Chapter 12: Accord

Left to her own devices for a while, Laura decided to make a detour on the way home and stopped at Jensen's Body and Collision on the way home.

"I'm afraid the news isn't good, Miss Holt," Bobby, the lead mechanic informed her.

"Actually, it's Mrs. Steele now," she corrected.

"That's too bad. I hoped ya'd give me a test drive one day," he schmoozed, while giving her a wink. Blanking her face, she resisted urge to shrivel her nose at the thought. The Rabbit had been in Jensen's for repairs numerous times before and Bobby's not-so-subtle leers had always made it perfectly clear he wondered how to get her to rev his engine.

"Sorry," she shrugged, dismissively. "So, how bad is it?"

"You'd be better off asking me what can be salvaged, cuz it ain't much," he warned her, as she followed him to the rear of the shop. "Frame's bent; axle's broke; front and rear quarter panels, hood, both doors, trunk lid, both bumpers would all have to be replaced; windshield and both side windows are goners; radiator, alternator, coolant pump assembly, thermostat will all need to be replaced. Insurance company will probably give ya a couple of thou for it. If ya want to repair it, it'd be around six, seven. And even then with the damage to the frame?" He shrugged. "Crap shoot. I gotta tell ya, if I were you I'd ship it off to the junkyard and put the money from the insurance into a new car."

She left Jensen's thoroughly disheartened. Logically, she'd known the Rabbit's demise had finally arrived. Still, some small part of her way, way in the back of her mind, had held out hope that it could be repaired and, more importantly, be made roadworthy again. Eight years. In that time it had ended up in a pond, was shoved down an embankment by a bulldozer, had been in multiple wrecks, had served as the location of countless stake outs and had been involved in too many chases to count. And it had survived… until now. She was twenty-three years old when she'd bought it, barely out of college, working at Havenhurst, was a new home owner and was dating Wilson. So much of her history, her life, was tied to that little car. In some small measure, losing the Rabbit was accompanied by grief similar to what she'd felt after Veckmer blew up her house. Intellectually, she knew it was only a car, but her heart simply did not agree.

When Laura pulled into the driveway of their Holmby Hills home, unsurprisingly there was no sign of the Auburn. Her finicky husband could spend a couple of hours in the market as he searched out the ingredients for the meals he'd planned in his head for the week ahead. Generally, as had become their habit over the last seven and a half months, she'd occupy that time by doing light cleaning around the house and laundry. Crossing her arms on the steering wheel of the rental car, she wearily propped her chin on her arms. Exhausted by too little sleep for far too long, she longed to go inside, curl up on the couch, pull an afghan over herself and sleep until the following day. But even more so she yearned to spend a quiet weekend with Remington here at home, watching movies, puttering around the house, soaking in the hot tub, and dozing in the hammock. All of which would not… count not… happen until they fully cleared the air.

She wanted the tension between them to dissipate, both the strain derived from inadvertently setting the lion which was his protective nature free that morning and her own frustration with him over the pictures she'd found in the safe. There was once a time going to the Agency, doing her life's work, was the highlight of her day and those evenings when she'd spend time with Remington after hours was simply the icing on the cake of a good day. As much as she'd fought it, determined to exert her independence, nearly losing him a year prior had changed everything. And since their marriage? She snorted softly. The Agency remained enormously important to her life, but the best part of her day was the time she spent with the man she'd married. Somewhere along the way he'd become her solace, her happiness, her contentment. She could wallow away hours laying tucked into his body in the hammock, his scent surrounding her, as his fingers played in her hair, talking about everything, talking about nothing, not speaking at all. Their time together soothed jangled nerves and eliminated the compulsion to go-go-go which had once controlled her world. He encouraged her to soar, he kept her grounded. The longing for the tranquility between them to be restored was enough to make her ache.

Resolved, she lifted head from her arms, got out of the car and went inside.

When Remington returned home, he found the Mustang parked in the driveway, leaving him use of the carport. His temper had calmed considerably as he'd wandered the market, carefully selecting their fare for the next week. Shopping for meals had long ago been left to him by Laura, a task he happily embraced, for it was as relaxing to him as spending time in his kitchen. He puttered around in the kitchen putting the groceries away, then placed the broccoli and cheddar soup he'd picked up at a small delicatessen on the stove to simmer. It was a sure bet Laura hadn't eaten when she'd come home, which meant the last time either of them had eaten was well past twenty-four hours ago. Angry or not, he considered it his husbandly duty to make sure his petite wife ate a decent meal at least twice daily.

He'd determined while running his errands that the discord between them needed to be set straight. One of the attributes which had drawn him to Laura from the start was her willingness to concede nothing to anyone. Unless he wished to have his mercurial wife miffed with him often over their many years to come together, he'd have to find a way to curb his protectiveness of her: the protectiveness that had been a part of their association from almost the beginning that had only continued to intensify as his feelings for her grew.

Once, he'd been able to control those impulses far more than not, often seeming callous in regards to her physical welfare because of resisting the impulse to hover. But these days? It had become nearly impossible to quash the impulse to keep her close, safe.

The night prior, propelled by the loss of the Rabbit, she'd finally begun to open up. True, she'd not mentioned the dreams, but she'd provided insight on how much the events across the last year had worn on her. An admission by Laura that she was mentally exhausted was monumental. He couldn't recall a time in their association that she'd allowed the miscreants they encountered to take such a toll on her psyche. But, then again, while they had been targeted specifically in the past, it was usually fallout as a case played out, so once the case was a wrap, so was the danger. The only exception to this normalcy the first three years was DesCoines. And in the year and a half since, her feeling they were inundated by deranged persons who had placed them in their crosshairs? She wasn't wrong, for among her list she'd forgotten Saltzman and Cranston, who had conspired to frame him for a diamond heist, and, of course, Candy, whose greed had sent he and Laura to the streets to live for a spell.

Truth be told, her confession the evening before had shaken him, but her demeanor had truly set him off balance. He hadn't seen her that… downtrodden… since she lost her house during the Stonewall case. Now, marry that worry with the fact either of them could have lost their lives to the maniacal Minor and a month of him soothing Laura through nightmares each night, unbeknownst to her… well, it had served to be a potent concoction.

Scrubbing at his still unshaven face, he turned the soup to low and decided to go shave prior to waking a presumably napping Laura for lunch.

Upstairs Remington did, indeed, find Laura napping, although not at all where expected. Frowning at the empty bed as he passed through the room the thought crossed his mind that perhaps she'd gone for a run or was tucked up on the terrace out back reading and he'd missed her. Stripping off his shirt and tossing it on the bed, he grabbed a fresh towel from the linen closet. Stutter-stepping to a halt when he entered the bathroom he could only chuckle when he found her dozing in a tub full of bubbles. With a shake of his head, he hung the towel around his neck, and stooped down next to the bath. With a single finger he traced a line from cheek to jaw, failing to rouse her. Placing a hand on her shoulder he gave her a gentle shake. Startled from a troublesome dream, she attempted to lunge upwards, only to lose purchase in the tub and slip beneath the water. A hand darted under the water to help and she came up sputtering to find Remington laughing with abandon. The sound was contagious, and her laughter joined in with his, trickling across the room while she swiped at her face.

"Maybe this will be of some help," he managed around his laughter, handing her the towel meant for his shave. Sitting up fully in the tub, she gratefully accepted it, unaware his laughter had stopped. Dropping the towel from her face, she found him staring at her shoulder and chest with narrowed eyes and slackened jaw. Her eyes followed his, saw where his gaze was focused, and looked back up at him, ruefully.

"Seat belt," she offered. His finger traced the deep red and purplish bruise to the waterline. His words last night as he'd rebuked her for mocking his injury rumbled through his mind. She saw the guilt flash across his face, and shook her head. "It's just a bruise, Mr. Steele." But he was having none of it.

"Up you get," he directed, standing and holding out his hand to assist her. She stared at his hand for several seconds, then with a sigh, acknowledged he'd just stand there all day and wait her out. Putting her hand in his she stepped from the tub, resisting the urge to cover herself. She closed her eyes when he sucked in a harsh breath. The bruise extended downward from shoulder to chest to the inside of her breast, stopping about an inch below. An equally angry bruise stretched across her lower abdomen. His eyes continued downwards taking in the less serious bruises on thighs and knees. He visibly cringed. He muttered underneath his breath, whatever he said inaudible.

"I'm fine," she assured him, wrapping the towel around her body.

"I'd be more inclined to believe you if you didn't look like Laurie Beth took her markers to you," he disagreed. "After lunch we'll just go round to the emergency ward and have you—"

"No, we won't," she disagreed firmly, holding up a hand to stop him from saying anything further. "It's happened twice before. We'll sit in the ER the rest of the afternoon just to be informed its deep tissue bruising which will get worse before it gets better and then we'll be sent home with a warning I shouldn't take any aspirin. I don't want to waste what's left of the day just to hear what I already know."

"Lau-ra…" he drew out her name, reaching back to rub at his neck.

"Twice before, Remington," she said again. "The bruise will stop spreading in a few days and within three, maybe four weeks, it will be gone." Shoving his hands in his pockets, he rocked back on his heels, considering the options at hand. With a nod and a sigh, he retreated to the linen closet for another towel.

"I've soup warming and a salad chilling," he informed her when he returned. "I thought we could both use a bit of lunch?" At the mere mention of food, her stomach rumbled. "Well, I believe that question's been answered," he mused, reaching for a washrag and holding it under steamy water.

"Mmmm," she hummed her agreement. "I'll just get dressed."

Quickly changing into slacks and a blouse in their bedroom, Laura retrieved the envelope of contention from the safe, then went downstairs. By the time Remington arrived, she had their soup, salad and glasses of water waiting for them at the dining room table. They kept the conversation light throughout the meal. It wasn't until they were drying the dishes and putting them away, that he cleared his throat and approached the matter on both their minds.

"I was thinking, perhaps we should, ah, clear the air?" he suggested hesitantly, eyes flicking to her then away.

"I think we should," she agreed lightly, her eyes doing some flicking of their own as she handed him the final plate to put away.

"The terrace or living room, do you think?"

"The terrace will do."

"Shall we then?" he asked, holding out a hand towards the French doors.

Laura preceded him out the doors, but instead of turning towards the chaises as Remington had expected, she led him to the sectional near the fireplace. They took a seat catty-corner to one another.

"I owe you an apology," he began, reaching for her hand.

"I'm sorry," she said, at the same time. They laughed quietly.

"If you don't mind…?" he asked, requesting permission to go first. Her silence was all he needed. Patting the hand held in his, his eyes met hers. "My apologies. After the events of last evening, to discover you'd returned to the 'scene of the crime,' as it were, alone…" he lost the words and could only shake his head. She squeezed the hand holding hers.

"Remington, it's alright." She blew out a short breath. "I'm sorry as well. I didn't think I'd be gone for as long as I was, and realized too late what you'd think. I can only say, I wouldn't have gone alone if I believed there was a chance Minor would be there." He gave her a wry grin.

"My… alarm… was not because I questioned your intelligence or capabilities," he assured her.

"I know. This isn't exactly a new issue between us," she reminded him with a cock of her head.

"I am trying, love, despite the evidence to the contrary."

"I know," she told him with another squeeze of his hand. "It's no easier for me. I could have just as well woke you and told you my plans."

"Seems we both have some work still to do, eh?" he suggested.

"We do," she confirmed, removing her hand from his and reaching for the envelope she'd left on the table before lunch. "Which brings me to this," she handed him to the envelope.

Remington turned the envelope over in his hands, searching for an address or anything which would identify what's inside. Finding nothing, he glanced at her, and opening clasp then flap, removed the contents. He inwardly cringed when he saw the pictures, then immediately set about trying to figure out where they'd come from.

"You can't be hiding things from me, Mr. Steele." He held up his hand in self-defense.

"I give you my word, Laura, I haven't seen these since I left for Mexico in search of you." With a nod, she accepted his word as fact. "Where did you find them?"

"In the safe," she supplied.

"Monroe. He'd know I wouldn't be willing to risk them falling into anyone else's hands. He must have put them in there for safekeeping when he moved everything from the old safe to here," he surmised.

"But you knew they still existed," she stated bluntly, his grimace confirming her suspicion. "Did you ever plan to show me?" He scrubbed at his lower face with his hand.

"In truth?" He perched his chin in a hand supported by elbow on knee as he looked away. "I don't know. My first instinct when we found them was no." His hand rubbed at his chin before returning to its original position. "I remember all too well what it was like in the days after Wally. I didn't want to see you go through such a thing again."

"This is what I mean, Remington. You can't hide things from me. I had a right to see them!" Lunging to his feet, he began to pace.

"Bloody hell, Laura. I haven't even thought of the sodding pictures since our return, let alone searched them out!" he pointed out vociferously. "But tell me, having seen them, does it help anything? Or do all your memories of those excruciatingly private moments now have the same blight upon them that my own do, eh?!" She frowned at him.

"Is that what you think? That somehow those days are less important because some maniac was watching us?" Leaning against the fireplace, he shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away. She stood, crossing to him. "Am I happy he was there, watching us? No, I'm not. Does it make those memories any less important, less cherished? No, it doesn't." Reaching her arms between his, she stroked his sides with her hands. "The importance of those times wasn't, at least in my mind, what we did, but is found in the things we said, the parts of our hearts, ourselves that we shared." She shook her head. "He wasn't witness to that. Those moments are ours and ours alone." He looked skywards.

"Well, I bloody well hate it. It was bad enough standing by all those weeks watch-," he dropped his head and closed his eyes, refusing to finish the sentence, "But Greece, Cannes, I'd believed at least those belonged solely to us." Guilt reared up and kicked her once more in the shin. "Those… pictures… are nothing more than proof that they didn't." She drew his head down until his forehead rested against hers, then nodded her head. Flipping her head back, she looked up at him.

"Then we'll get rid of them," she said with finality, stepping away from him and retrieving them from the table. He shook his head, while running a hand through his hair, then taking the pictures from her.

"We can't. We'll need to have them on hand in case Roselli goes on trial here in the States one day and they're needed." He let out an aggravated puff of air. "Which I certainly hope they're not." Recognizing the wisdom in what he said, she nodded her head, then taking him by the hand let him back to the couch. She waited until they were sitting next to one another before she spoke.

"When we wrap up the case, it's time, Mr. Steele." He looked down at her quizzically.

"Time for what, precisely?" Leaning her head back, she looked him in the eye.

"To find out the why of it all." He stiffened beside her.

"Damn it, Laura. The man's out of our lives, at last. Leave the past in the past for a change!" he argued.

"Out of our lives? Have you already forgotten the flowers? The promise of a surprise in store for us? The trial in Greece, still to come? He's not out of our lives and worse, we don't know why he came after us in the first place!"

"Lau-ra," he cajoled. "Please, let's just leave it alone. We've already enough trouble on our plate with that demented DesCoines on our tails. Let's not borrow more." Remembering her vow to herself earlier to set things right so they could relax into one another the remainder of the weekend, she acquiesced.

"Alright. I'll leave it alone… at least for now." He let out a heavy breath, surprised and relieved she'd given up so easily.

"Have you any idea what you'd like to do the remainder of the afternoon? I could ring up Marty, let him know we're in the market for a car, see what he has on the hand at the moment."

"Mmmm mmmmm," she declined. "Tomorrow." She turned towards him and drew a hand down his arm. "There's only one thing I want to do this afternoon." He raised a brow to her. "You and I, the hammock and a long nap." He quirked a crooked smile at her, then stood, holding out his hand.

"I think that can be easily arranged."

Taking it, Laura stood then followed Remington across the terrace, grabbing an afghan while he settled himself in the hammock. Crawling in next to him, she spread the afghan over them then turned into his waiting embrace, lying her head in that perfect spot between shoulder and chest. She drew in a deep breath through her nose, then let it out slowly, his scent and warmth relaxing her more heavily against him. He buried a hand in her hair, massaging her scalp, as she hummed her appreciation, snuggling all the closer to him. He leaned down to buss the top of her head when she sighed softly as sleep took her away.

Pressing his cheek to the top of her head, Remington allowed his thoughts to turn back to the conversation they'd had about Roselli. The man had been a veritable pox since he'd arrived in their lives playing Tarzan to Laura's Jane. While he'd never say as much to Laura, even now the memories of watching her kiss Tony in their apartment, on the train… the memory of wondering where Laura had gone with the man on the night of Shannon's arrival or of finding her alone with Roselli in their room… still held the power to make it feel as though his heart was being ripped from his chest.

He was still trying to find a way to live with the fact that it was he who brought Roselli into their lives. Keyes seeking vengeance against him. The INS after him. Roselli needing the 'great Remington Steele' to act as a courier. It was the harm he'd done to Laura that had made her turn to the other man, had allowed an obsession to evolve. He was certain the image of her slipping down the wall in that cabin – beaten, bloodied, broken – would stay with him until the end of his days.

But he knew, deep in his soul, if they investigated and found Roselli's obsession was a function of his own past… He shook his head at the very thought. What if they found that he'd crossed the man at some point in his former trade and that was the reason the man had shown up on their doorstep? This was the reason the man had been determined to try to seduce Laura away, then resorted to kidnapping and torture when the first failed, all as a point of revenge? If it was his days of living on the shady side of the street that had been the cause, he'd never find a way to live with it.

While, yes, he'd agreed with Murphy on the plane ride to Manzanillo that he and Laura would eventually have to determine the why of it all, since they'd found her the very idea had haunted him. He desperately needed them to move forward, whole and together. The woman he held in his arms as she slept had been at the center of his life for going on five years. She was his present, his future, the very reason he'd finally allowed himself to dream of home, hearth, and family. To lose her would be to lose everything that mattered to him.

And, he acknowledged as sleep descended upon him, if it was his past that had brought the evil to their doorstep, losing Laura would be the cost.