Note: Don't quote me on this, but I think next chapter will be the trial. Yeah. I think so. It'll last more than one chapter, though, I think. Um, I'm not sure, haha. But I think we'll hit twenty-five chapters! (It'll be a new record for me! Whoo!) And I'm fascinated by everyone's different thoughts on how the trial ought to end up. Hm…mayhap I have an ace or two up my sleeve? –hint hint- Anyway, thanks for reading, guys! You rock!

Chapter Twenty-One: Daisy Chains

"Claire, about what you wanted to tell me. I think I already know. I think I always knew."

Raindrops fell in tiny little crystal spheres, their sound a xylophone splattering against the windowpane. Trent stared at their symphony before glancing back down at the baby in his arms. Willow shuddered at the cold air; he snuggled her closer. How could he hold her in his arms, he wondered now, without knowing in his heart the possible truth?

He hadn't. And yet, it hadn't seemed to matter, either.

The police file had sent his wife storming, and he knew, just from seeing her eyes, what it said: Skye had spoken what each had suspected all along. So what business did Trent have, holding this beautiful child when her two parents seemed to be fighting tooth and nail for her embrace?

"Hey." He brushed her barely-visible hair from her eyes. "I love you, Willow. You know that, don't you?"

Genetics may link family; Trent, as a doctor, knew this all too well. They could determine your eyes, your hair, the dimples in your cheek. Yet they did not give you love, and that, Trent knew, was what made a father different from a DNA donor: you loved your child, no matter what.

And even if it were true—that the man Claire had rushed off to see was Willow's true father—Trent would still be honored to receive the title spoken from those tiny lips.

Maybe Willow didn't have his blood, but Trent could promise her his love. And, in the end, wasn't that what mattered?

"You don't understand. I have to speak with him." The simple, dumbfounded guard shook his head and Claire gritted her teeth; she'd hauled herself up there in the middle of the night, dressed in pajamas with boots at their bottom. Claire drew her mouth into the thinnest of lines and repeated, "I need to speak with the prisoner. Surely that's not going to be any trouble?"

"He's not approved for visitation."

"I don't care."

"Well, ma'am, you don't have the right to—"

"The right?" Claire's eyes narrowed; her voice took on the taste of iron and resolve. "Who gave him the right to steal my baby girl? Who gave him the right to ask for custody, after a whole year of stealing and thieving and womanizing? And now I don't have the right to speak to the man who dared to throw himself in my child's life? I have more right than anyone here!"

Bob stammered, trying as best as he could to calm this infuriated mother before him. He could have pushed her aside like a toothpick; he could've barked at her, told her to stand in line. But a voice behind him—"Let her in"—somehow convinced him to move aside. Detective Stone would kill him for it later, but something told him that if he didn't, Claire would kill him now.

Claire had mulled over what to say to him for the past hour, piecing together a speech so vitriolic that it could burn in your ears like acid, venomous and cruel. Yet as the door closed behind her, and she breathed in the damp, cold air of the prison, a strange lightness filled her. Finally, I have the upper hand. And I'll be damned if he thinks he can break apart my life again.

"So. You're here."

The silhouette in the cell lifted his shaggy silver head and stared at her with ocean eyes; they had once danced in her dreams, these eyes. Now, they haunted every nightmare and every fear locked inside her soul. Claire caught her breath in time, letting out in a single, shaky blow.

"…You bastard."

"Nice to see you, fair maiden," he greeted in reply.

The muscle in Claire's jaw tightened. How many girls had heard those same words, spoken from his forked tongue? How many hearts had he poisoned, besides her own? "How could you. How dare you. Just who the hell do you think you are?" He watched her through dull, empty eyes, and Claire could feel her anger rising like a moth swallowed in flames. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, and Claire could swear her nails were drawing blood; it just hurt so much to see him there, numb and unfeeling. "Well? Do you have anything to say?"

Skye's lips remained shut. Claire quivered, the indignation swelling and swelling until it was fit to burst, and her voice rose: "Was it too much to see me happy? Was it really so awful, that I could have had a life without you in it? She's my baby, for God's sakes! My baby, not some pawn in your sick and twisted game of revenge!"

She'd thought it'd be fury she'd unload on this man, and yet, Claire found herself in tears. She blinked, and they fell in rhythm with the rain outside: waterfalls of remorse and anguish slipping down her cheeks. "You…you monster, how could you do this to me? To her?"

The thief stood up slowly, so slowly that Claire hadn't realized he'd been rising at all. "How could I?" he repeated softly. "How could you, Claire?"

She sniffled loudly, and for the first time realized it wasn't emptiness reflected in those eyes, but regret. Regret for learning, too late, of a child he could have had. For having to lose a child before he'd ever gotten to know her name. For having to reciprocate the pain of that loss in order to learn of the joy of that gain.

"You'll never take her from me again. Never."

"That's not for you to decide anymore," Skye murmured.

"And you think because you played God, you deserve to play father, too?" Claire shook her head, and a sob ripped from her throat as she kicked at the bars, helpless and vulnerable. "G-go to hell."

The door shut behind her long before Skye whispered to himself, "I just might."

It occurred to Mr. O'Neil that he had put on an Armani suit and tie for just about the most run-down, hick courtroom imaginable. It'd been horrible enough traveling on foot from the village to the precinct; if he'd known those roads were dirt, he'd have brought sneakers along for the ride.

"Of all the people to drag me down into the sticks," he'd sighed, "I didn't expect it of you, Claire."

"You know how important this is, don't you, Jack?" the farmer had replied, dodging the barb neatly. "You know what you're doing, don't you?"

And, for the fortieth time that day, Jack O'Neil had replied: "Yes."

Prosecuting had been a natural career for him, not necessarily because Jack wanted to stick criminals in jail, but because he'd always been a dissenter of sorts, and he found getting paid to argue outdid being nagged for it. Besides, being young, roguishly handsome, and bright-eyed, he inspired enough trust from juries to achieve some sort of repute.

However, these charms don't work on relatives. Which explained why Jack couldn't wheedle his way out of this case and, consequently, this town.

"You can do this," his cousin had prodded. "For Willow."

For Willow. Yes. And his ever-faithful paycheck.

Skye hadn't expected to be handcuffed. Of course, in all the shows and the books, that was how this appeared, wasn't it? The villain enters with his hands and legs in irons and sneers at the crowd, daring them to convict him.

Even if this was only the arraignment, Maria had instructed him to avoid any and all sneering. "You're the charming boy from down the lane," she reminded him. "You are sweet, caring, and above all, you want what's best for Willow. Look the part."

"Mr. Skye." The judge leaned over the podium to catch a better look at the silver-haired thief; to his surprise, the judge was female. "I see we have a complaint stating that you are a fugitive from justice accused of kidnapping. Well, I'll speak to your lawyer, then; Ms. Monett, would your client prefer to waive or contest extradition?"

"We'd like to waive it, please. No warrant seeking is necessary," Maria stated.

"Very well, then." The judge nodded. "I suppose bail isn't a problem, then?"

"Not at all." As Skye had so eloquently told her before, he had no other place to go.

The judge ("Judge WP," Skye heard a bailiff call her in passing) leaned back in her seat; long blonde curls tumbled down those jet black robes, and amber eyes surveyed prosecutor and defense attorney respectively. "I suppose that settles everything?"

"Not everything," Maria added in swiftly. "If it pleases Your Honor, we'd like a restriction order placed against the prosecution's client, Ms. Claire."

O'Neil jumped up like a shot, his mouth round with an objection. "Your Honor, this is ridiculous. On what grounds?"

"She barged into the defendant's cell yesterday, without proper visitation, and verbally harassed him." Maria shrugged. "With Ms. Claire's background, and her obvious feelings towards my client, perhaps Your Honor will agree with me when I say that she cannot be trusted to act rationally while in the defendant's presence."

"That is completely unreasonable, Your Honor," O'Neil protested. "Ms. Claire has obviously done nothing except express her opinion; she has certainly done nothing violent, and I call into question Ms. Monett's dismissal of her 'background.' "

"Perhaps not violent," the judge conceded, "but forcing entry into the prison to release a few pent-up words seems a little extreme in my eyes. And I'll remind the prosecution that I'll interpret Ms. Claire's actions however I see fit, Counselor."

Jack O'Neil, withering, took his seat.

"I hereby set no bail, and restrict Ms. Claire from anymore visits—lawfully permissible or otherwise—to the defendant." A slam of the gavel. "Next case?"

"Hot damn," Skye whispered despite himself, and Maria tucked that little compliment into her pocket, a winning smile remaining on her face for the rest of the day.

"You were incredible."

"I'll be even more incredible if I can get you out of this mess," Maria muttered to herself. Still, Skye had seen the pink blush of pride seep into her cheeks, and he liked it there. She didn't give herself enough credit, not really. "It's only my first case," she admitted. "I…sort of want to do it for me as much as I want to do it for you."

"But you don't even know if I'm innocent or not."

"That's not an attorney's job. It's a jury's." She pulled out some papers and sighed. "I've motioned for a speedy trial, if that's alright with you."

Skye shrugged. "I don't mind."

"And since Forget-me-Not, apparently, has no courts nearby," she continued with a little disdain, "we're holding it here. So the judge you met today? She'll most likely be the one to hear your case."

Skye recalled the picture of her in his mind: a tall, intimidating woman with wild blonde curls and fiery eyes. "Judge WP."

"Yes."

"WP. What does that even stand for?"

Maria hesitated, playing with her long hair before replying. "W-well…her last name is, er, Princess, and…WP sounded more professional than Judge Princess." Her cheeks colored. "You are not to tell a single soul you know this, by the way."

"Cross my heart and hope to die."

"I suppose that's as good an oath as any." Her blue bangs fell across her face; the hair band had been removed today, making her look more disheveled and worrisome. She caught Skye's look and smiled. "Oh, and if I may, who did you plan to be your character witness?"

"Character witness?" Skye repeated.

"Well, we can't very well only have one opinion of you on the stand—especially when that one opinion is Claire's. We need someone who can attest that you're able to care for this baby," Maria insisted. "Have you formed any bonds with the villages here? Perhaps the man running the Inn you stayed at?"

Skye paused. "Is it…childish…that no matter what you tell me, or what you've done, I'm probably still going to love you as much as I do right now?" For the first time, he let the locked emotion prick at his eyes, and he turned to face the wall. Cinderblock didn't care what pretenses he upheld. "There is…one person."

"Name?"

"Gwen. The daughter of the innkeeper." Skye swallowed. "We were…close."

"Define close."

Skye took in a shaky breath. "We were in love."

Gwen answered hundreds of phone calls over the years at her uncle's Inn. The quick grab of the phone, the rapid "Hello, Doug's Inn; Gwen speaking" that rolled off her tongue, and the thoughtless scribbling down of information was a dull routine, nothing fascinating in the slightest. So when the phone rang, it was nothing more than an old habit of picking it up and saying hello.

"Gwen?"

Until that voice answered.

The blonde barely recovered herself from the blow that airy sound had given her; she glanced about her, making sure she was alone in the lobby. "Skye? What are you—?"

"This is my one phone call. Otherwise I pay for every thirty seconds, and I need more than that, Gwen."

The girl swallowed, hard. "Well, maybe I only need five to hang up on you."

"You're mad."

It was a statement; somehow, that infuriated her. "Damn right I'm mad. You just…what are you trying to do? You're going to waste an apology on me, now?"

A pause. "Yes, and no."

"Well, I don't need one," Gwen replied—oh, her bitterness needed this outlet, it felt so good to let that out in some shape, some form. "Your words are very pretty, Skye. But pretty things don't last, do they? And I've realized I don't like shiny things all that much, anyway."

"…I need a favor."

"And I need the last two seasons of my life back. We can't always get what we want, now can we?"

"Please."

Gwen hesitated; Skye didn't act needy, not as Steiner, and not as his true self, either. Her finger coiled about the phone's cord uncertainly, debating on whether he was worth wasting any more of her life. "You have two seconds before I hang up. Explain."

"Can you blame me for what I did? I loved Willow. I still do. I…I'd do anything to be the father she's supposed to have."

"The ends don't always justify the means."

"Loving you was not an end to that mean."

The L-word, after so many lies and deceits, struck her dumb. "You bastard," she whispered. "You think you can say things like that to me, now? I'm not as stupid as I was a few days ago. Drop the act."

"I'm not acting. All the love I gave you, I gave it because I wanted to, not because I needed to."

"Well, thank you, then," she said dryly. "Thank you for wanting to wreck my life. Thank you for wanting to lie to me. Thanks for breaking my heart. I think I just might return the favor."

In moments, she'd have hung up the phone if a few words hadn't stopped her:

"You're my only witness."

Her chest heaved up and down; the words stuck like glue in her mouth. "I…I'm sorry, I'm what?"

"A character witness. You're the only person in the world who can honestly say I love Willow, that I'd never hurt her, that I've done nothing but raise her the best I can." Skye paused. "Isn't that the truth, Gwen?"

"I don't know. I've been hearing lots of lies lately."

"We didn't use to fight like this."

"I didn't think you were a kidnapping son of a bitch, then, either."

"Gwen…if you don't do this, I'm…" His voice cracked on the other end, and Gwen's anger cooled for a moment of shock and surprise. "I'll certainly remain in jail. You're, well, you could quite well say you hold my fate in your hands."

And when I gave you my heart unto yours, didn't you drop it? The girl shook her head, a thousand thoughts fighting to reach her tongue—all sorts of anger, self-pity, bitterness, and fear that she was struggling to hold back. "I…I don't know if I can do that."

"Could you?" He hesitated. "For me?"

"For Skye the Phantom Thief? No." Then, with the regret already swimming through her veins, Gwen added, "But for Steiner…maybe." The stunned silence on the other end was enough to make Gwen want to take back her statement, to force this lying jerk to stay in four walls for the rest of his days.

"Thank you."

"But there's one thing I won't do, Skye." Gwen held her chin high, speaking firmly. "I won't lie."

"…I still love you, you know."

The water began to fill her eyes. "Your two seconds are officially up." The phone slammed down, hard, and Gwen wiped at her face, wondering why the hell, after all she knew, she still wanted to say, "I love you, too."

Here was Nami Stone's to-do list before Skye's trial: interview any and all prospective witnesses, organize all files for the case, and somehow not trip over the two lawyers in the process.

"That's, uh, a lot of work," Gustafa commented, glancing at the two witness lists. " 'Gwen' sounds familiar."

"It should. She's the girl who gave you that complimentary breakfast," the redhead muttered. "Though God knows why she did."

"Because being pleasant reaps its own rewards," Gustafa quipped.

Nami rolled her eyes and fiddled with her pen, the point tap-tap-tapping on the desk's surface. Gwen wasn't exactly a girl she looked forward to grilling; first of all, she seemed to have been innocent of the whole affair, and secondly, choosing her as a character witness was the same thing as throwing a wildcard into the courtroom.

After all, if someone broke Nami's trust so horribly, the detective knew she'd kick them to the curb.

"Hm, we've got Doctor Trent here," Gustafa continued reading, eyebrows raised. "And, wow, Claire's on the stand. Well, that's expected, but…I'd hate to be the defense attorney pinning her down." He grinned. "But you did a pretty good job, so maybe this Maria girl has a chance."

"Gina's on there, too." The detective leaned back in her chair and sighed. "She's going to have to do double-duty, you know? Talk about her sessions with both sides."

"And you're on here, too." Gustafa studied her, the way worry lines creased her brow and her lips puckered into an unsure sigh. She caught his gaze and shifted positions, but all the same color rose to her cheeks and she shrugged.

"It's no big deal. I've done this before."

"You'll knock them dead, you know you will."

Nami hesitated, then nodded slowly. "I'm sure I'll do fine. I just wish—" A low chuckle. "I'm not sure whose side I'm supposed to be on. It's maddening, not knowing how I want this case to go. Normally I could say it in black-and-white, but…"

"Sometimes it's not about sides. Sometimes it's just, you know, doing your job." Gustafa wrapped his arm around her and flashed her a smile. "Just be honest, okay? You're good at that, when you let yourself be."

She smiled faintly. "Is that so?" He leaned in to kiss her pale lips, and Nami kissed back, finishing, Thanks to you.

Gwen did not like Jack O'Neil. She didn't like how he always wiped his hands as if he found her Inn to be dirty; she didn't like how he ordered his food in special ways; and she especially didn't like how he presumed to understand everything about her.

"I'm here to prosecute the kidnapping thief—I'm sure you heard about him?"

"Certainly."

"My poor cousin is beside herself over losing her child, and well, I'm just doing my good duty to society."

"I've no doubt."

"Don't you worry your pretty head about it, though, 'cause I'll make sure he gets behind bars. I'm good at what I do."

Gwen paused, the opportunity to dump the boiling soup in her hands on his head oh-so-tempting. He's had a few drinks, Gwen, she reminded herself. This is just his job, Gwen.

But Lord, if his ego got any bigger, she'd have to chuck it out the window.

Glancing about her, Gwen had started to see a definite label on each of her uncle's tenants: prosecution, defense, or undecided. Practically the whole future courtroom had been eating her homemade pancakes and eggs this morning. Jack O'Neil had come in last, like some movie star who, in a state of amnesia, had wandered to the farthest corner of the earth and decided to rule there. In a past life, Gwen could see herself blushing at his looks and charm, but in this life? She snorted.

Hell with it, she could dump a little bit of soup, right?

With a wicked little smile and a cute little, "Oops," Gwen watched him scream and fume at the stain on his pants, shouting words that meant nothing to her—like "Armani" and "Gucci." Some of the other customers had looked up, and one of them had begun to shake her head and moan. Claire, Gwen noticed belatedly.

"Jack, please don't tell me this is how you're going to behave in court."

He straightened up. "It isn't."

"Do you even know what you're doing?" The farmer walked over and pulled him by the arm, whispering choice words into his ear before pushing him away, fuming. "I don't care if you're the same klutzy cousin I remember—just do your job. Don't make me look any stupider than I already look."

"Believe me," Jack muttered, "you do a fine enough job of it on your own."

"What did you say?"

"How about some free wine on the house?" Gwen interrupted weakly. They shot her twin glares, and Claire rolled her eyes, muttering something like, "Crap, we're in public." Her arm hitched on his sleeve, and the farmer pulled him upstairs, leaving Trent alone at his table with baby Willow on his lap. The doctor seemed to be giving her a strange look, and Gwen fidgeted, unsure of how to feel about this man.

Claire, well, she couldn't help but feel a little jealous of her. Jack she obviously despised. But Doctor Trent? She drew in her breath and let it out. Well, she hadn't a damn clue how to view him.

"Miss?"

Oh, God, he was approaching her. Gwen flashed her best customer-friendly smile, and her heart began to speed up as she noticed he was carrying Willow with him. "Any food in mind for your lunch this afternoon?" she chirped.

"Detective Stone told me how you took care of Willow." Trent smiled awkwardly—gorgeous smile, he looks like a model—as he held the baby forward. "I don't know what I can say to thank you. She's…perfect."

Her cheeks heated up at that. Willow grinned in that happy way only a child can, and with her arms outstretched, waited for Gwen to hug her close. "Ma!" The cook leaned in slowly, somehow still unable to believe what she was hearing, and embraced the tiny girl—oh, not long enough, not long enough.

"She's absolutely beautiful," Gwen said softly. "You should be so proud. I…I'd give anything to raise a child like that." A sad smile. "I always knew she'd never be mine."

"Something we have in common." Trent sighed, and taking Willow back into his arms, he glanced at Gwen once more. "You know," the doctor spoke, "I don't blame you for speaking up for him in court. I know what it's like, to love someone who's made mistakes."

The blonde stumbled for words; had she been so transparent? "Maybe we should form a support group," she joked faintly.

A smile. "Perhaps." He stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out three shiny gold coins, rubbing them between his fingers before depositing them one by one into the jar on her counter.

"I'm not a babysitter," Gwen told him, voice quiet and smooth. "I loved taking care of her—that was pay enough."

"I know. It's just a tip, that's all."

Or a thank you without words.

"Why are you so afraid?"

His words flew past her into nothing; she commented, "Isn't it sad, how it's raining in Winter? It's not cold enough to be snow, and not warm enough to water any grass at all. It's just…slush."

Claire wrapped her arms around herself and forced a smile, retreating deeper into her blankets. "Why don't you come to bed, honey?" Trent asked her, the loneliness in her eyes as much a blow to him as any slap. "The trial's coming up; of course you're worried. But there's no need to be afraid."

"You certainly don't seem to be," she whispered. Her hand reached for Willow's cradle instead, rocking it gently as a butterfly's wings. She watched it sway, back and forth, like a pendulum, mesmerized. "Trent?"

"Yes?"

"Do you hate me?"

The rain pelted outside. "No." Trent thought, then took off his coat and wrapped it about his wife's shoulders. "Sometimes," he whispered into her ear, "I'm not sure if I understand you, or if I like you, but I don't hate you."

She nodded, as if his answer were agreeable or right. Biting her lip, Claire turned to him once more, hesitant. "Do you think I'm wrong?"

"About?"

"Any of it. This case, Skye, Willow, any...anything." Claire wiped her nose. "Do you hate her?"

The question shocked him; "Willow? God, no. I love her."

"But…but she's not yours. She's that thing's." Her body began to quiver, and Trent embraced her all the tighter, fighting to quell her fears. "I wanted her to be yours. I did, I really did."

"I know," he murmured.

"I wanted to marry you, the whole time, really," Claire sobbed into his shoulder, speaking faster and faster, as if she couldn't keep it in any longer. "I wanted you to raise my children, not him. I wanted to share my life and home with you, not him. He just…we…I don't know why I did it." Shame engulfed her, and the countless memories assaulted her: this man waiting for a date when she'd kissed a thief's lips moments before kissing his, the romantic walks on the beach compared to the chase through the woods fueled by adrenaline and strange desire. He'd seemed so…safe, and Skye had been so treacherous—as if constantly putting himself in danger reminded him he was alive.

Maybe she'd never been. Maybe she'd just always hoped to be.

"You shouldn't love me. I make too many mistakes, I hurt too many people, and maybe…when those people get on the stand and say I can't be Willow's mother…maybe they'll be right, too." God, she needed to stop crying—she needed to get hold of herself. "I know I shouldn't be your wife. I'm not good enough, I know."

"That's not your decision." Trent brushed the tears from her eyes, seeing past the red eyes, the pale skin, and blotchy cheeks to see the brave and vulnerable woman he'd loved. "And as long as it's mine, I won't let you say those things about my wife. Because I love her, okay?"

She laughed, his voice gentle and his hands pressed tightly on the small of her back. "Okay." She kissed him, hesitantly, then pushed herself closer to him, holding her lips there longer than she had in ages. "Okay." Together, lying in this bed so often marred by mistakes, maybe they could make the night long enough to forget tomorrow.