Chapter 18: The Decision

Los Angeles, Burbanks, Outside Buy More, April 23rd, 2008

John watched as the dust started to settle. Of Wienerlicious and The Castle, there was nothing left but a crater in the ground. The Agency would have to take steps to keep the LAPD's Forensics section from discovering the remains of weapons and explosives in the rubble, but the general public would never know that there had been a spy base under the restaurant.

The Buy More, though, was still standing. Mostly - the front had been caved in and part of it had fallen into the crater. Home entertainment was half-gone, and the dust covering everything wouldn't do much good to the computers that hadn't been destroyed. Big Mike could probably sell them for half-off with a limited warranty, a few of the customers would buy anything as long it was reduced...

He shook his head. He had been working undercover at the cursed store for far too long - he was starting to think like a clerk. Like one of them.

He glared at the small crowd of Buy More staff in the parking lot. They looked shocked, frozen to the spot as they stared at the destruction.

Then they rushed forward, pushing past the police and swarming over the remaining parts of the store. And...

"What are they doing?" Walker asked.

"Looting," he told her.

"Uh, no! They are securing the exposed goods," Bartowski retorted.

"In their cars?" Caridad cocked her head.

"Uh…" The moron sighed. "Alright, they're looting."

John snorted. What else could you expect from those misfits? "We need to inform the general that the demolition went according to plan."

"I'm on it," Walker replied.

"Well it looks like they'll be able to repair the store," Bartowski said. "And the insurance should cover it."

John scoffed. "They'll have to tear most of it down." That much damage ruined a building's structural integrity. And it wasn't as if the store had been built half-way solid.

"But..." Bartowski sighed again.

"Hey, numbskull - we're not going to return to the Buy More even if it were perfectly fine," John told him. "That cover has outlived its usefulness." And good riddance!

"We could open a restaurant!" Caridad butted in. "As a cover!"

"You just want free food," John replied.

"Food is very important. Amateurs study tactics, professionals study logistics!"

John shook his head at the Slayer. That wasn't what the saying meant.

"The Council's going to pay anyway, so it wouldn't be free," Bartowski pointed out. "And money spent on our cover means less money spent on food."

"Oh."

John chuckled before growing serious. "Any news from the Council?"

"They'll help with interrogating the prisoners if it's needed," Caridad replied. "And they want to examine Morgan."

"Good," Bartowski said. "We need help to restore them to normal."

John wasn't as naive - the Council would also want to look into Fulcrum's technology for their own benefits. But everyone was doing that. "The Agency wants the same," he said.

"Yes," Walker confirmed. "They are sending a transport for the prisoners and… everything and everyone."

"Uh…" Even Bartowski could see the first problem with that. "What if the transport's compromised? Like our plane?"

"Do they want us to escort the transport?" John asked. If they didn't, then this was an attempt to secure leverage. If they did, it might be an attempt to capture them.

"They didn't say that," Walker said. Her expression told him she shared his suspicions.

"Guys?" Bartowski apparently didn't, though. "Do you think they want to kidnap them?"

"They'll probably take their time to deprogram them," John said. "After all, this is an unknown technology, and they'll claim they want to be sure they won't harm them further."

"They'll experiment on them," Caridad growled.

"What?" Bartowski gasped. "We can't let them!"

"Then we need the Council to step in," John said.

Walker nodded. "Yes. They can keep the CIA away from the captured technology."

"But…" Bartowski bit his lip. "Wouldn't that drag the Council into the Spy business?"

"They attacked Morgan!" Caridad snapped.

"But he was in a spy base, and he's dating a spy," Bartowski retorted. "Uh, that's not the same."

"Doesn't matter." The Slayer crossed her arms. "They mess with one of us, they mess with all of us!"

John nodded in agreement. "And they can make Petrova and Hernandez talk with magic, can't they?"

"Uh… probably," Bartowski said.

Caridad added, after pressing her lips together for a moment: "They can. It's not easy and not perfectly safe, but they can. Well, for brainwashing machines, they probably will."

And that would keep Petrova and her technology out of the CIA's clutches as well.

John blinked when he realised that he counted this as a good thing.

Los Angeles, Silver Lake, April 23rd, 2008

"So, this is your private safe house?" Caridad asked as she walked around the living room. Her thigh was still bandaged, but she didn't show any pain or even a hint of a limp.

"Yes," John confirmed.

"And the CIA doesn't know about it."

"No." That would have missed the point of having a safe house in case he needed to bug out.

"I'd say you're paranoid, but…" She grinned and shrugged.

He grunted in return.

"How can you afford it?" The Slayer made a point of looking around. "Two stories, three bedrooms, two bathrooms, basement, stocked fridge and cleaning services… Being a spy must pay well."

It was his turn to shrug. "It's rented, not bought." Spies like him didn't make enough to be able to buy safe houses. Not after laundering the money so the agency couldn't track it down. Not that he spent a lot of money on anything, anyway, but that was neither here nor there.

By the looks of her - she cocked her head and narrowed her eyes a little - she didn't quite believe him, but she didn't push the issue. "Alright!" she said, flopping down on the couch. "Now we wait for the Council."

He nodded, restraining from rubbing his shoulder. A break - resting - would do him good. He picked the armchair next to the couch and sat down himself. But before he could really relax, Bartowski and Walker returned from the basement.

"OK, guys! We've set up Morgan, Kirsten and the others in the basement. And can I say that I'll never look at a basement with the same eyes again? It's really creepy how you can turn a spare storage room into a spy-proof cell!" the man commented.

John rolled his eyes. Of course a spy would know how to hide in plain sight.

Walker, fortunately, was more professional. "We've secured and sedated them. They should be OK for another day."

"Infusions and everything," Bartowski added, unnecessarily. "And we treated their wounds."

"Hey!" Caridad protested. "I knocked them out as gently as I could - they were trying to kill me! Kill us!"

"No one is blaming you," Walker cut in. "It was Fulcrum's fault."

"But I'm not comfortable with leaving the van with the brainwashing machine in the garage," Bartowski went on. "Also, we really need a better name for it. Mind Wiping machine? Mind Control Centre? Remote Control Device? Memory Modification machine?"

John sighed. Bartowski needed a better sense of priorities. "The garage is as safe as this house," he said. There was no need to fret about it. At least the moron didn't talk about Hernandez.

"I think we should rest, now," Walker said. "Fulcrum lost two bases recently - they won't have many resources to spend on finding us."

"And Dad's checking our electronic trail," Bartowski added, then yawned. "What's the news saying?"

Caridad turned the TV on and switched to a local news channel. The 'gas explosion' dominated the news. A few experts were describing how much worse it could've been, and a few politicians wanted more money spent on maintaining the gas lines in a transparent attempt to capitalise on the accident.

In other words, everything was going as they had expected.

"The general won't take well to us dropping off the grid," Walker said as the news switched to a celebrity missing their pet.

She was right, of course - cutting contact after the orders to hand over their captives was as good as sending in their resignations. Which they should do, actually.

"The Council should set them straight," Caridad replied.

"That might not stop the CIA," John pointed out. It certainly hadn't stopped Fulcrum. This might even give Fulcrum another opportunity to spread their influence inside the agency.

"Between my dad and the Scoobies, we should be covered," Bartowski said.

'Should be' wasn't enough. But for the moment, the danger of getting attacked wasn't too high, in John's estimate. And he really needed to rest before his shoulder gave out on him.

So he nodded and stood. "I'm going to lie down a little."

Caridad jumped up. "I'll help you with your shoulder!"

She ignored his frown, and he was a little too tired - and a little too hurting - to make an issue out of it. "Alright," he said and walked towards the stairs.

He didn't have to look over his shoulder to know that Caridad was grinning and Bartowski would be staring at them.

Once he was inside the bedroom he had picked, he sighed and rubbed his shoulder. Caridad went into the adjacent bathroom and emerged a moment later with the bag with medical supplies he had stashed there. Was he becoming predictable, or had she scouted the whole house already?

He asked, and she replied: "I smelled the medicine."

Ah. Slayer senses.

"Now sit down and let me tape you up."

She didn't wait for his agreement, pushing him on the bed and pulling off his turtleneck before he could say anything.

"That doesn't look good," she commented with a wince.

"It doesn't feel good, either," he replied.

She snorted in return, then shook her head. "And you didn't do anything about it for over a day?"

"I took a few pills." And it hadn't been too bad - he had been able to function, after all.

"Stubborn idiot." She started smearing some unfamiliar ointment on him that had a cooling effect.

"That wasn't in the bag."

"It's from my stash."

"Magic?" He tensed against his will. He wasn't afraid of magic. Just reasonably wary.

"Herbal. With probably some alchemy," she told him. "Phil swears by it. Says it makes training a Slayer in melee combat bearable."

So, magic. But he did feel better if a little numb in the shoulder. "There's padding," he remarked. Sensei hadn't used it, but he hadn't needed to, but their Marine instructor had sworn by it.

"There's Slayer strength," she retorted. "New Slayers don't always know their strength."

"Ah." He had a brief, slightly disturbing image of various training accidents with Slayers going through his head while she taped up his shoulder and arm until he couldn't move either.

"And done," she declared, grinning. "Now you need to rest until it's better."

Both of them knew he wouldn't have the time. But resting would help. "Did the others get any news from the Council?" She would have heard them talking below - his safe house hadn't been rendered Slayer hearing proof. Not even the cells.

"No. Now rest."

He grunted, but pulled off his boots and laid down on the bed without taking her eyes off her. She was wearing a tank top - she hadn't replaced the turtleneck and jacket that the serpent had burned - and a sports bra. If he didn't have a busted shoulder… and if it weren't unprofessional, he added, belatedly.

She grinned, then started to pull off her boots. Then her cargo pants. He stared. And not at the bandage on her leg.

"I'm not about to ravish you," she said.

He nodded with another grunt.

After about a second of silence, she crawled on the bed until she was next to him. Then she slipped her arms around him. He tensed for a moment - he knew how strong she was - then relaxed when she rested her head on his good shoulder and made a sound between a growl and a moan.

"If your shoulder were OK…" she whispered.

He hadn't felt his wound as keenly until now.

When John woke up, it was dark outside. Not quite night - late evening. His stomach agreed. Caridad wasn't in bed with him. He hadn't expected her to - Slayers needed less rest, and she wasn't wounded either. He was a little disappointed anyway.

He took a deep breath and was tempted to just lie there for a little while, but got up despite that. Busted shoulder or not, he could still do a guard shift. And get a bite to eat.

He opened the door to find Caridad standing there. "Need help dressing?" she asked, looking at his feet with a smirk. She had changed clothes, he noticed.

He scoffed - tying boot laces one-handed was a pain. But he let her help.

Brown-Smythe was sitting in the living room downstairs, reading a British newspaper. The Watcher was looking at John with slight disapproval but greeted him politely. "The Council team is supposed to arrive at the airport in an hour. I assumed that fetching them there wouldn't be advisable."

No, it wouldn't have been. Not with the CIA and NSA both looking for them by now. The agency might not move against them, at least John didn't expect them to, but they would want to find them. And Fulcrum might find them through their moles.

"I've texted them the address," Caridad added. "On my Slayer phone."

Which was their most secure means of communication. John didn't frown, but he wanted to as he grunted in agreement.

"There are sandwiches in the fridge," the old man commented. "At least there should be."

Caridad pouted. "I didn't eat more than one or two."

"Then there should be one or two left."

John snorted at that and went to the kitchen. He found one large sandwich on the fridge. Pastrami. And not from a takeaway - someone had gone shopping. There were fresh vegetables as well.

"I had to stock up if we're going to stay here for a while," Caridad remarked behind him. "And I made the sandwich."

"Thank you." He took a bite - he could eat it one-handed, which was probably why she had made a sandwich - and smiled. "It's good."

She beamed at him. "Chuck and Sarah are sleeping. Resting," she clarified. "Morgan, Kirsten and the others are still unconscious."

He nodded. Things were quiet then. He hoped that they'd stay that way.

John noticed the car approaching the driveway before it turned and looked towards Caridad as he drew his gun. She quickly grabbed her phone, then nodded. "It's them."

They were a little later than he had expected. He hoped that that meant they had taken the necessary steps to lose any tails they might have acquired at the airport. "Good." Then he noticed her frown and tensed up. "Trouble?"

"What?" She quickly shook her head. "No, no. Not trouble. Well, not real trouble. I just didn't expect, well… them."

And wasn't that ominous? John opened the door with a little apprehension.

"Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!" Rosenberg, dressed like a rich hippie, beamed at him. "Hi! Sorry, I couldn't resist when Kennedy overheard Caridad. This is Kennedy, by the way."

The other woman was dressed stylishly. Business casual, a little too sexy actually - a Slayer, obviously. The woman gave him a short nod and a long stare as he stepped aside to let them enter.

"Hi, Caridad!"

"Yo."

"Willow! Ken."

Was there more between the two Slayers than the usual rivalry they had seen with Vi? It looked that way, but John wasn't sure.

"We didn't expect you," Caridad went on, smiling at Willow.

"Oh, well, I am the Council's foremost computer expert - not that that is a huge bar to clear, mind you, although they are making progress - even Giles is using a computer these days. Sometimes. And he still prints out every mail and most documents. But the younger crowd of Watchers is pretty computer-literate, though not quite up to hacking. Which is kinda my thing, only not my only thing, but still!" Willow nodded several times. "Oh! And I also know Morgan, and I have experience with mind control spells, which might be of use in this situation - it's not magic, of course, but technology, but the principle is generally the same for some effects, though I'm not really a psychologist, but I read up on the subject when Buffy had that course in college so I could help her study, only that was derailed by Walsh being an evil mad scientist…" She trailed off with an embarrassed smile. "Sorry, I got rambling, but this is really fascinating. Technological memory modification! Who would have thought it was possible? Well, apart from most science fiction authors."

John didn't remember the Council's most powerful witch being that much of a nerd. But Caridad didn't look surprised or uncomfortable, so he probably had repressed it. He nodded and said. "I'll go wake up Bartowski, Walker and Brown-Smythe."

"Oh. Are they already sleeping?"

"Resting. They had an earlier guard shift," Caridad explained.

John was already halfway up the stairs when he heard Kennedy ask, a little too loudly to be a coincidence: "So, are you banging him now?"

"That's none of your business!"

"So, you aren't. Sheesh, there goes my stake in the pool."

They were betting on… them? John clenched his teeth. He apparently had repressed the immature banter as well.

"Willow! Wow! I didn't expect you to come!" Bartowski beamed at the witch before he hugged her.

"Of course I came! When I heard what they did to Morgan - and to Kirsten, too, of course - I immediately called a cab."

"She was so worked up, she would've travelled without luggage if I hadn't reminded her," Kennedy added.

"Morgan is one of my oldest friends!" Rosenberg pouted. "We went to school together! And Sunnydale being Sunnydale, there aren't many of us around."

So John had heard. To think such a hellhole - literally a hellhole - had existed on US soil… And there was another in Cleveland.

"So, let's take a look at the, uh, patients and prisoners, to make sure they are OK? And that they aren't under a spell. I know you already checked, Phil, but..."

"By all means, Miss Rosenberg. You cannot be too cautious where such curses are concerned."

"OK, Willow. We put them in the basement."

"In the basement? Oh, of course you put them in the basement. Where else would you put them? In the attic?"

"We've got cells there - this is a spy safe house," Bartowski explained.

"So you've installed a dungeon?" Kennedy seemed amused.

"Uh…" Bartowski floundered. "Casey did that!"

"Holding cells," John said. "Exactly for such an occasion."

The Slayer smirked anyway, and Caridad looked annoyed. Or angry.

Rosenberg either ignored the byplay or missed it - the witch made a beeline for the basement, and then went straight to the cells, where she spent a few minutes each casting spells. At least that's what she was supposed to be doing - she didn't do any of the preparations Grimes and Brown-Smythe usually did. She just moved her hands and mumbled some words John didn't quite catch.

Finally, she took a deep breath and announced: "They're not under any spell, and physically healthy. And I couldn't detect any differences in their brains with magic, either."

Which meant no easy way to expose Henandez as a traitor.

"Fascinating," Kennedy commented.

"Your Spock impression needs work," Caridad said, showing a little too much teeth.

"Really?" The other Slayer matched her attitude.

"So! Let's take a look at the brainwashing machine, shall we?" Rosenberg interrupted them.

Bartowski all but jumped on the distraction. "Yes! I mean - We stored it in the garage. Well, in the van which we parked there."

To be fair to the moron, seeing two Slayers about to knocking heads was something best observed from a distance. And Kennedy was dangerous; the Council wouldn't have assigned a rookie Slayer as Rosenberg's bodyguard.

"Oh? You didn't take it out, yet?" The latter piped up as they went to the garage.

"No. We weren't sure if we had to move quickly," Walker explained.

"Oh! Good thinking!"

John looked back over his shoulder. Caridad and Kennedy were still glaring at each other, but following them. He shook his head. Slayers.

In the garage, Bartowski opened the van's backdoor and gestured inside. "We marked where each cable goes - Fulcrum was really sloppy in that area. Or Petrova didn't want anyone else to have an easy time with it."

"We can find out later. Now let's take it out!" Rosenberg said with obvious enthusiasm. "This looks very interesting!"

Kennedy coughed.

The witch blushed. "I mean, it's a very bad machine, ethically it's completely wrong and despicable, but it's very interesting in an academic sense."

John revised his estimate of Kennedy's position - she wasn't a mere bodyguard, but Rosenberg's handler. Then he caught the smile the two exchanged and revised his opinion again. How unprofessional. Not that he had much ground to stand on, of course.

With his arm and shoulder still wrapped in tape, he wasn't able to help with unloading the van, so he watched with Walker and Brown-Smythe as the two Slayers, under the direction of Rosenberg and Bartowski, quickly carried all parts into the basement.

"I know it's a cliche, to put the machine up in the basement, but it's the best place - least chance of interference. Every other room has a window, after all," the witch commented as they started to put it together.

"An entirely rational view, Miss Rosenberg."

"You just want to feel like a mad scientist," Kennedy commented with a grin as she put down the seat.

"No! That would be totally irresponsible in this situation!" Rosenberg protested. "We can play Frankenstein once we've solved this and saved our friends!"

"Uh… play Frankenstein?" Bartowski looked rather concerned. He wasn't the only one.

"Oh!" Rosenberg blushed again. "Not like creating monsters!"

"Just playing," Kennedy added with a grin that left no doubt in John's mind about the kind of play they were talking about.

Judging by Bartowski's deep blush and Brown-Smythe's cough, they had it figured out as well.

Kennedy's smirk, though, was aimed at Caridad, who looked annoyed and took a step closer to Jon before making a point of ignoring the other Slayer.

"Relationships aren't a contest, dear," Brown-Smythe commented, which caused Caridad to smile and Kennedy to scowl at the Watcher.

And John to wonder how the Council managed to ride herd on more than a handful of Slayers.

An hour later, the machine had been assembled, and Rosenberg and Bartowski were running tests on the systems.

"It seems that everything works as it should," the guy commented, eyes glued to a screen.

"As far as we know," Rosenberg agreed. "But we don't know if we know. If you know what I mean."

"Yes."

"We now need to interrogate Petrova to check," the witch went on.

"Without revealing magic," Bartowski quickly said.

Bartowski would know the obvious solution to that problem. Or should. John glanced at Walker, who was leaning against the wall with her arms crossed, not quite looking at the man. She wouldn't bring it up, then.

And neither would, apparently, Brown-Smythe.

John scoffed. "A bullet to the head will solve that - and prevent anyone from using her to duplicate her work."

Bartowski flinched at that. "We don't need to kill her."

John scoffed. "What's the alternative? Prison? Do you think the CIA won't use her as soon as they get their hands on her?"

"The Council doesn't have a prison of their own, but in the past, we had arrangements with the Crown to take care of certain people," Brown-Smythe said. "And with a few clinics. But I fear Dr Petrova is a little too dangerous for that."

"But…" Bartowski pressed his lips together.

"Chuck." Walker stepped in. "If Caridad hadn't been able to take Morgan and Kirsten out, we might have been forced to kill them."

"I know!" he snapped. "But…" He sighed. "She's not the only one with dangerous knowledge, you know?"

Ah. "But she's an enemy. You aren't," John told him.

And that was what it came down to, as a spy. Or as a Watcher, John supposed.

Los Angeles, Silver Lake, April 24th, 2008

Waking up the sedated prisoner without harming her - Bartowski insisted on that - took some time, so it was past midnight when Petrova woke up. The traitor blinked for a few seconds, looking around, but recovered her wits quite rapidly. "Is this where you offer me to cooperate or be tortured? Predictable."

She was too confident for a captive traitor tied to a chair in a basement, in John's opinion. Then again, she probably expected to be 'turned' for her unique skills and knowledge.

"Although I must say the standards of the agency aren't exactly what I expected," she added, looking pointedly around the small cell. "I've seen better interrogation setups in Siberia."

"We had to improvise after you blew up our base," Walker told her.

As expected, the woman's eyes narrowed upon hearing this. "I don't think that the CIA has only one secret base in the area. So, what's your game? Are you suspicious of your superiors? Or…" She grinned. "Are you planning to make a move of your own? Form your own rogue group? Or take over the agency? I'm sure we can make a deal."

"We're not like Fulcrum," John told her. And they didn't need to take over the CIA with the Council exerting its influence on their behalf. Probably couldn't, either.

"You have no idea about Fulcrum," Petrova retorted.

"We know quite a lot," Walker said.

"You might know what we do, but not why." The woman smirked.

"It's probably some boring power grab," Rosenberg spoke up. "Some 'for your own good' spiel about hard people making hard choices that the rest of us peons wouldn't dare to make and wouldn't even understand. Right?" She snorted, then sighed as she stepped in front of Petrova. "And it'll be all a cover for greed and naked lust for power. It always is. Even the worst of the true believers are just lying to themselves."

The Fulcrum spy glared at her, not bothering to hide her distaste as she looked the witch up and down, sneering at the long skirt and simple blouse. "Did you spend too much time infiltrating a New Age community?"

"It's Wicca, actually, not New Age," Rosenberg replied with a wide but fake smile. "You know, the magic tradition that actually is a tradition."

"Only fools believe in such superstition. Are you going to put a spell on me? Or pray for my soul?"

"We're going to ask you a few questions," Walker cut in. "And you'll be answering them."

"Torture or chemical solutions?" Petrova scoffed, a little too loudly for her scorn to be genuine. "I've resisted worse from the KGB." She grinned. "You're far too young to hold a candle to them."

"We don't have to," Rosenberg said as she started to put down a few bowls and cups on the ground. "Not that we would stoop to torturing, mind you. Well, not humans."

"You'd torture a dog to influence their master?" Petrova looked almost disgusted.

"What?" The witch stopped laying out the spell ingredients and stood, shaking her head. "Torturing poor animals? Of course not!" She smiled. "We're going to use magic on you!"

"Magic? You actually believe that?" Petrova laughed. "I knew the CIA was gullible, but this? This is better than the goat experiments!"

Oh, those. John shook his head. That had been foolish in the extreme of the CIA.

"They were actually working," Rosenberg explained almost casually as she went back to preparing her spell.

His eyes widened.

"Of course, the story you probably heard was the cover story. Completely nonsensical experiments trying to find paranormal powers," the witch went on. "They even wrote a book about it." She stood and faced the prisoner. "All to hide what had really happened." She held her hand out, and a pencil floated in front of her. "They succeeded."

Petrova stared at the pencil twisting in the air in front of her, and John could see her grow pale. "But…"

"It wasn't actually psychic powers, but magic that they found," the witch told her. "And, as expected from amateurs, they made a fatal mistake. Cleaning up that mistake cost a number of good - or semi-good, at least - people their lives."

"But… this is impossible. This is a trick!"

Rosenberg laughed, this time, and Petrova shuddered.

Then the witch started casting her spell.

With magic forcing their captive to answer, and truthfully at that, the interrogation didn't take long. Less than an hour later, they knew what had been done to Grimes and Bane. And how to reverse it.

And they knew what hadn't been done to Hernandez.

John didn't gloat, but he exchanged a tight smile with Caridad when that little gem was revealed.

"But…" Bartowski shook his head. "I can't believe it."

"You should," Rosenberg said quickly. "The spell worked."

"But… she was playing us, all this time? Why didn't she act sooner?"

"She's a good spy," John told the moron. "That's what we do."

"Chuck..." Walker said, grabbing his hand.

He sighed and turned to look at her. "Did you know?"

"No one knew," she replied.

Of course not - if they had known, Hernandez would've been dead.

"But did you suspect?"

"I didn't trust her," Walker said.

"Oh." Bartowski looked like a kicked puppy.

"I'm a spy, Chuck," Walker went on with a smile. "I trust very few people. But I trust you."

"Oh." And now he looked like a moron.

John cleared his throat before the two started making out. "We're in the middle of a mission," he reminded her.

Bartowski glared at him. "Like in the hacienda?"

Rosenberg perked up. "Did something happen? What happened?"

"They kissed."

"Oh!"

"After we killed a feathered serpent!" Caridad told her. John didn't have to look at her to know she was smiling widely.

"A feathered serpent?"

"It was huge! Like a dragon!"

"And you killed it? It might have been the last of its kind!"

"It was trying to kill us!"

John blinked. How had they gone from dealing with an enemy spy to talking about endangered demons? It was past time to change the subject. "What's the status of the search for more demon goddess body parts?" he asked.

"Oh! Good question!" Rosenberg perked up. "We're close to finishing a ritual that should find all body parts. We haven't made equal progress in finding a way to destroy them - the volcano experiment was a bust - But if we can secure all body parts, the cultists won't be able to summon her, and we'll have enough time to destroy her in detail."

"Alternatively, we could wipe out the cultists. No cultists, no summoning," Kennedy pointed out.

Caridad nodded in agreement.

Rosenberg, though, didn't. "That won't stop them forever. The kind of demons to have cults usually find ways to create more cultists. Dreams, tomes, legends, even…"

"As long as we're not planning to store the body parts in a vault forever, instead of destroying them, it won't matter because they won't have a cult up and running in time," Kennedy retorted. "But a cult working with Cartels?" She shook her head. "The last thing we want is magical criminals."

"Well, apocalypses are worse than that," Bartowski argued. "But I get your point," he quickly added when the Slayer glared at him.

Which, of course, made Caridad glare at Kennedy.

John cleared his throat. "So, once you have all the locations, do we strike at one after another, or at every location at once?"

"We want to strike at every location at once," Kennedy replied. "That minimises enemy interference. And it should be good training for the newbie Strike Teams."

John frowned. "Rookies?"

"New to strike teams," Kennedy replied. "Not new to slaying. And we've got experienced Slayers leading them."

"Ah." So, special forces after training, then. Acceptable.

"What about us?" Caridad asked. "We started this, didn't we?"

"You'll be assigned a target as well," Rosenberg said. "Probably. It depends on the number of body parts out there."

That seemed to mollify Caridad. John wasn't surprised - and approved. After all they had gone through so far with the Aztec cultists, he wanted a piece of taking them down for good himself.

"So! Let's get our first, uh, patient?" Rosenberg asked with an eager smile. John felt more than a little concerned.

"Willow! It's already very late - or very early - and you've been travelling for half a day," Kennedy interjected. "I don't think Morgan would want you to mess around with his mind while you're suffering from jetlag and a sugar rush."

"But I wouldn't!" the witch protested. "I'm perfectly fine, still. I slept on the plane!"

"That doesn't count! We weren't even flying First Class!"

"It so does count!"

"Uh, Willow," Bartowski chimed in, "My dad's coming, and he's kind of an expert on neurotechnology. I think we should wait for him. And it is very late." John couldn't tell if the way Bartowski failed to stifle a yawn was genuine or an act, but it served nicely to underline his argument.

"Oh…" Rosenberg glanced around. "Sorry, I just…"

"We know," Kennedy said with a smile, wrapping an arm around the witch's shoulder. "Let's go to bed." Then she whispered something into Rosenberg's ear that had her blushing, and they left for what had been dubbed the guest room.

Caridad huffed as soon as the pair had left the basement.

"So… we'll go to bed as well," Bartowski said. "I mean, to sleep." He blinked. "You know what I mean. Because we need to be well-rested tomorrow - I mean, today, later today - when we fix Morgan and Kirsten. I mean, restore their minds… you know what I mean."

Walker chuckled. "Yes, Chuck."

The two left as well.

John busied himself checking up on Petrova. The prisoner was sedated and secured in her cell. As was Hernandez. And Grimes and Bane as well.

"Everything OK?" Caridad asked.

"Yes:"

"Then let's go to bed as well."

"Someone has to stand guard," he pointed out.

She grinned. "I didn't say I'd be sleeping, did I?"

"You'd be distracted," he shot back. And his shoulder would probably not survive having sex with a Slayer. Not if Faith was an example. He touched it with his good hand.

She nodded, though pouting. "Rest and heal up, then."

He woke up with something - someone - hugging him. With unnatural strength. He opened his eyes. Yes, he knew that hair. And those legs. "Caridad?"

The hair moved, and she looked at him. "Yes?"

He glanced at the alarm clock on the sideboard. Mid-morning.

"Phil's on guard," she said. "So I decided to get some rest as well. You make for a good pillow."

He snorted almost against his will.

"How's your shoulder?"

"I need a free arm to check," he said.

"Oh." Giggling, she released his arm but didn't roll off of him. She was wearing a shirt and panties, he noticed. And the bandage on her thigh was gone. As was the wound.

Looking away, he gingerly touched his shoulder. "Better," he said. He barely felt the pain.

"But not yet good?"

He tilted his head at her. "Almost." He could handle the pain. Especially with adrenalin.

"Mh." She slid her bare leg over his thigh until her knee rested on his groin.

He tensed. Which she noticed at once, of course - he saw her smile widen a little as her arm moved and she slid her hand over his stomach, staying below his taped arm. He took a deep breath in response but didn't look away.

She started to caress his skin without breaking eye contact. Challenging him. Daring him to look away. To flinch. To make up an excuse.

He didn't. He lifted his good arm and touched her face, cupping her cheek. Ran his thumb over her lips.

She nipped at it and made a sound that was more growl than moan.

Then she moved her leg again - her whole body. Straddling him. Pulled off her shirt.

He bared his teeth at her, growling himself, and stopped holding back.