Note: (LATE SORRY) Alright. I try to keep my notes short and sweet, but I need to say something. Rose, you are a dear dear friend of mine. You've been reading this longer than anyone, and I know what side you've been on since day one. And I direct the next part to both you and the readers: Don't ever, ever assume I hate one side. Don't think I'm writing this to appease other people's wishes. I do not hate Claire. Actually, I love her. She's born from insecurities I am human enough to admit I have, though I do not act upon them. Both she and Skye are heroes in my eyes. Don't ever assume differently. And don't pretend, (coughROSE, haha) that you know where my story's going next. 'Cause I just might prove you wrong. ;)

Disclaimer: Certain events in this chapter are built off research, and if you find my portrayal of them inaccurate, by all means let me know so I may correct it. And I would have upped the language of certain characters, but I'd really rather not use the F-bomb. You'll see what I mean.

Chapter Twenty-five: Lullaby

"Your Honor! I'd like to redirect." Holy hell, Jack was sweating. "Miss Aires. Under stress, isn't it probable that any mother could make a mistake of that nature?"

"Well, yes, it's probable."

"And didn't Ms. Claire learn from her mistakes?" O'Neil insisted.

"I believe so."

"Didn't she, in fact, go to a specialist for help?"

"That she did."

"Well, then." Jack turned to the jury and shrugged. "No further questions."

Maria Monett stood up again, a statue of gray stone. "I, too, would like to redirect, Your Honor. Miss Aires, please. Did Ms. Claire learn from her mistakes before or after Willow was allegedly kidnapped?"

"That's hard to answer, but…her sessions with me," Gina murmured, "were after."

"And did she ask for your help, or did someone—like Dr. Hardy—ask for her?"

"Dr. Hardy made the arrangements," Gina admitted.

Smugly, Maria brought challenging eyes on Mr. Jack O'Neil from the city. "No further questions."

Jack swallowed a lump in his throat.

"The witness may step down."

"What is wrong with you?" Jack shoved Claire hard against the wall, fuming. He didn't think his face could turn so red, that his voice could become so loud. "Why in God's name didn't you inform me of that?"

His cousin retreated within herself. "What did you want me to say?"

"Oh, I don't know—that your mothering skills suck beyond all comprehension?!" he hollered. "Defense attorneys are the ones who deal with liars, not prosecutors! I'm not a mind-reader, and I can't patch up your Achilles' heel until I know you've got one!"

"She wasn't supposed to say any of that," Claire protested in a tiny voice. "It was all told in private."

"She's a psychiatrist, not a priest, Claire. Anything you said to her is fair game."

"And how was I supposed to know that, all those weeks ago?"

"Shit, I can't believe we're related." Jack thumbed through his papers with a snort. "I must be adopted or something. No one with my blood would be so—"

Immediately the blonde bristled. "So what?"

"It doesn't matter now. Point is, our ship could be sunk. Wanna know why?"

Of course Claire did, but she wasn't about to admit that.

"One, it's not just your kid. Two, you lied about that kid's daddy. Three, you abandoned that kid. Four, you're a compulsive liar. And five? That baby can't testify for you, which would be just about the only thing that could turn this case around now."

"This isn't about me," Claire muttered, Gwen's words repeating in her ears. "It's about what he did to my baby. It's about justice."

"True. But don't think that jury won't be comparing your mistakes with Skye's. Tell me," Jack continued, "if you were in a jury, and you learned that a mother had kidnapped her baby to protect it from a dangerously alcoholic father, would you arrest her?"

Begrudgingly, Claire shook her head.

"What about a parent saving a child from sexual abuse via kidnapping?"

Again, she shook her head.

"So you tell me. Is a father saving his baby from a woman who can barely save herself just as understandable?"

Her eyes flashed. "I'm not a raging alcoholic. I'm no sexual predator. I'm just a mother who doesn't know what she's doing. That's not a crime, Jack."

"I know," O'Neil agreed. "But the jury might say what Skye did wasn't a crime, either."

"This isn't even about custody!"

"Well, Claire, it sure as hell is now."

Trent had lost sight of his wife. Sometime in the middle of Gina's testimony, she'd slipped away in the shadows, and come to think of it, that slimeball O'Neil had vanished shortly after Miss Aires was done speaking, hadn't he? His jaw tightened at the thought of that lawyer; related to his wife or not, what he wouldn't give to punch that man full in the mouth.

"Claire? Darling?"

"What do you know, anyway? I'd like to see you try and do better than I did! I'd like to see you be the perfect parent!"

The doctor followed the sounds in the hall, and there she stood, fists clenched and forehead glistening with sweat. Compared to the athletic O'Neil, she could have been a mere twig in the wind, but Trent never thought he'd seen anyone stand so strong. "Don't tell me my child is lost. Don't you dare think I'm going to let her leave me again. I can't believe that's justice, Jack."

"It's not justice," he scoffed. "It's the court. You naïve little girl, what made you think they were the same thing?"

"I am not so little anymore."

"And you're not so naïve, right?" Jack snorted. "I'll do what I can, Couz. But I'm not a miracle-man, and you're not a sweet, innocent, wonderful Mommy. You're a screw-up, and the jury knows it."

"If I hear you say that about my wife again," Trent heard himself growl, "I will personally make sure you'll never father any children in this world."

The air became so still Claire could hardly breathe. Eyes wide with surprise, Jack choked out a laugh and shook his head, red-faced. "Well. Huh. Didn't see the big bad wolf over there."

"People like you should not be promoting justice."

Jack's chuckling increased. "Another idealist! Geez. I figured the doctor would at least know better." Then, with a little sigh, Jack muttered, "Then again, what do you expect from a cuckold, right?"

Trent didn't understand what happened next. His fist connected with something solid, and the next thing he knew, blood had spattered on that fine Armani suit. Someone screamed—his wife?—and Jack let out a stream of curses as he stumbled to his feet. "And just so you know," Trent announced, deadpan, "You're fired."

No one said a word as he walked his wife out and slammed the door shut.

"Have you been praying?"

Skye's head snapped up from his nap and he blinked. "Um. Yes?"

"Well, then it's been working." Maria, cheeks aglow, scooted beside her client and patted him on the knee. "That last cross was fantastic. I thought we were going for a swan song there, but what with Claire's mistake, this could convince the jury you're the better parent." When this failed to get a reaction from him, Maria added, "And to top things off?"

"What?"

"They've fired their attorney!" Practically squealing (Skye had never seen the woman so unprofessional), Maria exclaimed, "That means not only do we get a quick break, but we get someone who's got to catch up to speed, so we're a few steps ahead of whomever comes."

"They've fired Jack O'Neil?"

Maria nodded, beaming. "It's wonderful. I hated that SOB, anyway."

A long, shaky gasp left Skye's throat. He could win this. There was actually a chance, in this mixed-up world, that he could come out of the trial scot-free, with Willow in his arms. The idea initially shot thrills through his spine—

"But Claire?" He didn't know why he said that. But the question struck him as important, even if Maria's expression clearly said that it didn't seem so important to her.

"Well. Hm. That's the jury's call, not mine. But there's a chance for full-custody, I'm betting."

"Because I deserve to be Willow's father?" Skye pressed.

Again, Maria hesitated. "More because Claire doesn't deserve to be Willow's mother."

"I can't be with someone like you. You know that. I need…dependency, responsibility, honesty. You're not the marrying type. I could never marry you."

Stunned. There was no other word to describe that numb sensation settling in Skye's body. Don't I want to be free? He stared at the handcuffs as if by glaring he could melt them away. Don't I want to be with Gwen? With my baby girl?

And then that question again: "But Claire? What about Claire?"

There were no easy answers. In fact, there never were.

"Is there any other way?" Skye whispered.

The mirth had begun to leave Ms. Monett now, the regret in her client's eyes a sobering blow to her spirits. "You want the truth?" she answered. "No. Not that I can see."

Skye nodded slowly. His blue eyes flickered towards the windows, and he found himself asking, "Could I see the prison? The real one. The one they'll send me to if I lose."

"Don't think like that—"

"No. I need to know."

Maria chewed her lip, obviously displeased at the thief's behavior. "You want a field trip? Fine. I'll show you. You win."

Luckily, Judge WP was available to allow Skye to travel across border lines. Luckily, Bob was fine with driving both Skye and his lawyer to the state penitentiary.

"We're lucky we get to do this," Maria had told him. Lucky. Thieves treated that word like gold. Now, it made Skye shudder to the core.

He had not expected a line of misfits: black-eyed, normally-clothed, everyday people that stretched from the front to the back of the pre-intake area. He did not understand what possessed Maria to pull him among them, walk over to the guards, and explain something about "showing" him the process. When the officer eyed him, considering him nothing more than another number on his list, and told him, "Alright, then. Strip-search," Skye couldn't say he knew where he was or what he was doing as the clothing slipped from his able body. Open your mouth. Raise your arms. Bend. Spread your legs. Like a sick game of Simon says.

Bob followed him again, standing at Skye's side. Next came the row of inmates, and Skye held his head high as he could while he withstood the jeers—"hey pretty boy, lookee here, we got ourselves a beauty queen"—the curses, the pasts etched on those men's faces, and the absolute lack of souls in a world that forced them to become empty shells in orange uniforms. One man lay on the floor, passed out in his own vomit. Another one was being dragged off in the distance, screaming and fists red with some poor soul's blood.

"Hey, homo." Skye stiffened as a beefy man stood up in a cell, an obscene tattoo throbbing on his brow. "What you lookin' at? You think this is a freak show?" A laugh. "Damn, if we couldn't screw a pretty princess like you. Fresh meat."

Skye tried to pretend he didn't see the piercing glare in that man's eyes. He ignored the thought that he was just as transparent as them, underneath these normal clothes. He denied the truth that he'd be crushed in a world like that, vulnerable and weak, no matter who wound up in his cell.

"Well?" Maria prodded as Bob brought him back outside. "Did you finally get some sense in that skull of yours?"

He kept silent all the way back to his cell, and only then did he let himself—for the first time in twenty years—cry.

Willow, Trent thought to himself, looked just like her mother: fragile, fair, ocean-eyed and warm. She giggled when he made faces at her, played with stethoscope he'd brought out of habit, and blew raspberries just because she'd finally learned how to do it just right. Yet of course she'd been difficult to raise. Hadn't she?

The doctor glanced over to the bed where Claire was sleeping soundly. Her arm crossed over her face and her legs were pulled up close, the covers wadded up at the bed's end. He ached to see her like that. He flinched at the memories of her waking to tend to the baby, while he'd stayed in bed without thinking.

People kept blaming Claire in that courtroom. Couldn't they see he was to blame, not her?

A light tapping at the door distracted him. The innkeeper girl, Gwen, Skye's girlfriend, the girl who'd run from the witness stand, smiled at him and blushed. "Um. Phone's for you downstairs."

Because he trusted her, Trent put Willow in her arms and thundered down to the telephone. "Yes?" he spoke breathlessly into the speaker. "This is Dr. Trent."

"This is the law offices of Dawn, Smith, and Smith. I understand you need another attorney for your case?"

"Yes, our prosecutor was…well. We're in desperate need of one, and according to your track record—"

"Yes. I do believe we'd be a good fit as well."

Delirious, Trent opened his mouth to produce no sound.

"Shall we make the arrangements, then, Dr. Trent?"

"Yes. Yes, absolutely." Out of the corner of his eye, Trent saw a man decked in brand name attire stomp his way to a distant train. "I'd like nothing more."

"Are you sure about this?"

"No."

"Well, isn't that comforting."

"Chicken."

"Gustafa, since when has calling someone a chicken led to them mountain climbing?"

It had, of course, been the stupid green man's idea to go searching for activities in Flowerbud. Which meant Nami had to blame him for discovering the fabled Mt. Moon and the town sport of climbing it. She blew her red bangs from her eyes and frowned.

"This is stupid."

"No," Gustafa corrected her, "this is taking risks. And c'mon. What's the worst that could happen?"

"We could die?"

"So? It's bound to happen anyway."

He'd already attached his harness, and Nami, despite herself, had done the same. She squinted up at the sky, a hazy mix of white and blue, and Gustafa tucked his hat under a rock so that it wouldn't blow away. "What do you think is up there?" Nami wondered aloud.

"Who knows. That's part of the fun, isn't it?" The musician tossed his hook to the cliff and crowed when it caught snugly on the edge. Not to be outdone, Nami followed suit, and when Gustafa began to climb up that craggy edge, well, the detective figured she might as well go all the way.

Her feet slipped on the stones, but she caught her footing each time. And that stupid guitarist—Nami had to keep screaming, "Move it!" at his stupid head when rocks tumbled overhead. The cold winter wind tugged at them both on this ledge, and Nami wondered, about a thousand times, why she'd done this again exactly.

When they reached the top, she knew.

Colors spilled over the top of the hills, brilliant yellows and reds shadowing a children's playset of houses and animals. Why, she could open her hand and block out half the farmer's field with her thumb. "It's incredible." She panted, turning to her companion. "Do you believe this view?"

For once, Gustafa didn't say a word.

"I didn't think it'd be…so beautiful. It's like we're watching from a cloud." Nami stretched back, seeing, to her delight, that sunset was coming on. The painter of skies had already brought its oranges and pinks into play, and the canopy of clouds formed a halo over the setting sun. "Gustafa?"

"Don't. Move."

Craning her neck ever so slightly, Nami saw something more spectacular than the view, more awe-inspiring than all the sunsets in the world rolled together. "Oh…God."

The creature loomed magnificent above them, eyes golden and wings spanning a distance Nami could barely judge. A zephyr from the west ruffled its proud plumage; its beak opened to let loose a piercing caw. "What is it," Nami whispered. She realized belatedly that her hands had hooked onto Gustafa's shoulders as he looked down into her eyes.

"That," he answered, "is part of nature's Beauty."

They stood together in an awed silence as this majestic beast thundered about in the skies. They did not say a word when it flew off with the sun to the west. They did not need to say anything as they saw the gift the bird had left behind, a blue feather sitting on the rocks.

No, they didn't need a single word.