Anthony J. Crowley approached the familiar door of the building he had lived in for several years now with an air of almost casual indifference, one hand reaching for the door while the other remained tucked inside the pocket of his trousers. Once the door had opened, he sauntered inside, prepared to venture to the elevator that would deliver him to the uppermost floor, and his flat in mere moments. But before he could even reach the shining glass doors of the elevator itself, he found himself distracted by the familiarly warm voice of his landlady, a slight smirk drawing at the corner of his mouth as he turned on a heel to face her while she bustled out of the office with arms thrown wide as though expecting an embrace.

"Ah, Anthony dear, there you are. I was wondering when you'd be coming back."

"Watching my comings and goings again, Madame Tracy?"

"Well you can hardly blame me, love," The older woman chastised, the amusement in her tone removing any possibility of her words serving as anything other than a warm reminder that she looked after him, even if he did not feel that he needed her to, "What with your line of work—"

"My line of work," Anthony repeated, cocking a brow at the woman stood before him, her flame red hair almost as vibrant as his own, "Someone other than me might take offense at that, you know."

"Then it's a good thing for me I'm not saying it to anyone other than you. Did you eat your supper yet, love?"

"No, Mum, I didn't."

"Oh, for heaven's sake—" Madame Tracy blushed, swatting at the shoulder of the man who had come to be one of her favorite tenants, even if his cheek made her flush like a schoolgirl every single time, "I hardly think I deserve that title, dear."

"Why not?"

"You know very well why not, Anthony Crowley."

"Maybe I've forgotten," Crowley teased, looping an arm around the older woman's shoulders, and drawing her against his side, even though he knew that would give her every reason to continue in her crusade against his poor eating habits as a result.

"Goodness, but you're skin and bone. Why don't you nip into my flat after you've taken care of your guest, and I'll see what I can rustle up."

"My guest?"

"Oh—yes, dear, there was a young woman that came looking for you around an hour or so past. She told me she was your friend, so I didn't see the harm in letting her into your flat with the spare key."

"This woman—what did she look like?" Crowley inquired, suddenly wary at the prospect of someone else he may or may not know having free reign over his flat while he was otherwise engaged. Of course, he knew Madame Tracy well enough to realize that she would not willingly allow anyone in that could actually prove dangerous, whether or not she had a true grasp of what it was he really did for a living. But even with that knowledge, he would have been a fool to simply walk inside, without at least attempting to show some modicum of caution, amber eyes searching the landlady's features while he waited for her reply that would aid in determining his next move.

"Oh, she was quite lovely, dear. Blonde hair—very well-kept. Had a bit of a mouth on her though, if you don't mind my saying so—"

"Freya."

"She didn't give me her name, love," Madame Tracy confessed, her brow furrowing as she came to the realization that perhaps she had made a mistake in letting the young woman in, only to find that the young man standing before her was suddenly smiling, as though she had just given him the best news he could have hoped for.

"She didn't have to. I suppose I should go take care of her—before she manages to burn down the entire building out of boredom."

"Well that would be something I think we'd all rather avoid."

"Then we're agreed," Crowley surmised, stooping to place a kiss upon the landlady's cheek, and smirking as the act brought an almost immediate blush to her cheeks in response, "That offer for dinner still on the table?"

"Of course, dear. And you're welcome to bring your lady friend too, if you'd like."

"Careful what you wish for, love. You may just find yourself eaten out of house and home."

Of all people, Anthony knew well enough that while Freya Dearborn may look like the model of the perfect lady, in reality, she was anything but…

…

"You're late."

"Come in, Freya. Make yourself at home," Crowley quipped, tossing his keys on the table standing beside the door, and nudging that door closed with one foot as he took in the shadowy figure of the woman seated on the sofa at the end of the hall that led to the den, "Thought I'd taught you about the benefits of waiting for an invitation, love."

"Some say I'm a slow learner."

"Apparently."

"You know you love me," Freya retorted, blinking as her companion flicked on the light switch just before the entrance to the den, and crossing one leg over the other at the knees with an almost angelic smile etched upon her lips, "What's up?"

"Shouldn't I be asking you that question?"

"And yet you never do—"

"Only because you have an annoying habit of beating me to the punch," Anthony replied, stepping over his unexpected guest's crossed legs, and flopping down beside her on the sofa not long thereafter, "One of the many qualities you possess that seem determined to drive me insane."

"Shut up."

"How kind."

"I know I'm kind. That's more than can be said of you at the moment."

"Do tell."

"For starters, a kind person would have already offered me a drink," Freya suggested, her saccharine smile never once wavering from her lips as she cocked a brow in obvious expectation, and folded both arms across her chest, "And then he would probably tell me about his day."

"Did we get married, and I've already forgotten? Because your demands are starting to sound more like a wife," Crowley remarked, hauling himself off of the sofa cushion just in time to avoid the well-aimed shove to his shoulder that Freya had attempted in retaliation, and moving towards the abundantly stocked liquor cabinet instead while she replied.

"God, no. That's gross."

"Gross. Is that all you have in your inexhaustible lexicon?"

"Arsehole."

"I'll take that as a yes."

"Keep talking like that, and you'll force me to kick your ass all over this flat, again," Freya threatened, the obvious humor in the reply tempering any potential for ill will, though she did try her best to school her expression into something far sterner than her usual sly smile, "Don't think I won't do it."

"If you even think about trying to do that, you won't hear a single thing about my day."

"Has anyone ever told you that you're no fun?"

"Nope. Never," Crowley assured, pausing in the act of fishing two glasses out of the liquor cabinet to turn and send a wink towards the young woman still ensconced upon his sofa as though she owned it, "I'm a riot, love. Everyone knows that."

"Sounds like someone's full of himself."

"Wouldn't be me if I wasn't."

"True," Freya agreed, watching as Anthony poured generous helpings of whiskey into each glass, before replacing the bottle on top of the cabinet, and sauntering back over to hand her the requested beverage before resuming his own seat beside her and taking a long sip of the liquid without even a wince as it burned its way down his throat, "So. Do I need to ask you again?"

"Ask me what?"

"About your day, idiot."

"Oh, that will encourage me to tell you everything you want to know," Anthony chided, shifting to place one boot-clad foot upon Freya's thigh, and moving the other to join it not long thereafter, "Don't you know honey draws more flies than vinegar, love?"

"I don't give a damn about flies. I want intel."

"Pushy as ever, I see."

"And you are evasive as ever. Spill," Freya demanded, shoving Anthony's feet away from her thigh, and swinging her own legs up so that her feet rested flat in front of her upon the cushion while her back leaned against the arm of the sofa, itself, "What the hell happened out there?"

"Nothing much."

"That's not the story I heard."

"Would you rather tell it, then?"

"Hell no. It's so much more entertaining to hear you telling tales."

"Then perhaps you might put some effort into letting me finish, love," Crowley said, quirking a brow as Freya made a rather obvious show of rolling her eyes, and taking another sip of his whiskey before going on, "Had a meeting with the big boss, same as usual. Hastur seemed to miss you."

"Ugh. When will that lump take a hint?"

"Probably never. He's always been a sucker for pretty girls—"

"Stay on track, Anthony. I need details," Freya cut in, ignoring the familiar jab about Hastur and his apparent obsession with her in favor of redirecting her friend back to the matter at hand, "Focus."

"What the bloody hell do you think I'm trying to do?" Anthony griped, once again lifting his foot to rest upon the sofa, and suppressing a grin when he realized Freya had begun to eye the foot suspiciously as though expecting him to use her as a stool for a second time, "Someone won't let me finish."

"Sorry."

"No, you're not."

"You're right. I'm not. But go on. Or you'll have to pour me another drink before you're even halfway through the story."

"Yes, boss," Crowley began, throwing Freya a mock salute, and once again ignoring her subsequent roll of the eyes in favor of setting in on the relaying of the day's events once more, "Saw Shadwell's replacement, as well."

"This one every bit as much of a nut as he was?"

"Mm—not really. She actually seemed rather—"

"Wait. Wait, she?" Freya interrupted, sitting up a little straighter, and crossing her legs beneath her so that she could rest both of her elbows on her knees with the still partially filled glass clutched in both hands before her, "Shadwell's protégé is a girl?"

"Woman, actually. Don't think the police make a habit of employing minors, love."

"Whatever. What was she like?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"Actually, I would. If there's a new player in the game, I think we owe it to ourselves to know exactly what they're capable of. Unless, of course, you want people going around talking about how the boss' right hand man let himself get seduced by a pretty face."

"Hang on a minute—who said anything about getting seduced?" Anthony asked, glancing at Freya as though suddenly questioning her sanity, though her sudden satisfied expression did not waver in the slightest in response, "M' not getting seduced."

"Right. Then why are you blushing?"

"M'not."

"Sure you're not. And I'm the Princess Leia."

"Really? Because I'm not really seeing the resemblance."

"It's called sarcasm, Anthony. Look it up," Freya huffed, downing the rest of her drink in one gulp, and leaning over to set the empty glass upon the coffee table before going on, "Deny it all you like. Someone who's known you as long as I have ought to know when you're off your game."

"Well thank you so much for your candor, Freya. I have no idea what I would ever do without you."

"Damn straight. Someone's got to be around to keep you in line."

"And just what the devil is that supposed to mean?"

"It means exactly what it says. Or are you trying to say you don't go walking around like nothing can ever touch you, until it does, and you end up getting burned?"

"When was the last time that ever happened?" Crowley inquired, dragging a hand through shoulder-length hair in an effort at pulling it away from his brow, and resting his head upon his hand once his elbow was safely ensconced on the back of the sofa, "Give me one example."

"Do you really want me to go there?"

"If only so I can prove you wrong."

"Fine. Carmine," Freya began, her tone as she said the name almost venomous, even as she watched Anthony's features carefully for any indication that she had gone too far. Some small part of her truly did regret bringing the woman up, particularly as Crowley's involvement with her had gone south far faster than either of them had ever believed possible. But the more logical part knew that if she wanted to avoid watching her friend make the same mistake twice, certain exceptions must be made, no matter how painful they might be…

She knew Anthony would forgive her for the memories just the mention of Carmine's name might bring, but if she knowingly stood by while he got himself entangled with another woman who would only betray him for her own gain, she would never forgive herself.

"She was a one off," Anthony assured, just one look at Freya's features showing him that she was not at all convinced by his attempt at pushing the implication of what she had just said to the side, no matter how much he may have wished that she was, "You know that."

"And yet she still came eerily close to bringing you to your knees."

"Y—yeah, but she didn't."

"It sure looked a little different from the perspective of the woman scraping you off the floor of a bar every night until you finally got over her."

"I never asked you to do that, Freya."

"No, but I did. I did because that's what we do. We pick each other up and push each other to keep going even when it hurts like hell," Freya insisted, aware of the fact that Anthony was now avidly staring into the bottom of his whiskey glass, instead of looking her in the eye, and yet choosing to keep going, regardless, "And I'll be damned if I stand by and let that happen to you again."

"It's not going to happen to me again, love. This girl—"

"I thought you said she was a woman."

"Fine. Woman," Crowley corrected, swirling the contents of his glass as though the sight were the most fascinating thing in the world, in order to avoid having a reason to risk seeing Freya's likely skeptical expression first-hand, "She's not like that."

"And you picked that up after what? Two seconds with her?"

"More like five."

"Smart-arse."

"You started it."

"Okay. Maybe I did," Freya admitted, leaning forward to place her hand over her friend's as she realized he was using the act of fiddling with his glass as a distraction, despite the fact that she could clearly see a muscle jumping in his jaw to bely the tension he so clearly felt, "But you still haven't convinced me that this replacement for Shadwell is someone we can trust."

"I get the feeling I'll never be able to convince you of that, love."

"Why don't you try me?"

"She's different, Freya. S'all there is to it. Not like other cops."

"Did she tell you that?"

"No. Didn't have to."

"Because she was pretty—"

"Because she wasn't jaded," Anthony countered, finally lifting his gaze to glance at Freya directly, despite the fact that her expression seemed hardly satisfied with his response, "Listen, if you don't trust me, you could always go meet with her, yourself."

"Sorry. Pretty women aren't really my type."

"Really? I had no idea."

"Shut up," Freya chastised, removing her hand from its position atop Crowley's so that she could swat at his knee in retaliation, even in spite of the pout he almost immediately donned as a result, "You know what I mean."

"You'll never know unless you see her for yourself."

"I think I'll take my chances missing out on that particular opportunity."

"Scared she'll be prettier than you?"

"As if that's even possible."

"Now who's acting like they're full of themselves?" Anthony joked, swinging his legs over the edge of the sofa to avoid Freya's retaliatory swat, and hauling himself up to stand so that he might head towards the liquor cabinet once again for a refill, "Are we agreed, then?"

"Agreed on what?"

"That we're tabling this discussion for now, and getting drunk instead."

"Is that your way of begging off, now that you know I'm in the right?" Freya surmised, grinning as she watched her friend turn from the cabinet he stood before, to give her a look that would have made anyone who didn't know him suddenly recall that they would be better suited taking care of business elsewhere, "I'll take that as a yes."

"Awfully nice of you."

"I thought so."

"Of course you did," Crowley began, one corner of his mouth turning up in a smile as he filled his glass, and caught the second one that Freya tossed his way with a surprising ease so that he could refill it, as well, "I never said anything about you being right."

"It was implied," Freya returned, grinning openly as she watched her friend turn back with the newly filled glasses, and leaning forward to accept her own so that he could take the seat beside her once again, "You're really sure about this, then? This—girl that thinks she can play with the big boys?"

"As sure as I can be. And I thought we were tabling the discussion in favor of getting drunk. Madame Tracy seems to think she needs to feed us tonight."

"Ah—well, I suppose certain sacrifices must be made, especially if she's been experimenting in the kitchen again."

"Agreed."

With the matter settled, at least for the time-being, Anthony found himself rather more than a little relieved that Freya appeared agreeable to the idea of dropping the subject entirely, her attention turning towards the drink in her hand as she took another sip, and closed her eyes around a contented hum. Of course, he understood her concern, particularly as the two of them had a rather significant history of looking out for one another when judgment became questionable. But still, he felt he had every reason to believe that the young detective he met with would not turn out to be as duplicitous as Freya seemed to suspect.

He could only hope that if his friend did get the chance to meet her, she would keep the metaphorical claws retracted for long enough to find that out for herself.

As if sensing the direction his thoughts had taken, Crowley found himself more than a little surprised to find Freya eyeing him with something not all that far from suspicion, for a moment, before she was once again placing her glass on the coffee table so that she could focus solely upon him as she spoke.

"I'm going to let you run with this one on your own, at least for now," She began, reaching up to tug at the ponytail that held her hair back away from her face, and freeing the locks so that she could shake them out around her shoulders, instead.

"But don't you think for one second that I won't kick her ass if she hurts you."

Whether or not Anthony trusted this stranger, Freya would be damned if she allowed anyone to ruin him like Carmine had…

After he had saved her life more times than she could count, she knew she didn't owe him anything less.

…

Hello there, angels! And welcome to a brand new chapter in Fiona's tale (one of many, I admit). I have to say, I had originally intended to loop it back to Fiona and Anathema, et. al. at the very end, but Crowley and Freya seem to have stolen the show and it just didn't feel right to force another segment in when the way it ends as is seemed so much more fitting. I promise, the action will pick up again (after all, I wouldn't be me without angst). But Freya will be very important as far as the future of the story goes, so I figured it wouldn't hurt to let everyone get to know her a little bit, here. She's a fun character to plan for, so hopefully she's every bit as fun to read about as well!

As always, my heartfelt thanks go out to each and every one of you that has taken the time to read, follow, favorite and review this story so far (and special thanks go out to last chapter's reviewers: phoward, and ChiTown4ever for leaving such encouraging words of support)! I am so thrilled that you are continuing to enjoy where this story leads, and I can only hope that you enjoy this chapter every bit as much as you seem to have enjoyed the last!

Until next time, my darlings…

MOMM