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Chapter Fourteen: Fireworks

Life was good, Rapunzel thought. Her job was going well; her designs were held in high regard by everyone at work. She hadn't touched a drink since that night that she had locked herself out; she hadn't wanted to. She unfortunately saw Max and Pascal less than she used to; they were currently doing work in Maine, but she kept in touch with them. And Flynn... well, that part of her life, she thought happily, was basically perfect. The swimming lessons continued, though driving lessons hadn't started. She didn't want to practice driving in this busy area in his expensive little car; she wanted her own, but that was off in the future. Meanwhile, he was working hard on his book. The agent had sold it to a publisher on the proposal and a few sample chapters, though Flynn was pretty sure that the subject and authorship were what had really sold it. The publisher wanted the book out as soon as possible, while the Crown case was still somewhat topical, and Flynn was rushing to get it done. Sometimes the calls with the agent occurred in the afternoon, after Rapunzel got back, but he tried to keep his work during the same hours as hers so that their time together wouldn't be interrupted too much.

She reflected upon all this one beautiful Saturday morning in late June. The sunlight was peeking through the curtains in their bedroom, and neither she nor her handsome, sweet, affectionate, sexy—okay, enough already, she thought as the string of adjectives passed through her mind—neither she nor her much-loved boyfriend had gotten up yet. They had been... occupied.

He leaned over and pressed his mouth tenderly against hers. "How did I ever survive without waking up with you?" he murmured as he pulled away.

"You and I survived just fine," she said with a smile, "but now we're living."

"That's an important distinction," he agreed, kissing her again. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kept him in place for a while. When they finally broke the long kiss, she became aware that she was underneath him. He looked expectantly at her as recognition dawned over her face.

She realized what he had in mind, and although she wanted to continue, she was nervous about it. "We really shouldn't," she said, her eyes cast down, refusing to meet his. "It's starting to make me worry."

"Well... okay. I guess we should make an appointment to get you on the pill."

She raised an eyebrow at him. "That wouldn't be necessary if you would control yourself and use yours consistently."

"Control myself?" He smirked. "I'm pretty sure it's not just my fault that we sometimes get carried away!"

She smiled and looked down. It definitely wasn't just his fault. Most of the swimming lessons ended just like the first lesson had, and that was primarily her fault. "No, you're right, but every time we forget, I worry."

He stroked her cheek gently and gave her a comforting look. "I understand," he said, "but you shouldn't worry so much. I promise you, I'm not going anywhere. I love you. Even if something did happen, I'd just be by your side even more." He rolled over and opened a drawer in his night table, taking out a small box. "But if it makes you feel better."

She breathed in heavily, trying to calm herself. His words should be reassuring, and she knew that he meant them to be, but something about this still bothered her. It wasn't about him. She trusted him, and his words merely told her what she already knew inside. One time, he told her that during that horrible month when they weren't speaking, he had realized that he wasn't interested in looking for anyone else or seeking out short-term comforts. The ideas had, he admitted, crossed his mind during that period, but he had found them repellent to think about because he regarded them as betrayals of her. He had committed to her whether she reciprocated it or not. That was when he knew that this was something different—something special. She had, of course, had the same realization when she was in that dance club and felt that it would be cheating on him to give anyone else her attentions. They both knew that they rightfully belonged to each other. No, the panic wasn't related to him. It was caused by the idea itself.

The next week, she and Flynn planned to have lunch in town. He didn't usually come all the way into the city for lunch; they would see each other when he picked her up anyway, and they usually ate at home. Today, though, was a milestone day. For the first time, she was going to eat with him and her two friends, who were now back in town. She thought that it was time that it happened. She knew she would stay friends with them, she was pretty sure that Max and Pascal wouldn't split, and she and Flynn both agreed that they were going for the long haul. Since Rapunzel knew that all three relationships in her life were basically permanent, she didn't want to compartmentalize her friends and her partner into separate boxes. If any of them still had a problem with each other—she thought about Flynn and Max in particular—then it was time for them to get past it. If Flynn really, deep down, had been the amoral, mercenary, backstabbing character that she had once feared he was, then it would make sense for Max to dislike him, but she knew that wasn't who he really was. It was time for Max and Pascal to get to know the real person too.

As she emerged from her workplace and headed toward the restaurant that they had chosen, she noticed three familiar figures walking down the street. The Stabbingtons and Facilier were in town again, and they looked to be headed in the direction of K Street. She hoped they wouldn't notice her. They weren't looking her way, but she tried to look inconspicuous anyway.

They turned a corner at last, crossing onto the street that she had expected them to visit. She kept walking, rearranging her messenger bag to take the weight off her shoulder.

"Hey, sweetie," came Flynn's voice from behind her. "Let me take that."

She whipped her head around, stopped on the sidewalk, and grinned at him. He was dressed up, wearing nice pants, a vest over his shirt, and a tie. He lifted the messenger bag off her shoulder and slung it over his own.

"Do you know of any reason why the Stabbingtons and Facilier would be in town again today?" she asked, taking his hand and entwining her fingers in his as they started walking again.

He glanced at her in alarm. "No, why? You saw them?"

"They turned onto K Street."

He frowned. "That's not the first time in recent months that they've been there," he said. "I saw them going to the bank one time, and they were coming from K Street. My guess is that they're starting up a new firm, and they're trying to ingratiate themselves with the lobbyists who didn't think the Crown Group was corrupt enough."

"Say what?" she exclaimed in astonishment.

"Well, okay, it was more like they didn't think the firm was careful enough in being corrupt, and they thought they could have pulled off the scheme without getting caught. I'm sure the Stabbingtons and Facilier managed to find some of them." He paused for a moment before asking, "Did they see you?"

"I don't think so."

He let out a sigh of relief. "Well, that's good."

They continued their walk in silence before she finally spoke again. "You're sure you don't mind carrying around a purple bag?" she asked slyly.

He looked down at the bag. In addition to being purple, it was covered in pink and gold appliqués of flowers, swirls, and suns. He chuckled. "I think it's pretty obvious it's yours. So I either look chivalrous or whipped, and honestly, I don't care which." He nudged her affectionately.

"You don't care if you look 'whipped,' as you put it? You must not worry about maintaining a fake reputation anymore," she teased. They were almost at the restaurant, and she could see Max and Pascal waiting near it.

"Nah. My fake reputation sucked."

They were there now, and it was obvious that the other two guys heard the last remark. Max raised an eyebrow and looked at Rapunzel questioningly, but she didn't want to explain it right here and now. It would explain itself if her plan of getting them acquainted with each other worked out.

"Hi!" she said, reluctantly letting go of Flynn's hand. "It's hot out here. I hope you two haven't been waiting too long for us."

"We haven't," Pascal said. "But it is hot. Let's go inside."

Once they were seated and their food was before them, conversation started to flow. Max and Flynn still interacted stiffly, but at least there were no more death glares or double-edged remarks. She was proud of Flynn; he explained his literary ambitions to the other two and even gave a brief explanation of his name, which was more than she had expected. The somewhat self-conscious look on his face when he talked about it also helped, she thought. There was hardly a trace of cockiness. She knew that it was just part of his nature to be confident, but she wasn't at all sure how it would play with Pascal and Max—especially Max—for him to come across that way.

Toward the end of the meal, they were all feeling pretty full, resting in their chairs, not really interested in getting up yet. In a lull in the conversation, Max spoke up.

"I don't know what your plans are for the fourth of July," he said to Rapunzel and Flynn, "but if you're going to be in town for the fireworks show, I've found out about something just this morning. The former senator and his wife will be here that day. They've wanted to reconnect with their old staffers, but I've asked if they would like to meet my friends, and they said yes. It would be in a small conference room in the hotel where they're staying, after the show."

Flynn immediately spoke up. "I don't know if you were including me in that—"

"I was."

"I appreciate that, then," he said, "but I think it'd be awkward... and I'm surprised that they agreed to meet me."

Max looked evenly at him. "The senator wanted to get the firm for a long time, even before you started working there, and your cooperation did help to bring it down."

Flynn smiled wryly. "True... politicians are pragmatic. 'Enemy of one's enemy is a friend' and all."

"So you'd like to go, then?"

Flynn glanced at Rapunzel. "I'll think about it," he said.

"What about you?" Max asked Rapunzel.

She considered. "It'd be nice to meet them, and I know it's an honor... but..." She glanced at Flynn uncertainly.

"Hey, if you want to go, don't worry about me," he said. "If I don't go, it's my choice. You won't be snubbing me or anything."

"Okay... then in that case," she said, turning again to Max and Pascal, "I'll think about it too."

"Try to let me know in advance," he said, "so I can tell them how many to expect."

"All right," Flynn said.

Since this was the last week of the month, they did not have too many days to deliberate. Rapunzel wasn't overly enthusiastic about the idea, but she wasn't opposed to it either. On the whole, she supposed that it was an interesting thing to do and was an honor. Flynn agreed, deciding that if she wanted to do this, then he didn't want her feeling guilty about his not being there beside her. He had been in more uncomfortable places than that, after all. Testifying against all his colleagues, for example.

On the fourth of July, she opened up her computer and searched the Internet for a biography of the former senator. She wanted to at least appear to know a little something about him and his wife. She found a short one on his charitable foundation's page and began reading. He had represented Colorado as a Congressman for eighteen years and a Senator for six before retiring a year and a half ago. He was 72 now, and since his heart attack, he had walked with a cane. He and his wife Sophia had had one child, now deceased. She frowned; it must be terrible to watch one's child die, she thought. When he was in office, his primary issues had been corruption and campaign finance. That didn't surprise her.

She closed down the web browser when she finished reading and got ready. The holiday crowds were probably starting to mill around in town, and she and Flynn wanted to get decent spots. They took the subway into the city and got off at the National Mall. The show wouldn't begin for several hours yet, but they milled around, getting ice cream, lemonade, and iced tea to keep cool in the summer heat.

At last the sun went down. A concert was going to begin soon, and the Mall was full of people. Rapunzel was on her phone, making an attempt—so far futile—to direct Max and Pascal to their approximate location on the Mall so they could all be in a group. She was practically yelling into the phone over the hubbub of the crowd when Flynn gave her a nudge. She stopped shouting, ended the call, and looked at him questioningly.

Behind him stood the very group of protestors that had tried to harm him several months ago. They weren't protesting today. They had no posters or other paraphernalia. They were clearly here to celebrate the national holiday.

She gasped, unsure of what to say. They didn't look particularly threatening at the moment, and he looked almost cocky about being around them. She wasn't sure what to make of any of it.

"Um... hi!" she called out. "Glad to see all of you here!"

The veteran with the artificial hand put his hand on Flynn's shoulder. "I always come to this," he said gruffly. "But yeah. I've got to offer my congratulations to you. I guess you worked on this one, eh? We were talking when you were hollering on the phone. He seems like a different person than that punk he used to be." He nudged Flynn, pushing him forward and making him briefly lose his footing. The rest of the group guffawed, and Flynn stifled a glare as he stood upright again.

"You could say we worked on each other," Rapunzel said.

The veteran nodded. "Good on ya." He turned to Flynn. "You aren't half bad when you're not sucking up to those creeps that destroyed the economy. Now," he turned again to Rapunzel, "you keep him in line, hear?"

Flynn cast his face down to avoid giving the group another glare as Rapunzel giggled and nodded. The group shuffled away, but the leader gave her a grin as they left.

After the concert, the fireworks began. Rapunzel couldn't help but beam as the fireworks exploded into brilliant sunbursts of all colors of the spectrum over the illuminated skyline. It was a beautiful sight. She turned to him, green eyes wide with joy. He gave her a small smile in return. She cuddled up against him, eyes on the night sky that now sparkled with lights. He threw an arm around her and pulled her closer, nestling his head on hers.

"Have you been to this before?" she asked him.

"No," he said reluctantly, even ashamedly.

"Busy?"

He chuckled darkly. "If only that was it. No, I was bitter, spiteful, and cynical. I didn't want to go because I regarded it as a lie. I decided there was no point in celebrating the holiday, since I knew what the system was like, and that those who did anyway were lying to themselves at best and consummate hypocrites at worst. And I wasn't going to be a hypocrite." He glanced at her. "I'm sorry. I was a foul little bastard."

Her heart seemed to twist as he explained. "Oh, Flynn," she said, snuggling into him. "You were really hurting, weren't you?"

He sighed. "I was. I didn't want to admit it, of course... but yeah, I was." He kissed her on the forehead. "The reason the system is so broken is because of people like me. And even in my most mercenary days, I knew it, and yes, it hurt. That's why I didn't want to face up to what I had become."

She took his hand in hers and stroked it gently. "But you did," she said. "I think you always would have. People can't run from their inner demons forever. Eventually they catch up with you. I know this now."

He smiled weakly at her, hugged her again, and faced the sky. Together they watched as the rest of the fireworks burst far above them.

It had long been dark when they tracked into the downtown hotel where Everard and Sophia King were staying for the holiday. Max and Pascal were waiting for them in the lobby, and as a group, they went up to the small conference room on one of the upper floors. After the bustle and noise of the Independence Day show, the room seemed unnaturally quiet and calm. The former senator and his wife sat around a dark polished wood table that was laid out with pitchers of lemonade, ice water, and a small pail of bottled beers in ice. In another chair sat a black-haired, solid-jawed man with a neat mustache whom Max introduced as Walter Hughes, the former senator's chief of staff, now his driver and the director of his foundation.

"What's he doing here?" Hughes asked gruffly, glaring at Flynn.

The former senator spoke. "He's here as a friend of Max's."

Hughes's eyes bugged out and his face turned the color of a tomato. "Un-freakin'-believable," he muttered. "I've seen it all now."

They sat down across from the senator, his wife, and Hughes. Rapunzel studied the couple briefly. Even weakened from his health, King was a big-boned, sturdily built man, with a trim mustache and beard. His wife was built rather similarly to Rapunzel herself, her silver hair piled into a neat coronet on top of her head. Her face was beautiful; she had aged well, and Rapunzel could tell that she had been a very attractive woman in her youth.

"Thank you to all of you," Mrs. King began, and Rapunzel instantly noticed that she was speaking in a slight accent, though it was completely unplaceable to her. It definitely wasn't Southern; she'd heard enough of Flynn's talk—which was still tinged with a trace of evidence of his birthplace—that she was quite adept at picking that one out, no matter how faint. It also wasn't from New England or New York. It wasn't anything that she recognized.

The lady continued to speak, welcoming them, and offered them the beverages that sat on the table. Immediately Flynn and Max took beers from the pail of ice. Flynn made to pick up a second one for Rapunzel, but she shook her head, picking up a small glass provided by the hotel and pouring some lemonade into it. She found that, after her disastrous experience with alcohol a bit more than a month ago, she didn't want to touch it anymore.

The ex-senator and his wife were surprisingly conversational, it turned out. They were very pleased with Flynn's change of heart and highly interested in his book, with King offering him notes from his perspective as an early investigator of the case, which Flynn dutifully took down on a notepad. Hughes glared at Flynn the whole time, and Rapunzel soon realized that the senator's wife was—not glaring at her, exactly, but certainly looking at her far more often than any of Max's other friends.

When Flynn was finished talking about his book, Mrs. King turned to Rapunzel. "Now, I understand that you're an artist," she said by way of introducing a new topic.

Rapunzel smiled, confirmed it, and began to talk about her work for the graphic design firm and its new client. The Kings seemed very interested in this, asking her questions about whether she had ever been involved in similar work to that of the nonprofit. Reluctantly, she had to tell them no.

"Perhaps the client would let you conduct arts and crafts activities with the children," Mrs. King suggested.

Rapunzel bit her lip. "I don't know," she said honestly. "I think they want everyone who works with the children to have special qualifications, since these are troubled kids, and I don't have anything like that."

"Oh" was all that the lady could say in reply.

After some more conversation, everyone was ready to retire after the long, hot day, and at last the meeting was over. Flynn, Rapunzel, Max, and Pascal said their goodbyes and thank-yous to the other three and took their leave, heading back to their respective homes for the night.

By the time they got back, it was very late. They collapsed on the couch, Rapunzel kicking off her sandals and putting her legs across his lap as they curled up together.

"I have to say," he remarked, "that wasn't nearly as bad as I thought it would be. The old man has mellowed a lot since getting out of office."

"Maybe there's a lesson in that," she said.

"I wouldn't doubt it. Being involved in politics seems to mess up everyone in one way or another."

Flynn finished the manuscript two and a half weeks later, on the 21st, sending the completed text to the agent that morning. Rapunzel had already marked that date as the four-month anniversary of being acquainted with each other, and as a celebration of both events, they went out to dinner that night.

On the way back, they stopped to pick up some supplies for a project Rapunzel had wanted to begin for several days. Her latest interest was metal-working; she had created some designs for wire-and-sheet-metal boxes and small sculptures that she wanted to put into practice. Flynn watched from the couch with admiration that evening as she twisted the wire into decorative shapes and soldered it to the metal sheeting. At last she grinned—sweaty despite the comfortable, even cool, temperature at which Flynn kept the condo—and held up her first project, a sculpture unmistakably of the Capitol building with colorful wire fireworks above it.

"That's absolutely beautiful," he said, gaping in awe. "You've really never done this before? That's amazing, Rapunzel."

She smiled modestly. "Thanks."

"And it reminds me. You know, Mrs. King was right about something. They should let you do art with the kids."

She shrugged and looked up from her project. "It's all right," she said. "I doubt I'd be any good with them."

"Why do you say that? I think you'd be great."

"You like kids, then?"

He smiled. "I've always liked kids," he said. "Unfettered creativity, lofty ideas... kids are great. At least, I'd make sure mine grew up in an environment where they could be free to dream." He turned to her, a very intense, pointed look radiating out of his eyes.

She realized that he wasn't talking about doing arts and crafts with kids in a class anymore, and it made her very uneasy. Her heart started thumping. "I don't want any," she said quickly. "I don't think I'd be a good mom."

"What? You'd be a great mom," he said, staring in dismay at her. "A lot of folks who grew up in less-than-ideal situations accept that as normal, but you and I both knew that things weren't what they should be."

She ran her hands through her hair anxiously. "I'm only twenty-one years old!" she exclaimed. "I don't want to think about having kids right now!"

"That's understandable," he said. "Sorry. I didn't mean to change the subject to something like that rather than your beautiful work. I really didn't."

"It's okay," she said, trying to calm her thoughts. She got up from the floor and sat next to him on the couch, leaning into him, but she couldn't stop thinking about the conversation.

There was no mistaking his meaning; he wanted to have kids with her someday. She thought back to their brief conversation that bright, lazy morning last month. That conversation was more about the "what if." This one sounded almost like he was making plans. The thought both terrified and elated her. She was elated that he was thinking of her that seriously, but at the same time, she truly did not think she should be a parent. She was acutely aware of the bad ways that she had reacted to problems in her life: denial, substance abuse, retreating from emotional intimacy, and being terrified of attachment. The last thing that she thought she should do was to be a mother. And yet... if he wanted kids, it would have to be with her. The idea of him having kids with anyone else was horrid. Her stomach curdled, violent anger and jealousy of the imaginary woman filled her, and the other implication—that he would have left her—made her feel hollow inside. No, he was hers and she was his; there was no question about that.

She knew that the idea of marriage didn't bother her now. In fact, it was rather appealing. For a person with long-time fears of abandonment, the decision to legally commit would be the ultimate sign of dedication to a relationship—the surety that she craved—the mutual resolution that, even if things happened, they would work through it because they valued each other enough to commit to stick together. That was something to be desired, not feared. She knew she wanted to marry him.

But having kids? That was a completely different matter.

Rapunzel sighed. What was she doing, thinking about things like this? She'd known him for four months and they had been a couple for not quite two. This was ridiculous. Sure, after that conversation, there could be little doubt that he was harboring such thoughts as well, but there was no reason to fret over them right now.

By the end of the month, the finished book was being edited and a marketing strategy was being worked out. They were going to put it to press in a month or two. Flynn started having daily teleconferences with the agent, editors, marketing people, and Rapunzel couldn't even keep up with who else. It was definitely cutting into their time together in the afternoons, which discouraged her at first. But then, she thought, most people work nine to five or something comparable. This is only a problem because I work part-time, and it won't last anyway. He did reassure her one afternoon, when she became obviously dejected at having him taken away from her and stuck in one of those teleconferences for two hours, that this would stop soon. He had already laid down the law to the marketing people that he was not going to do book signings anywhere except the northeastern metropolis—Washington to Boston—areas for which he could make the entire trip, including the signing, in a day and be back home to her by evening. The marketing department had not been overly happy with this until they were persuaded that most interest in this book would probably be in the DC metro area.

Still, Rapunzel found herself spending more time in the city after getting off work. Flynn tried to have the teleconferences earlier in the afternoon rather than later, which the publishing crew seemed to like as well, and Rapunzel often browsed around town until he called her to tell her that the call was over and he could pick her up.

One day, she was doing just that, browsing around the stores downtown, when she saw them. The Stabbingtons, sans Facilier this time, were stalking down the sidewalk, and there was no doubt about it—they saw her and recognized her.

She tried to evade them by turning a corner, but they followed her. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself. These are wealthy businessmen, she told herself. They will not attack you in public in Washington, DC. She turned around and faced them. "Do you need something?" she asked haughtily.

One of them, the one without a glass eye, grinned. "Yeah, we need something," he said. "You still with Rider?"

She didn't want to answer them on principle. "Why is that your concern?"

They chuckled nastily. "You aren't?" the one with the glass eye said. "Well, sugar, if you're interested in a real man—"

The way that they were leering at her, coupled with the vile implications of the remark, made Rapunzel's stomach turn over in disgust. "Fine, I am with him! But even if I weren't, I assure you, I wouldn't look at the likes of either of you." She turned aside and made to walk away, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She was whirled around to face them again, and this time, they looked angry.

"Yeah? You couldn't handle us anyway," the one with the glass eye said. "But just answer this and then we'll leave you alone. Is he working on that damn book still?"

She glared at them. "Yes, he is!" she declared. Pulling away from the man's hand—he did not attempt to detain her again—she dashed away as quickly as she could without making it look like she was outright running from them, but she could not hide the fact that she was scared of these men. As quickly as she could, she darted into the nearest Metro station and got on the subway to go home.

When she got back to Vienna and Flynn picked her up, she told him at once what had happened. He became visibly upset.

"If they so much as touch you again, call the police and tell them you were assaulted. Legally, it is assault," he said angrily.

Rapunzel shuddered. "I just wish they would stay on K Street when they're in town and leave us alone."

He gave her a concerned look and went silent. This could not continue. If the Stabbingtons were going to start harassing Rapunzel to get at him, he had to put a stop to it. He had to be the protector here, he decided, and confront them. He wasn't going to compromise on what went into his book, but maybe he could invoke the threat of law enforcement if they bothered Rapunzel again. He decided, even before they made it into the city of Fairfax, that he was going to have to go to New York and deal with them soon.

He had called off one of his early afternoon conference calls to pick her up when he found out that she was upset from something, and unfortunately he had to continue with the call as soon as they got back. However, he soon found out that the agent, editor, and marketing team would like to meet with him in person—and they were all located in New York. When the call ended, he could hardly believe his good fortune. Now he had a legitimate reason to go there and wouldn't even have to tell Rapunzel about meeting with the Stabbingtons. He knew that she would only worry about him if she knew that, and while he was definitely concerned about what they might do to her if they had the chance, he was sure that they wouldn't mess with him.

"Rapunzel," he said later that evening, "I..." He hesitated. "I'm going to have to go to New York for a couple of days. There's something I have to take care of."

She frowned. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. I need to meet with the agent and the publishing crew in person."

"All right," she said. "When do they want you there?"

"I'm going to leave on the 31st and stay there two nights," he said.

She nodded, eyes cast down. "I'll miss you," she said. "I wish I could go. Maybe I can take some time off."

The thought of her being with him while he confronted the Stabbingtons sent a chill down his spine. The whole point was to protect her, to keep them from messing with her anymore. "Oh, don't do that," he said. "There's not going to be anything for you to do. I'll be back before you even know it."

"Well... okay," she said reluctantly.

On the last day of the month, the day that Flynn was to go to New York, Rapunzel woke up at her usual time to get ready for work. She got out of bed, trying not to wake Flynn, and shuffled toward the closet to get some clothes out, when a sudden feeling of nausea hit her. She frowned, going over in her mind what she had eaten last night. It was just a casserole recipe that she'd discovered and decided to try, but maybe it had disagreed with her. The feeling got worse despite her attempts to ignore it. Suddenly, she knew what was about to happen, and, dropping her suit on the floor, she dashed into the bathroom.

She wanted to cry as she emptied herself. She hated throwing up. She always had. It hurt her stomach and throat, and it made her feel utterly revolting. A sob racked her body.

Then she felt a hand on her back. "Go ahead," he murmured. "Get it all up."

Tears fell down her cheeks. "I didn't mean for you to wake up," she cried. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay, sweetie. You can't help this."

She grabbed some toilet paper and wiped her nose. "I'm okay for now," she said shakily, standing upright and flushing, wanting the stuff to just disappear. It was true; she actually did feel better now. With his sympathetic gaze following her, she walked over to the sink, washed her hands, and filled a cup with water, which she immediately drank to get the foul taste out of her mouth. Then another. Then she got out the bottle of mouthwash and gargled for a bit before washing with a third cup of water.

"You're sure you're okay?" he said gently. "If you've got a stomach bug, you shouldn't go to work."

She shook her head. "I think I ate something last night that disagreed with me."

"It didn't bother me..." he trailed off uncertainly. "But I guess that sometimes happens. If you start to feel bad again, though, please let me know. Even if I've already left. I hope you're right... I don't want to leave you here alone if you're sick."

She smiled weakly at him. "I'm okay, really. Just take care of your business in New York. I know it's important."

At this, a conflicted look passed over him for the briefest of moments. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but then he seemed to reconsider. He gave her a brief nod. In her weakened state, she didn't notice anything amiss, though, and continued getting ready for work.

When he saw her off at the subway station that morning, she gave him several extra kisses. "I'll see you in two days," she said sweetly. "Love you."

He smiled. "Love you too. Take care of yourself."

Acknowledgment: I think the fanon name for the captain of the guard, which I've used in this story, was originally created by Airplane. If not, please let me know who did create it.

End note: I've fast-tracked the publication of this book Flynn has written. Publishing generally doesn't work this quickly, but it is astonishing how the process can be fast-tracked for books that are topical. I've particularly noticed how quickly political books come out after the events that they narrate have occurred. Thus, while this absolutely would not be plausible for a first novel, I think it is for this sort of book written by one of the persons directly involved in the scandal.