Holy fricking moly, this is a long chapter. I probably could have shortened it, but screw it, I didn't want to.

Chapter 21: Can't Protect Your Heart

Kirsten had to admit: of all the unhappy faces she expected to see upon exiting the lab, Fisher's was not one of them. Even more surprising, no other member of the keep Kirsten from doing dangerous things squad was with him. Suspicious.

"You know," Kirsten said, gesturing back toward the elevator, "despite what I may have said earlier, I wasn't actually planning on killing her."

Fisher almost smiled, "Then you won't mind if I sweep the lab for evidence."

Kirsten shook her head, "Where's Camille, and the guys? I figured she would have called them. I thought they'd be pissed."

"She did. And they are." Fisher sighed, but his smile was mirthful, "I managed to convince them not to haul you back to Cameron's apartment and tie you to a chair."

"Well, thanks for that."

Fisher held her eyes a moment longer, still smiling, until his gaze dropped to her arm, nestled against her chest in its sling. His eyes grew distant, and she knew he wasn't seeing her anymore. Wherever he was, the memory wasn't pleasant.

Kirsten held her breath as sensation fiddled with her nerves. The desire to touch, to comfort wasn't unfamiliar. She'd felt inklings of it when Cameron first opened up to her – about Marta, about his parents, his childhood. As they grew closer, she found the words to articulate what she was feeling.

I have to protect you. I need to keep you safe.

Engaging her protective side through touch had been interesting. Cameron, she'd learned, responded to gentle, coaxing gestures; Camille to playful nudging and quick – but sincere – embraces; and Linus to a firm grasp on the arm or shoulder, something steady and reassuring.

She didn't know how to comfort Fisher, didn't understand why she wanted to. She was grateful when the moment ended and he blinked the hazy look from his expression.

"Come on, I need to show you something."

Kirsten hid the stutter of her pulse with a coy grin, "The plot thickens."

Fisher was already heading toward the entrance, "Damn it, Clark, just follow me. Without the lip, please."

Kirsten jogged to catch up with him, "Fine, I'll follow. The lip is part of the deal, though."

0o0o0o0

They were driving northbound out of the city, toward the suburbs, and that was all the information she could get out of him. He seemed relaxed enough, but Kirsten could tell he was waiting to bring something up. It put her on edge.

When they'd been on the highway for half an hour, Kirsten gave into her fatigue and rested her head against the car window. The drowsiness brought back memories she'd usually fight: Ed taking her to his parents' house before they passed away, day trips to Long Beach with Megan and her wife, Lana (also dead).

Oh my God, she thought, I know more dead people than I do living.

Fisher drew in a long breath and Kirsten mentally readied herself for whatever can of worms he was deciding to open.

"You lied to Maggie about seeing a document in Megan Werth's stitch." he said, finally.

To her surprise, there was nothing hostile in his tone. She didn't lift her head, but she could see him glance at her in the reflection of the side mirror.

"Look, Kirsten…" he trailed off, rubbing his knuckles methodically along his lips.

Kirsten could see why Camille had defended Fisher, promising he wasn't another NSA drone. If she was being honest with herself, Kirsten didn't see him that way. He was a good person, but…

"I don't trust Maggie." she said, frowning.

"I know."

"But you do."

Fisher considered his response before he spoke, "I think she's a good person in a tough situation. I think her back's against the wall and she's doing what she can."

Kirsten wasn't satisfied. Fisher didn't understand. He didn't know what Maggie had helped do to her.

When they got off the highway, Fisher handed her a photograph from inside his chest pocket.

"This is what we got from the book Ed left with Megan. Any idea what it means?"

Kirsten ran her thumb across the picture, as if she could feel the pages in her hand.

The king and queen departed from the castle, giving orders that no one was to go near it.

"It's a line from Sleeping Beauty. It was my favorite story when I was a kid."

"So Ed's leaving you some kind of message?"

Kirsten grumbled, "Situation normal."

She could listen through Ed's tapes again, though beyond the map coordinates he'd given her, she was doubtful of finding anything else. Kirsten grimaced at the photograph. It felt like she had all the pieces of a puzzle, just not the picture to reference.

Tucking the photo into her pocket, she narrowed her eyes at Fisher, who was suddenly avoiding her gaze like the plague.

"Lake Leah," she said, "ever heard of it?"

His silence and refusal to look at her was answer enough.

"It's a town in southern Oregon. My parents lived there until I was three, when the NSA recruited them to work on what would become the Stitchers Program." she glared at the side of his head, "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

"I did."

"What else do you know?"

Fisher bristled at her hard tone, but responded, "I know it was Ed Clark and your mom who were responsible for the breakthroughs in mind-mapping. Your father was more involved in the…" he waved his hand around, "tech stuff."

Maggie had told her that much, and it matched what she'd seen in her flashback. Kirsten let out a breath, feeling like she was finally on solid ground. Maybe that was just because the car had stopped.

"Come on," Fisher said, taking the keys out of the ignition, "we're here."

Here was a strip of buildings taken straight out of a postcard. Old fashioned light posts lined both sides of the street, every store front shining brightly in the afternoon sun. The corner building they were parked in front of had large windows, accented by maroon tiling. Painted on the sign above the door was something in Arabic, and below that read Rima's Mediterranean Bakery.

Kirsten got out of the car and squinted at Fisher, "Who's Rima?"

Fisher grinned, "My mother."

0o0o0o0

Kirsten was not a sentimental person, but even she couldn't resist the bakery's charm. The left wall was covered in photos of patrons and neighbors, all enjoying one of Rima's treats. Kirsten smiled at a picture including Fisher. He was sitting on one of the stools along the window, face covered in something red and sticky. His smile was wider than Kirsten had ever seen it.

Mismatching tables and chairs sat along the other wall, all occupied. Some people acknowledged Fisher with a nod or a wave. One woman with a baby said something in Arabic and Fisher strode over to her without hesitation. Kirsten watched him speak with the mother, making faces at the baby in her arms. The scene was so warm and sweet, like one of the pastries in the display case, but she remained rooted to the floor.

She didn't know Fisher was close to his mother, didn't know he spoke Arabic, didn't know he was the kind of person to make goofy faces at babies in public. Such incidental information, yet it felt like a lot. It felt like he was trusting her with a secret part of himself he purposefully didn't bring into the lab. Was it a ploy? Did he just want her to open up to him in return?

Fisher ruffled the baby's dark hair before coming back to her side.

"Sorry about that." though he was grinning as he said it, "I haven't seen Sabeen since she had her baby. That little cutie," he inclined his head toward the baby, who was now waving happily at one of the other customers, "is Hassan."

Kirsten gave a tight smile that wasn't completely forced. Fisher turned to the teenage girl behind the counter, who was wearing a maroon apron and scarf that matched the tiling outside. They spoke for a bit and she disappeared into the back room.

"What do you think?" Fisher asked quietly.

"It's lovely." she offered, then couldn't contain her confusion, "Quincy Fisher is definitely not an Arab name."

He shrugged, "Mom and Dad didn't want me to feel out of place. We lived in an area where admitting you were Syrian was like putting a kick me sign on your back."

Some of her tension eased, softened by sadness. That feeling was back, the desire to comfort, but she fisted her hand at her side and ignored it.

A bellowing voice made her jump as a man in a wheelchair came out from behind the shop counter. His apron matched the girl's, though it was covered in baking materials. Kirsten knew he was Fisher's father immediately, sharing his son's strong jaw and big ears. The expression on his face was so utterly happy, Kirsten couldn't look away from it.

He and Fisher spoke in a language that was definitely Arabic, though it sounded different from how Fisher had spoken to Sabeen and the cashier. Kirsten wasn't sure what had changed, but something was definitely off.

Fisher leaned down and the men exchanged a kiss on each check and a long, tender hug. They continued speaking, Fisher gesturing to Kirsten for what she guessed was her introduction.

"Kirsten, this is my father, Sam. Dad, this is Kirsten."

She waved awkwardly while Sam wheeled up in front of her and put his arms out. Kirsten's heart lurched with panic, though she leaned in for a hug, anyway. He was strong, despite his appearance, and kissed Kirsten's cheek as if she were family.

"You are Quincy's friend from work." he said brightly, "So nice to meet you."

"Where's Mom?" Fisher asked.

Sam's face puckered like he'd eaten something sour, "At the market with your cousins getting ingredients. I am always telling them, "If you notice we are low on something, you need to put it on the list before we run out" but they never do. These children…" he tutted, "If I had shown this kind of carelessness working in my father's shop – "

"Dad," Fisher chided, though his tone was fond.

Sam looked at Kirsten bashfully, "Of course, of course. Where are my manners? Sit, sit." he gestured to the stools along the front window, "I'll be out with some tea."

He turned in his chair and said something to the girl in the first dialect Kirsten had heard. She took her seat beside Fisher.

"Are you and your father speaking a different dialect than the one Sabeen and that girl speak?"

Fisher's eyebrows shot up, a grin spreading across his face, "Impressive. Most people wouldn't notice a difference."

Kirsten smirked and tapped a finger to her temple as a way of saying, temporal dysplasia, duh.

Fisher chuckled, "My family speaks Levantine Arabic. It's more common along the coast. Employees and customers come from all over, though, so Standard Arabic is easier."

Kirsten nodded, turning in her stool to gaze out at the street. It still looked like a postcard, colors so vibrant they couldn't be real. People buzzed about, talking and laughing and smiling with an ease Kirsten envied. It seemed simple, to be happy in this place that looked untouched by reality. But dreams all ended eventually.

"Fisher," she said, not looking away, "what are we doing here?"

Before he could answer, Sam appeared with a trey in his lap. Fisher took it, offering Kirsten a cup of herbal tea. She felt rude sitting on a high stool, looking down at Sam in his chair, though he didn't seem to mind. She'd expected the conversation to feel forced, but she quickly discovered Sam could talk circles around even Camille.

He told her about how his parents came to the states when he was a baby and how he met Fisher's mother when her family arrived eighteen years later.

"You know in movies when the boy sees the love of his life for the first time and everything else in the scene fades out of focus?"

Kirsten thought about her first meeting with Cameron, saying his breath smelled like meat and him calling her Queen of the Estúpidos. She bit back a laugh.

"Yeah," she said, "and the dramatic music swells up?"

"Yes!" Sam cried, "It was exactly like that."

Fisher was blushing like mad but he didn't make any move to stop Sam. Kirsten learned that they had been Rima's Syrian Bakery when they first opened, but received so much harassment that they changed it shortly after.

"It's one of the reasons I went into law enforcement," Fisher said, "seeing the crap my family had to go through without any help from the authorities."

"And now he's Mr. Big Important Detective." Sam said in a mocking voice that mimicked Fisher perfectly.

Kirsten did laugh at that. Sam seemed surprised by the sound, staring at her like she was something rare and beautiful.

"I have been so rude! Quincy, why didn't you stop me? Tell me about yourself, dear."

Kirsten froze mid-sip, losing her appetite for the tea instantly. This is normally when she would deadpan, explain her teary childhood and not care if she killed to mood. But Sam was so happy – happy to be with his son, happy to be talking with someone new, happy to be alive. How could she do that to him?

She saw Fisher tense out of the corner of her eye.

"My mother died when I was young, so I was raised by my father and his sister." she was surprised when it didn't feel like a total lie, "My dad worked in neuroscience and my aunt worked at an adoption agency." she gave a kind of helpless smile, "They were both huge nerds, so I got really into computers as a kid and just kind of turned that into my entire life."

Sam nodded approvingly, "We may need your services, then." he jerked his head in Fisher's direction, "This monkey is supposed to understand technology, help us old people, but he's useless."

"Hey!" Fisher barked.

They went back and forth for a while, taking attention off of Kirsten, which she appreciated. Finally, Fisher collected their teacups on the tray and stood up.

"Sorry I can't wait for Mom to get back." he said.

Sam waved him off, "You're busy, we understand."

Fisher kissed his cheek and hugged him again, "I'll call tomorrow night."

"Oh wait!" Sam exclaimed, taking the tray and wheeling behind the front counter.

He said something to the girl in Standard Arabic and she went into the back room.

"You're going to love these." Fisher said to Kirsten, "They were my favorite as a kid. Super addictive."

He pulled out some cash from his wallet and Sam's expression became incredulous.

"No! What's my rule, Quincy?"

"Dad," Fisher sighed, "I'm a grown man. Let me pay for my own damn cookies."

"No." Sam huffed and disappeared into the back.

Fisher rolled his eyes and stuffed the cash into the tip jar beside the register. After a moment, Sam appeared with a paper bag in his hands and gave it to Kirsten. Her eyes fluttered close, unable to help it as she inhaled the sweet scent.

"Barazek," Sam beamed, "a Damascene specialty."

"They smell amazing." Kirsten said, "Thank you."

He gave her a little insistent gesture and she leaned down to kiss his cheek.

"So happy to meet you, Kirsten. Anytime you're in town, stop by." he swatted at Fisher's hand, "Keep this one out of trouble for me."

Both she and Fisher laughed at the irony.

Kirsten waited until they were back on the highway to try one of the cookies. It was nutty and sweet and crunchy, exactly as Fisher had said: addictive.

"Good?" he asked and Kirsten hummed through her mouthful of cookie.

He chuckled and the car fell into silence. Kirsten tapped her foot, then her fingers, played with the hem of her shirt, then gave into the question burning inside her chest.

"Okay, Fish, what was that about?" she said, "Why take me to meet your family?"

Fisher looked as if he hadn't heard her, amber eyes gleaming in the afternoon light.

"I know you and the rest of the Scooby gang make fun of me for following the rules. I know it's one of the reasons you don't trust me." he glanced at her without turning his head, "I wasn't always like that. Believe it or not, I was young and stupid, once. I wasn't always proud of my family and where we came from. I wanted to fit in, so when my friends offered me alcohol or a joint, I'd take it."

He gripped the steering wheel a little tighter, like he had to physically prepare for the next part of his story.

"One night, my buddy said his girl was having a party a little ways outside of town. I lied to my parents so that they'd let me go." he sighed, "We got trashed, for lack of a better word. Most of the night is still a blur, but I do remember stumbling onto the front lawn. I knew I was way too drunk to drive myself home."

"What did you do?" she asked quietly.

Fisher met her eyes, "What I always did when I fucked up. I called my dad."

Kirsten was beginning to put the pieces together, her stomach turning as the picture unfolded.

"It must have been three or four in the morning, but he picked up right away and said he was coming to get me."

"He never made it, did he?"

Fisher swallowed and shook his head, "One of my friends didn't make the same choice I did. They tried to drive themselves back, collided with my dad head-on."

Kirsten felt frozen in time, though the world continued to move around them.

"He was in a comma for three days. My mom and I stayed in the room the entire time." Fisher continued, "After he woke up and the doctors said he'd never walk again, I stopped seeing him."

She couldn't control her gasp, "Why?"

Fisher looked at her sympathetically, "Because I hated myself, Kirsten. I knew that it was my fault, I'd crippled my own father."

She wanted to speak, but couldn't fathom the words, so he kept going, "I thought he'd be better off without me, or at least that's what I told myself. I thought it was the punishment I deserved for what I'd done. Really though, I was just too ashamed to face him."

"After avoiding him for about a week, my mother sat me down, told me I was letting my choices in the past control my present. She said I wasn't learning from my mistakes, or atoning for what I'd done. I was punishing myself without thinking about the people around me. My father wanted to see me, but I couldn't face him because of how I felt."

Fisher swallowed again, his eyes glistening, "When I finally went to see him, I thought – or maybe hoped – that he would be angry, tell me he hated me. But he just smiled and held me and told me it was going to be okay." His smile was disbelieving, "He was telling me it was going to be okay, can you believe that?"

"You're his son." she said, "He loves you no matter what."

"And your friends love you, Kirsten."

The whiplash in conversation left her breathless.

"W-what?"

Fisher's expression had sobered, "I know you're pushing them away, Kirsten. You're blaming yourself for what happened to Ed and Megan and pushing your friends away because you think that's what you deserve."

Kirsten gaped at him, utterly blindsided. It felt like a betrayal, introducing her to his family, opening up to her, leaving her raw and vulnerable only to turn the tide on her.

"You have no idea…" she seethed.

"Yes I do." he shot back, "People we love tried to protect us and they ended up hurt because of it. I get it, Kirsten, but punishing yourself isn't helping."

"I'm not punishing myself. I'm protecting them!"

"No you're not."

"Fisher, Ed Clark was murdered. Megan was so stricken with grief she killed herself. A crazy woman shot me in a parking lot. The more distance I keep from the team, the better."

"And you don't care how they feel about this?"

"How they feel?" Kirsten gawked, "Fisher, this is about their safety!"

"So breaking Cameron's heart doesn't matter to you?"

"Shut up." she spat.

"If you push him away, it'll destroy him. You know that."

"At least he'll be safe."

"Not necessarily. You forget, he's a government asset, too. All of you have targets on your backs – perks of the job. You're not protecting them by leaving them behind."

Every bone in Kirsten's body was trembling, though she kept eerily still in her seat. She stared at her hands, furious to find her vision blurry with tears.

"Ed… Megan… hell, Marta…" she sighed, "I can't risk anything like that happening again."

I can't risk them.

When she looked up, Fisher's gaze was infinite, understanding.

"You're letting the past control your present. My actions put my father in that wheelchair. My family will have to live with that, but isolating myself wasn't helping them. It was selfish. You have nothing to blame yourself for, Kirsten. You're a part of something beyond your control, but acting like everything is your fault." after a pause, he went on, "You're not protecting them, Kirsten. You're hurting them – and yourself."

Kirsten didn't realize she was crying until she tried to speak and there was no air left in her lungs. She sniffled and looked away, a little bewildered that she was a. crying and b. crying in front of Fisher.

Worst of all, he was right. She knew what her aloofness would do to her friends, knew it still wouldn't guarantee their safety. Maybe she'd just been trying to make things easier for herself. She'd asked Cameron if love was always followed by heartbreak. He wasn't sure and Kirsten didn't think she was brave enough to find out.

"Every time…" she began, not really having a plan for where she was going, "every time I think about Ed and Megan and what they did for me… what they gave up for me…" she inhaled sharply, "I can't breathe. I miss them, and I'm mad at myself for missing them. I'm mad at them for dying. I'm mad at… I don't know, the universe and then when I'm done being mad I just feel empty and lost."

Fisher nodded, "That's grief."

"I hate it." Kirsten rubbed violently at her eyes, "I don't ever want to feel it again, but I know if anything happened to Cameron or Camille or any of you," she could feel both of their surprise at her inclusive you, "I'd never be okay again."

She was glad Fisher didn't look at her, offering what privacy he could while she was trapped without anything to hide behind.

"Love's scary, in that way." he said, "But it makes all of the time in between worth it. It gives you memories that make the grief easier." Kirsten counted four heartbeats before he went on, "You can't protect yourself from heartache, Kirsten, and you can't protect them. But you can be there for them, make the time in between worth it."

It was easier said than done, obviously, but it was enough. Kirsten smiled – just barely – and wondered how she'd thought Fisher was just a puppet, that he didn't care about any of them. Taking a steadying breath, she loosened the strap on her sling and slowly removed it. Fisher visibly tensed but he didn't say anything. She tossed it at her feet and held out her hand, keeping her movements slow and careful.

Fisher glanced between it and the road, hesitant, but returned her smile as he took her hand in his.

Thanks so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed.

I looked into the name Quincy Fisher to see what his background would be and turns out that's one of the most darn-tooting American names ever, which is totally fine, but I have a weird headcanon that his parents own an ethnic bakery so I did more digging. I looked up Damon Dayoub, who plays Fisher, and turns out the surname Dayoub is Syrian, which is really cool. I then proceeded to drool over pictures of Syrian pastries for half an hour. Time well spent!