn that the CD player was in league with the devil because just as she was taking off her gloves, it changed to a bright, happy swing dance tune that mocked him with its exuberance.

She looked at him, scowled, then pouted while she tapped her foot in time to the rhythm and slapped the gloves on the edge of the sink. "Pumpkin-time already?"

He knew he shouldn't touch her, but he couldn't leave her without putting a smile back on her face. He took her hand and spun her around and her silver eyes sparkled as she rock-stepped in time with the music.

"I didn't know you swing-danced," she said as she let him tug her back into a close hold and they rock-stepped together in perfect rhythm.

"Well now you do," he said, intensely grateful for all those months he'd spent at that dance hall in southern Maryland during his off-hours. "But the real question is, 'do you?'"

"Only one way to find out," she challenged as she followed his lead like they'd been partners for years.

One song became another, then another, and yet another. He was a little rusty and she was a little tipsy, but neither of them cared – they were laughing too hard to notice any deficiency in the other. They showed each other all of the tricks they knew: kicks, jig walks, touch steps, triple steps, passing turns, cuddle holds. They weren't advanced in any way, but it didn't matter because they were having such a good time with each other. They even tried a few easy lifts, but they agreed that they needed more practice before they tried anything more complex.

They were hanging onto the breakfast bar, struggling to breathe, when the last swing song ended and a soft, slow piano melody began.

John pushed himself away from the bar and headed for the fridge. "That's my cue to leave."

"Please, not yet," Ellie objected, placing her hand flush against the refrigerator door to keep him from opening it. "One more?"

He felt his resolve melt into surrender as she gazed up at him.

"One more," he agreed quietly.

He opened his arms to her and it was her turn to melt as she stepped in close. She placed her right hands in his, her left hand coming to rest between his shoulderblades. His right hand circled her waist effortlessly, his thumb brushing the edge of her bra through her shirt as his fingers easily spanned the distance between her hipbone and her ribcage.

They began to sway, their bodies moving together in perfect, languid time as the smoky notes of the torch song stole over them.

Christ on a crutch, Major, you know this is wrong, so why the fuck are you doing this to yourself?

"You're so good at this," she whispered against his neck as she put her head on his shoulder and made a soft, sweet sound of contentment.

He felt like howling his heartbreak to the moon, but he didn't. This was the last time he would ever get to hold her and he was going to make the most of it. He brought her right hand up to drape around his neck, wrapped his left arm around her back, and rested his cheek against her forehead as he drew her even closer into him.

His grip on her was light, loose, easy to escape from, but she stayed close. He could feel her dissolving against him, molecule by molecule, as the softness of her breasts yielded to the hard muscles of his chest and the smooth fabric of her jeans abraded his as their thighs met and parted. No man could withstand that kind of temptation, and his body started responding to the nearness of hers.

Enough was enough, he told himself as the song came to and end and he stepped away from her. "I have to go."

"I know," she murmured, turning to the fridge.

She handed his container to him, and the disappointment in her eyes nearly brought him to his knees.

She wants you, his inner demon taunted, all you have to do is reach out and take her.

John permitted himself a moment of weakness as he folded a lock of sable hair away from her face.

Ellie's lips parted as she unconsciously turned her cheek to nuzzle his palm.

He clenched his teeth, felt his control slip again as the force of her tenderness stripped him bare.

Jesus Fucking Christ.

It was high time she learned that he couldn't be trusted.

He growled low in his throat as he gripped the nape of her neck and slanted his mouth over hers.