Well, it's 2am! I was going to go to bed early tonight, but this chapter finally gelled in my warped little skull. So I had to get up and tap it out. Oh, but I have jury duty Monday, so maybe I'll have some time to work on part 15 when that's all done. Who knows?

Song referenced: When I Dream, by Crystal Gayle. It's a beautiful song, and really suits Seaborn.

Friarson studied the little card and finally glanced up at Seaborn, who was still standing there, her expression inscrutable. He sighed and put his hands on his desk. "And why, exactly, would Captain Murdock bring you flowers?"

"Well, in order to make a delivery, he'd have to bring something to deliver, wouldn't he? Flowers make more sense than, say, a pizza or somebody's ear." She frowned. "Then again, Captain Murdock might well send pizzas as a prank. He's that kind of guy…"

"Yes. I've read his records." He rubbed his temples for a moment. "Police couldn't keep up again, hm? Lost 'em?"

"They have apparently acquired reliable transportation," she said. "What's funny is that Mr Conroy's car was delivered back to him with the window and light replaced, and a problem with the carburetor was fixed as well." She shrugged. "They must know someone here in Long Beach after all – it's not like they have loads of cash sitting around. And Baracus is a superb driver…anyway, my team is searching for the seller right now."

"Sit down, Seaborn," Friarson said, gesturing to the chair. She sat, he glanced at her legs for just one semi-masochistic moment, remembering the ring on his finger and his wife's plate-throwing abilities, and nodded. "Okay. So why did he bring you the flowers? Not that I'm all that surprised that a guy would br-…I mean, why you? How does Captain Murdock know you?"

She looked down, and he was curious to see her wringing her hands. "Uh…we sort of…er…knew each other back in Iraq, three years ago."

"Really? And when were you going to tell me about this little detail?" Friarson asked her calmly. "I don't want to be intrusive, Seaborn, but that's a pretty important thing. Exactly how well did you two know each other?"

She kept wringing her hands, and pursed her lips. "We sort of…dated…I guess…in Iraq."

"Oh?" Friarson did a quick bit of math and realized that Captain Murdock was about ten years Seaborn's senior. Not exactly robbing the cradle, but the difference in their ages was rather…interesting, along with the fact that he had outranked her.

"Sir, you know my history. It's all in my records. He was there…well, he came upon Khaled al-Murad as he was…raping me…and…" She swallowed and took a deep breath. "Captain Murdock shot his thumbs off." She took a deep breath. "I'm sure he would have killed him, too, if Lieutenant Peck hadn't stopped him."

Friarson's eyes widened. He knew that she had been raped in Iraq, but that little detail had never been revealed before. "Well, good for Captain Murdock," he said at last, quietly. "I'd've done the same thing, and more."

"Right…well…I haven't seen Captain Murdock since then…until this afternoon, anyway. I didn't actually catch a glimpse of him at the warehouse the other day. Anyway, I…guess he figures maybe I'll contact this Captain Sosa person. He probably thinks I'm interested in whether or not he's actually guilty."

"Are you?" he asked.

"No sir. I don't care. I'm supposed to catch him."

"Well, contact her anyway. We need all the information we can get that might help us catch these guys. DCIS, huh? Interesting. See what she has to say, if anything, and report back to me with whatever you learn."

"Yes, sir." She got up and started out the door. "Um…sir…I promise you, my past…involvement…with Captain Murdock will not interfere with my capturing him or the rest of the A-Team. I will catch them."

Friarson nodded. He was going to have to believe her, at least for now.

Seaborn spent the next fifteen minutes on the phone, arguing with various officials with the DOD, repeating again and again that she was, indeed, a Federal Marshal (maybe she sounded too young? Or was it the Southern accent?) and that she was trying to find a Captain Charissa Sosa. She had no luck, however, and the result was her banging the phone receiver on her desk several times in reaction to another negative response from some pencil-pushing boob at the DOD. She was cursing a blue streak until she glanced up and saw Carmen in the doorway, wide-eyed and holding a stack of files to her chest. "Uh…Miss Buchanan…I have Captain Sosa on line three."

"You're joking, right?"

"No…ma'am. I called them and…uh…anyway…" She glanced at Seaborn's Glock, which was in its holster, hanging on the back of the chair in front of the desk. Carmen breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank you. You can go now. And shut the door, please."

Carmen backed out of the room, closing the door quietly, and sat back at her desk. Really, she should have gotten used to Seaborn's outbursts of temper. It wasn't like they were rare.

Seaborn glanced at the blinking light on her phone and picked it up, hitting the line. "Buchanan."

"This is Captain Sosa. Is this US Marshal Seaborn Buchanan?"

"Yes. It is. I was told to contact you."

"By whom?"

"A Captain James Matthew Murdock, formerly of the United States Army and now a federal fugitive."

There was a brief silence. Finally, Sosa cleared her throat. "We'll have to speak in private, actually."

"Why is that?"

"I just think it would be easier that way, Miss…Buchanan, was it?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Seaborn? Right. I will be in L.A. tomorrow. Can we meet somewhere?"

"I…okay. Fine. Tomorrow…?"

"I'll call you with my whereabouts and we'll have lunch."

"Lunch? Captain Sosa, this is Federal matter. Involving a state-wide and possibly even a nation-wide manhunt for four armed and dangerous federal fugitives. Who were found guilty of treason against their country…"

"You do eat, don't you?" There was the tiniest trace of amusement in Charissa's voice, which rankled Seaborn's nerves, but she closed her eyes and tamped down her temper.

"Yes, I do. I've even been known to eat DOD officials when they fail to cooperate with me. Call me back when you get to L.A…if you don't mind."

"Certainly! Thanks."

The line went dead and Seaborn smacked the phone back on its hook. She rubbed her forehead, feeling a migraine coming on, and tried again to remember where she had heard the name Charissa Sosa before. It sounded awfully familiar, but it wasn't coming to her. The headache wasn't helping, either. Carmen inched back into the room, looking uneasy and ready to run if Seaborn went for the Glock.

"You have another call, Miss…Miss Buchanan. Line four."

"And who would it be this time?" Seaborn asked, keeping her voice mild, even though right now she felt another volcanic explosion of temper rising to the top of her head, along with what was now a searing headache.

"Uh…he said his name is James."

Seaborn stared at her, blinked, and snatched up the phone, hitting the line and waiting.

"Hey, baby, how's it shakin'?"

She closed her eyes tight, determined to not let him provoke her. "I am doing excellently, Captain Murdock. Pray, please inform me of the condition of your knee."

"Swollen and kinda hot actually, but I've always been a fast healer," he answered pleasantly. "Dja contact Sosa yet?"

"That would be classified information, and might I add that I'm not at all surprised by your audacity today - walking into a federal marshal's office in the middle of the afternoon, wearing the stolen uniform of a flower delivery service and bearing a vase of…"

"Daisies. Yep. Hey, we didn't hurt the guy…really. A little knot on the head never hurt nobody…much…and all we took was the bouquet of daisies and gave him twenty bucks for his trouble. And by 'classified', I will assume you mean 'yes'?"

Peterson waved at her from his desk across the way from her own – he had a trace. She nodded and raised her palm to him, signaling him to keep his mouth shut. "Well, I'm sure he's very grateful to still be alive."

"Oh, well, I am too!" he answered breezily. "Though frankly I'm not afraid of dyin'. I'm right with Jesus, y'know. Gotta say, baby, you've definitely changed. Not that there was a lot that needed improving on – all the material was present and accounted for. Always thought you'd look good in a miniskirt and red blouse, by the way. Damn sexy…the Glock just made it even better. Got any high heels? You'd look even hotter in heels and somethin' in leather…"

"Captain, I am not at all interested in how I look to you!" she snapped. "But I will attempt to be reasonable. If you turn yourselves in, I will do all that I can to insure that your friends will be treated fairly and transported safely back to…"

"Prison. Or for me, the booby hatch. Thanks, but I think I'll just pass on that sweet little deal."

She could hear noises in the background from where he was calling – music and people talking, and what sounded like someone ordering a drink. Was he calling from a bar? She looked at Peterson, who was scribbling something down. "Then you will leave me no choice, Captain. I don't relish the idea, but if I have to, I will shoot you."

"Life is full of risks, darlin'. Gotta go. Got your trace now?"

"Yes!" she hissed, which caused Peterson to take a nervous step back.

"Good. Hey, 'member what I told you, back in Iraq?"

She drew in her breath. Peterson was holding up the paper now. The Pelican Bar & Grille, just three damned blocks away! "I do recall…but I don't speak that particular lang-"

"Meant every word, baby," he cut her off. "See ya soon. Gotta skee-daddle!" The line disconnected and Peterson grinned triumphantly. She was on her feet and rushing toward the door before he could even speak.

"Move!" she yelled, and took off for the stairs for the second time in less than four hours.

The bar was almost empty, which struck Seaborn as rather odd, as it was almost five o'clock. The bartender glanced up at her and raised his eyebrows. She held up her badge, and he raised his hands in the air and dropped a shot glass, which shattered on the floor.

"I swear to God, I didn't do it!" he yelled, eyes wide with terror.

"I don't care if you just robbed a bank," she snarled at him. "Where is he?"

"Where is who?"

"Tall, dark hair, late thirties, green eyes, prob'ly wearing a red cap…" She pointed her gun at the payphone. "He was using the phone." At his blank stare, she rolled her eyes. "Southern accent?"

"Never seen nobody like that tonight, ma'am," the bartender said, hands still in the air. "But then I just started my shift about five minutes ago…"

"Look around," she told Ripley, who nodded and headed toward the bathrooms. Christine went into the ladies' room and came back out a moment later, followed by a frightened-looking woman who booked it for the front door and ran out. Shore and Ripley went into the mens' room, but emerged moments later, with nothing to show for the effort. She holstered her Glock and rubbed her temples, annoyed. She knew the A-Team was good. She knew they specialized in the ridiculous…but this was ridiculous. How the hell did they manage to pull stuff like this off?

The Marshals looked around the bar and in the storage room and office in the back, and after a few moments they gave up on finding anything and left as the police came in to do some fingerprinting and to ask a few standard questions. Seaborn walked slowly to the office, turning down an offer for a ride with her team. She looked at her watch – it was five o'clock, she was starving, and right now all she wanted was a Philly cheesesteak and a Coke. She called Ripley on her cellphone and told him she was going to get an early supper and would meet them in her office to go over the recording of the call from Murdock.

Angelo's was the only place in town, as far as Seaborn was concerned, that sold authentic Philadelphia-style cheesesteaks. She had never liked the city itself much, but the sandwiches were sublime and she had been immensely gratified to find a place in Long Beach that actually made them right. Even better, the little restaurant had a deck for outdoor dining, with a nice view of the beach. She collected her sandwich (a pizza cheesesteak, no onions) and Coke and went out to the patio, enjoying the evening breeze.

She was watching the sun slowly melting into the sea, becoming drowsy and attributing that to her stressful day. She was actually looking forward to going home and taking a long, soaking bath with lilac-scented crystals, and dreaded going back to the office again. She'd watch Serpico tonight, she decided and sat back in her seat, yawning. May your first child be a masculine child…

"Hello, gorgeous."

Her eyes snapped open and she stared across the table at Murdock, who leaned forward on his elbow, studying her with interest. "What the…"

"Now don't go pullin' a gun here, baby. There's people about. Families with little kids and the like. That would be upsettin' to all concerned. So just relax, okay?"

"How dare you…"

"'sides, I got a gun, too, but I really don't want to use it. It would be just downright rude, don't you think? I'm not rude by nature. You know that."

She saw that he had only one hand on the table. The other was down, and she swallowed, knowing his weapon was pointed directly at her, under the table. How had he snuck in here without her even noticing? She looked around, seeing numerous patrons at the tables on the decks – families with rambunctious little kids, and young couples chatting in the twilight. This was, indeed, no place for gunplay. She turned her gaze back to him, taking in his appearance. His hair was shorter, but was still uncombed, and he had shaved the scruffy stubble of earlier today. He was wearing a sharp grey suit and blue tie over a crisp white shirt, and looked extremely handsome. His shoulders were just as wide, he looked just as hard and fit as ever, and that only added to his appeal.

"Like the suit? Face got it for me. Off the rack, yeah, but quality, he said."

"Stolen off the rack?" she hissed.

"Nah…borrowed."

"You have got a lot of nerve…"

"I know. I've got tons of nerve. Looks like I'm gonna need 'em, too. We need to talk, though, and this is the right place. Just pretend you're having a nice, quiet, intimate meal with…uh…your lover."

"Oh, very funny!" she snapped, still keeping her voice low. "You are not my lo-…what are you doing here?"

"Well, I figured we ought to have a little on-on-one time. A nice little chat."

"Your face is all over every newspaper in the country. On every news broadcast. You actually think no one is going to recognize you?" she asked him, looking around. She was dismayed to see that no one appeared to be even vaguely interested in her or her dining companion.

"Not really. People are here to eat, not to look for fugitives. Ya wanna find fugitives, ya go to Starbucks or veterinarian's offices. Nice cheesesteaks they got here, too, I gotta say. Put your hands on the table, baby, so's I can see 'em. We'll save the gunplay for later." He grinned at her, and she felt the same vertigo she had experienced the first time she had met him. Seaborn obeyed him, placing her hands on either side of her basket of cheesesteak and fries, but continued to glare at him.

"So what now?" she asked him. "Are you kidnapping me or something?"

"Kidnappin' you? Good Lord, no! You'd be too much trouble. We're on the run, but we're not criminals. You know that."

"I don't know that at all," she reminded him. "I know you were convicted…"

"Yeah, yeah. Convicted but not guilty. There's a difference."

She leaned forward. "That isn't my concern, Captain. My job, as I have told you before, is to catch you."

He raised an eyebrow, and Seaborn continued to stare at him, finally meeting his gaze. A thousand different memories came rushing back to her then. Conversations in the hangar over unusual but delicious meals. A game of Scrabble that had come to grief over the word (or non-word, she had insisted) 'et', which he had insisted was actually a word, as in 'He et his biscuit'. Sitting together in an Apache, and somehow managing to make out in spite of the limited space and awkward positioning. Learning how to do a 'wango' across Texas. Sounds and images and sensations – they all made her forget her anger toward him, as well as her resolve. She felt the tension finally leaving her jaw, and her shoulders relaxed.

"You look beautiful, y'know," he told her quietly. "I like what you've done with your hair."

Seaborn did something then that she hadn't done in a long time: she blushed. He sat back in the chair, looking rather pleased with himself, and she suddenly jerked herself back to reality. "Listen to me, Captain. I will catch you. If it's not tonight, it will be soon. Count on it."

"And then what will you do to me, baby?" he asked her, leaning forward. "Haul me back to Germany and the nuthouse? Huh? Could you do that and live with yourself?"

Her fists clenched. "I will do what I swore I would do, Captain," she answered. "I have done the same thing to countless criminals in the past two years. It was not then nor is it now my job to concern myself over the guilt or innocence of a fugitive. My job is to catch them."

He drummed his fingers impatiently on the table, jaw tightening. "So, what then…it's nothing personal?"

Seaborn drew in breath. "It's nothing personal."

"Like hell it isn't," he snapped. "It's very personal!"

"Do you honestly think this is some kind of game?" she asked him. "That I'm just out to get you because you're you? That's not it at all! This has nothing to do with us…with what happened in Iraq, Captain. Nothing at all."

"My name," he said, finally losing patience with her and banging his fist on the table, "is James." People at the other tables looked up, startled, but no one appeared to recognize him, because they all returned to their meals. "And no, this isn't a game. This is my reputation we're talkin' about. Our reputations. I may be certifiable, but not for one moment did I ever even consider betraying my country or throwing away my own honor, and neither did my friends. I have never done anything other than serve my country since I turned seventeen, and I'll be damned if anybody takes away my good name and calls me a traitor, you hear me? And I'm speakin' for Hannibal and Face and B.A., too."

Seaborn was startled. He had never looked or sounded this way before, and she finally leaned forward. "I'm really supposed to believe that? That you're…what, innocent?"

"I know you don't believe me. But I am innocent. We all are. We were framed, Seaborn."

"By whom?" she asked snidely. "The one-armed man?"

"By a sleazy little prick named Lynch – or actually, Vance Burress, who was posing as a CIA operative and is currently being held someplace by some government entity, and by another, even smaller and sleazier little prick named Brock Pike, who is very seriously dead, and by a General Russell Morrison, who sold us out for millions of counterfeit dollars. Now when you talk to Captain Sosa, ask her about it."

"I've read all about it, Captain, but…"

"James," he reminded her, eyes narrowing.

"James," she finally said. God help her, but she had woke up saying his name that morning. Damn him. Damn him for doing this to her, just when she had finally got her balance and was moving forward in her life, even if she was resigned to being alone in it. He had to come skidding into her life again, green eyes and all, and make her have dreams about him again.

Oh, hell, like she had ever stopped dreaming about him. There were nightmares, definitely, but the dreams were always about him. When I dream, I dream of you. Maybe some day, you will come true.

"Seaborn," he said, his voice softening, leaning forward and almost touching her hand, but deciding against it at the last moment. "I don't want to hurt you. That isn't what I'm doing, or tryin' to do. I'm not here to ruin your life or your career. I just want my life back. I want my reputation back – my good name. That's all I've got. I've never betrayed my country – I never would. I've never betrayed anybody, baby. Not my friends, my family…or you. I wouldn't. I can't."

"Why should I believe you?" she finally asked. "Why?"

"Because…because I'm not lying. I don't lie. You know that."

She did know that. She looked down. "James…I…I have a job to do…"

"I know that, baby. But I need you to believe in me. 'cause I believe in you." He leaned forward, across the table, and kissed her. Had Seaborn been in her right mind, and able to think rationally, she would have taken the opportunity to disarm him, but there was no way she could ever be rational or sane when he kissed her. Not three years ago, and not now. Instead, she felt his calloused hand on her cheek and his sweet, gentle demand for entry before she gave in, and would wonder, later, why she didn't just melt into a puddle on the table. She was just opening her eyes when he pulled away, snatched up his pistol from the table, and dashed away. He crossed the deck, jumped onto the table where a family was dining, and vaulted gracefully over the railing.

It took Seaborn exactly four seconds to regain her senses and jump to her feet, finally grabbing her Glock. The family of four that had been interrupted by Murdock's acrobatics screamed and dove to the ground as she came toward them, gun drawn and shouting for them to get out of the way. She knew the beach was about six feet below the deck, and that the landing would be hard even on the sand, but she rushed forward anyway, ignoring the still-screaming family under the table. She jumped onto a chair and up onto the railing, almost fell backwards but somehow gained her balance and began searching in the fading light for Murdock.

Several people were on the beach, which made firing at him impossible – there was far too much danger of injuring bystanders. She finally saw him – running fast, his suit covered with sand, dragging a little on his injured leg but making good time. She wasn't at all surprised to see him finally reach the stairs leading up to the sidewalk and jump into the black van she had seen that afternoon. She holstered the Glock and snatched up her cell phone to call Friarson, even though she could hear the man under the table dialing 9-1-1, gasping to the dispatcher about a crazy redhead with a gun.

His wife climbed out from under the table and stared at Seaborn. "Miss, you don't have to draw a gun on a guy just for kissing you!"

It was after midnight when Seaborn finally got home. She was exhausted – the day had literally drained her of every last amount of energy she possessed. She somehow managed to get the door unlocked, leaned against it to take a few deep breaths, and shoved her way into her apartment. Stalin greeted her with a bad-tempered meow, and she methodically filled his bowls with kibble and water, and he tucked into his meal. She staggered to her couch and flopped down, miserably flipping through her mail.

She turned the television on, flipped away from the local news ("…shal drew a gun on a federal fugitive tonight at a local eatery, causing what a patron called 'complete pandemonium' as the fugitive somehow managed to evade capture…") and searched for something a little less aggravating. She finally stopped at At Close Range and shut her eyes. There was that damned song again. She turned the television off and somehow managed to drag herself into her bathroom, where she turned that TV on and started running hot water in the tub. Once it was full of steaming water, she stripped and slipped in, dunking herself under the lilac-scented water. But this time, her worry and her headache didn't melt away.

One of these days, this was all going to get her into trouble. Friarson had yelled at her for letting Murdock get away. The recording of the conversation on the phone had been embarrassing. Her feet hurt. She had a run in her silk stockings and her lipstick was smeared. She could still taste him on her lips, and in her mouth, still felt his hand on her cheek, and could still hear his voice telling her she was beautiful.

She sighed, allowing that statement to let warmth spread through her entire body. She wouldn't tell anybody about it. It would be her own little secret. A couple of thugs she had been arresting had said that to her in the past two years, to their grievous harm, but to hear it from him…

And what if the A-Team was innocent? What if he was telling her the truth? Didn't the case bear some investigation? It would be pretty rotten, and even unfair, of her to not look into it. Asking a few questions wouldn't hurt anything, and it wasn't as though she hadn't done that very thing in the past. Of course, all of her investigations had led her to believe that each fugitive she was chasing was actually guilty and that had only increased her determination. Whether the A-Team was guilty or not, she would continue chasing them until she caught them, and if they were actually innocent, then she would see to it that justice was served. If this Vance Burress was really the culprit, then she would see to it that he was the one who fried.

Yes, it all made perfect sense. She would run a thorough investigation, and in the meantime, she would catch them.

Simple as that.

Seaborn finally found an old silent movie on TCM and settled back, watching Buster Keaton steal The General from Union soldiers. She dozed off as Johnnie kissed his girlfriend while saluting passing Confederate soldiers, and was startled awake by someone knocking on her door. Immediately, she was up and out of the tub, pulling on her robe and running to the door, dripping water on the floor. She snatched up her Glock on the way and waited for a moment, taking deep breaths, gun raised and ready. She finally, slowly, opened the door and looked up and down the hall – no one was there.

She was about to close the door when she looked down. On the floor was a tiny package, wrapped in pretty blue paper with a red ribbon. She snatched it up and tore into it, her heart pounding. With trembling fingers, she opened the little white box and choked back tears when she took out the silver chain, fingering the tiny charms that dangled from it.

Wiping her eyes, she stepped back into her apartment, locking the door and staggering to her couch, putting the gun on the table, and flopped down again, not caring that she would leave a water stain on the cushions. Stalin watched her, curious, as she put the necklace back on. She began rubbing the little conch shell, smiling softly, and examined the little chopper, then the St. Christopher medallion and the lion. They all shone like new, and the necklace had been polished thoroughly as well.

"He told me he would keep it safe, Stally," she told the cat. "He never really does lie, does he?"