In contrast to what she had anticipated when she first agreed to take the job, Fiona found that the next few nights working in Sal's bar were almost pleasant, the steady presence of both Sydney and Felix throughout making the potentially awkward nature of the task far more bearable than it would have been otherwise. As they had predicted, the tall stranger with the sunglasses came back each night, somehow finding a way to a table in her section no matter how that assignment shifted from night to night as the week wore on. Sal was more than happy to accept his constant presence, as the proclaimed hefty tip that had been left behind was repeated time and time again. And in spite of all her efforts to the contrary, Fiona found herself almost completely incapable of pushing the enigmatic man from her thoughts even when she was not at the bar, her cheeks flushing every time she thought of his lazy sprawl in the chair, or the half-smile he gave her on occasion whenever she said something she hoped would be at least mildly amusing.

She was being ridiculous. She knew that for a certainty. But even in spite of that fact, she just could not seem to stop…

If she didn't know any better, she might even say this was becoming an obsession.

"Stop it. You're being ridiculous," Fiona murmured, dragging a hand through her hair, and attempting for what felt like the thousandth time that day to return her focus to the dish she had been scrubbing as though her life depended upon it. She had the night off, surprisingly, and had been attempting to use it to her advantage, cleaning up a few things around her flat, and catching up on some chores that had been put off in favor of catching as much sleep as she could in between shifts.

Of course, that was a thing that was far easier said than done, since her thoughts persisted in their idle wanderings, and she was forced to finish with the dish in her hand and reach down to drain the water from the sink, having decided that no matter her best intentions, nothing else that was even remotely productive was going to occur that night.

Maneuvering from the kitchen into the den, Fiona flopped down on the sofa with a resigned sigh, one hand automatically reaching for the remote even though she knew full-well she was not likely to retain anything she watched on the television at the moment. If for no other reason than to have some sort of noise in the flat, however, the young woman persisted in flicking numbly through the channels, until she settled on a cooking show of some sort. And as she settled back into the cushions, Fiona allowed her eyes to drift closed, her body shifting just a bit as she attempted to stretch out sore muscles, and think of anything other than the man that seemed to have captivated her attention so completely with just a few moments of idle conversation.

As the chef elaborated on how to create a cheesecake to die for, Fiona did what she could to keep her thoughts as carefully trained on the dialogue as she could, her stomach giving a faint rumble that had a grin toying at her lips even in the face of her frustration over her preoccupation with the stranger from the bar. For a moment, she found herself half-tempted to try a venture to the store to procure some last-minute baking supplies, wondering if that may succeed in deterring her troublesome thoughts, where nothing else could. But before she could summon the wherewithal to reach for the remote once more to shut off the television, the sound of a sharp knock on the door reached her ears, causing her to flinch, her brow furrowing as she rose and padded over to answer the knock with her heart picking up speed, hammering against the cage of her chest.

She was not expecting a visitor, but then again, when was she ever?

Rolling her shoulders in hopes that the gesture would be enough to relieve the tension that had already taken over her frame, Fiona reached forward to pull the door open, her expression shifting to one of astonishment, rather than wariness, as she realized exactly who it was that stood on the other side. For a moment, she could do nothing other than remain frozen in place, her eyes blown wide as she stared at the newcomer as though doubting her ability to identify them accurately.

Or at least, she remained frozen until the man standing before her emitted a ghost of a laugh, his lips drawing into a taut smile as he held out both arms and regarded Fiona with a cocked brow before he spoke.

"Is stunned silence any way to greet your old man?"

"What are—what are you doing here, Dad?" The young woman managed, trying to ignore the sweating in her palms, and stowing them in the pocket of her jeans in hopes that her would-be guest would not notice how they had started to tremble as a result of his presence, "I didn't—I thought you were still in rehab."

"Got out early, Fi. Guess that means I'm healed."

"When did you get out?"

"Does it really matter?" The man inquired, stepping past his daughter's slight frame, and walking into her flat, his eyes traversing everything within his line of sight as though seeking to commit it to memory, "I'm here, now, darlin'. That's all that means anything."

"You might be the only one that thinks that way," Fiona replied, shutting the door behind her father, and folding her arms across her chest as though the gesture would truly stand a chance at fending him off, should their impromptu visit go awry, "What—what made you decide to come and see me?"

"A man needs an excuse to visit his only daughter?"

"When that man did what you did, I'd say he does."

"What would you say if I told you this was me, making amends?"

"I thought you once said Lars Matheson didn't need to make amends."

"Rehab changed me, sweetheart. Let me make it up to you," The man pleaded, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer to where Fiona stood, only to find that she took a step back at precisely the same time, "You can't still be afraid of me, love—"

"Actually, I think I can."

"When is this going to stop, Fiona? You can't keep hating me forever."

Remaining silent and chewing on her lower lip to prevent herself from making a reply that would not be likely to do her any favors, Fiona settled instead for moving on shaking limbs to the sofa so that she could perch upon its edge, fervently aware of how her father kept his gaze upon her the entire time. Surprisingly, he did not move to follow her, instead seeming content to simply remain in the center of the den, watching her as a predator might evaluate its prey. But that did not mean that she felt any more comfortable in his presence, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she finally gathered the courage required to speak once again.

"I—I don't hate you, Dad."

"Could've fooled me. You act like seeing me on your doorstep is the worst thing in the world," Lars complained, his heavy footsteps as he perused the den echoing in the otherwise silent room, while Fiona remained perched on the edge of the sofa as though she had been etched in stone, "I missed you."

"What else did you come here for?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, the last time we spoke, you wanted money," Fiona clarified, silently grateful that her voice did not waver, even though holding her ground where her father was concerned had always tied her stomach in knots, "What—what is it this time?"

"You make it sound like the only reason I ever visit you is for material gain, Fi."

"Don't call me that."

"It's your name, isn't it?"

"My name is Fiona."

"I've always called you Fi, love," Lars protested, eyeing his daughter with something not all that far from incredulity as she bit her lip for a moment, and shook her head in abject denial of his words, "But if you don't want a pet name, then I won't give you one. Just so long as you tell me one thing."

"What's that?"

"What do you want?"

"I need a place to stay, Fiona. Was hoping I could stay here, with you. At least 'til I get back on my feet."

Astonished, to say the least, at the boldness behind her father's request, and the way he eyed her as though he truly believed she would say yes as eagerly as any other girl that had been blessed with a normal relationship with their father, Fiona remained silent for a moment or two, in hopes that she could come up with a response that would not land her in more trouble than she appeared to be in already.

She could find none.

"I only have one bedroom," She began, clenching and unclenching her hands on top of the fabric of her jeans, and doing the best she could to keep her breaths even, despite her father's apparently unphased reply.

"The couch and I are very old friends. We'll get along just fine."

"Dad—"

"You can't really intend to turn me away, can you? I've got nowhere else to go."

"And whose fault is that?"

Before she could even begin to attempt to take the hastily spoken words back, Fiona found herself emitting a startled yelp as her father closed the distance between them in seconds flat, the fingers of one hand curling around her arm to yank her up while the other fisted itself in her dark hair. Once again, she felt like the little girl she had been so many years ago, forcing back the tears that stung at the corners of her eyes in order to avoid provoking her father further than he already was. And although Fiona would have given anything to find some way to fend him off, she was completely incapable of doing so, a ragged gasp escaping as her father gave a hard tug to her hair, before leaning forward to growl in her ear.

"Yours."

"Dad—"

"Don't 'Dad' me, Fiona. It's not going to work," Lars hissed, tightening the hold he had on his daughter's arm, and suppressing a grin as she flinched almost immediately in response, "I tried to be nice, you know. To come to you and ask for help properly. But you just couldn't let that work, could you?"

"I didn't—"

"You didn't what?"

"I didn't mean for it to—to come off that way," Fiona murmured, squirming against her father's hold, and finding, as she might have predicted, that it didn't sway him in the least, "You can—you can let me go."

"Only when you tell me your couch is mine for the foreseeable future," Lars persisted, once again squeezing Fiona's arm until she emitted a faint whine of protest, and began nodding her head fervently beneath the steely weight of his gaze, "Use your words, love. I need to hear you say it."

"You can—you can stay. For as long as you need."

"There, now. That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Instead of waiting for her to reply, Lars settled instead for simply shoving his daughter away from him so that she tumbled back upon the sofa in a trembling heap, his head tilting to the side as she shrank in on herself as she had every other time he had threatened her, before. Truthfully, he was surprised she had even attempted to put up a fight, now, when such a tactic had never been in her arsenal when her mother was still alive. But regardless of whether she had attempted to seem bolder than she was or not, it was no secret that his daughter were every bit as much a coward as she had been as a young girl, the realization causing Lars' lips to stretch into a smile as he crouched down beside her once more to brush a stray lock of dark hair away from her brow.

"You and I are gonna have so much fun together. Like a little family reunion…"

…

The following day, Fiona sat in an upstairs corner of Aziraphale's bookshop, her progress of repairing the binding of a particularly old volume of poems hindered by the repeated trembling that attacked her hand in fits and spurts as a result of her lingering nerves, and the evening of very poor sleep she had endured the night before. All night, she could hear her father snoring, loud rumbling sounds that seemed to jar the very walls. And although she had somehow been capable of tiptoeing out of the flat before he woke up, Fiona would have been a liar had she pretended to be anything other than terrified of the prospect of returning to her flat later on that evening.

If she could have stayed in the bookshop for the entire night, she would have, but then that would mean telling Aziraphale what was going on, and she was not about to bring him into something that would only risk getting him hurt.

Frowning at the thought, Fiona did what she could to resettle her attention to the task of repairing the book's binding, her molars grinding together as she flexed her fingers in an effort to stall the trembling therein. She wanted so badly to simply lose herself in the task at hand, forgetting all about what awaited her in her flat when she was done for the day. But it was apparent that she was not about to be that lucky, the binding glue held in her hand dropping to the top of the desk once and causing her to emit a soft curse under her breath just as the soft creak of footsteps on the stairs reached her ears, signifying she was no longer alone.

"Do you intend to hide away up here all day, my dear?"

"I—no. No, sorry, I just—I think I'm almost done," Fiona began, biting her lip in an attempt at preventing the flush she could feel rising to her cheeks, despite the fact that she knew the act to be futile, "I didn't mean for this to take so long, Zee, I'm sorry."

"There is no need to be, Fiona. I was simply worried about you spending so much time on your own," Aziraphale clarified, regarding the young woman with a quizzical glance for a moment, and deciding to step just a little bit closer as the young woman pursed her lips, and attempted to return to the task of finishing the binding repair she had sequestered herself away with earlier that morning, "Is there—anything I might help you with?"

"You mean—you mean with the book?"

"I mean with you in general, my dear. I would be remiss if I were to pretend I did not notice that something was troubling you."

"I'm—I'm fine," Fiona stammered, keeping her eyes on the binding glue she applied in hopes that the act of avoiding her employer's gaze would give her the fortitude she needed to continue the lie, in spite of her misgivings over not being forthcoming with him in the first place, "I guess I'm just frustrated that I'm not better at this by now, considering how often I've done it."

"You are doing very well, you know. Even if you don't want to believe it, yourself."

"Thank you, Zee."

"My pleasure," The angel replied, managing a faint smile for the young woman's benefit, and finding himself more than a little perplexed when her answering grin failed to reach her eyes, "Are you quite certain you are alright?"

"Absolutely."

"And the—the dreams you were having, before? They haven't—"

"They haven't returned," Fiona supplied, finishing with the binding, and risking a glance towards Aziraphale as a result, only to realize his expression was the epitome of genuine concern, "They haven't, Zee, I promise. I'd—I'd tell you if they had."

"Would you feel more at ease if I ventured back downstairs?" Aziraphale asked, aware of how Fiona had tensed just a bit in response to the question, though she made to answer before he could even begin to rephrase the inquiry.

"You know, I—I actually think I would be better off with a little company. If—if you don't mind."

"Not at all, my dear."

Smiling by way of thanks at Aziraphale's ready acceptance of her request, Fiona shifted in the chair she occupied in an attempt to face him more directly, her hands fidgeting in her lap for a moment as she tried to determine if she truly wanted to tell him everything that had transpired since she had seen him last, or not. She knew he would worry, and may even feel compelled to intervene if things turned as sour with her father as she feared. But inasmuch as she did not want her employer to feel as though he had to do anything to help, Fiona was every bit as reluctant to simply remain silent, knowing that if she did, eventually, she may end up in over her head with no way out at all.

"Can—would you mind if I told you something. Just—hypothetically?" She inquired, forcing herself to continue to hold Aziraphale's gaze in spite of the nerves that twisted in the pit of her stomach, and came very near to making her sick. As she might have expected, her employer gave a ready nod, his expression nothing if not encouraging, as though he truly intended to listen to her without passing judgment over her choices, or her inability to do what was best for herself, regardless of apparent parental expectation. And even though she had taken great pains to stress that this was hypothetical, only, Fiona would have been blind to miss how the look in Aziraphale's eyes seemed to indicate he knew that it was anything but.

"You remember what I told you about—about my father?"

"I do," Aziraphale confirmed, watching Fiona's reaction carefully, and noting that she appeared to consider her next words carefully before she spoke.

"He was—he was in rehab for—"

"For what, my dear?"

"Alcoholism. He's been in and out of different facilities for years, but it never really stuck," Fiona confessed, averting her gaze in order to avoid encountering any potential scorn in her employer's expression, as she knew that if she did see such a thing, she would only be worse off than she was right now, "Apparently, he—got out."

"Are we still speaking in hypotheticals, Fiona?" The angel pressed, frowning a bit as he realized the young woman was still rather pointedly avoiding his gaze, "Please, understand, I—I'm not attempting to pry—"

"Believe me, Zee, I would never think you could. But—yes. Yes, this is—he hypothetically got out."

"And you are, perhaps, hypothetically fearful of what that may mean for you?"

"I—I am," Fiona said, glancing up at her companion, and tugging a hand through dark hair in a half-hearted attempt at relieving the tension she could feel creeping in between her shoulder blades, "We didn't exactly have the easiest relationship when I was growing up."

"I'm afraid alcohol will have quite a lot to do with something like that."

"And the—the fact that he hated my mother."

"Oh, my dear, I—I am certain he could not have—"

"He hated her," Fiona repeated, hating that she was suddenly so forthcoming with information that she ordinarily preferred to keep to herself, and yet finding that somehow, she still seemed all but incapable of stopping, regardless, "He hated her for tying him down with a baby, when he wanted to see the world."

"That baby, I suppose, was—"

"Me. Yes."

"But your mother? She was different?" Aziraphale mused, the hopeful nature of his tone clearly provoking a slight twitch at the corner of Fiona's mouth, though it did not turn into a full-fledged smile as she replied in the affirmative.

"She was the exact opposite. She adored me, and I think—I think that made him hate me, too."

"You don't—you don't believe he would come back to harm you, do you?"

"Truthfully? I really don't know," Fiona began, registering the apparent concern that became so apparent upon her companion's features in the wake of her response, and hurrying to waylay it as best she could as a result, "But I'm sure I'm just—just overthinking things, like always."

"If it troubles you so much, I highly doubt that you are imagining it at all."

"Well, either way, I suppose I do feel a bit better just getting it off of my chest," The young woman went on, schooling her expression into what she hoped would be a reassuring expression, and forcing a tremulous smile to her lips as she elaborated further, "I—thank you. For—for always being willing to listen to these crazy thoughts whenever they run through my head."

"You would tell me if something were truly wrong, wouldn't you?" Aziraphale questioned, watching the young woman seated before him far more intently than usual, and hoping beyond hope that she did not take the gesture as offensive in any way. He had been right, he suspected, when he initially found her hidden away on the upper floor of his shop, to suppose that something had bothered her greatly, particularly as she was normally far more interactive on a day to day basis. And, in spite of her insistence that her concerns over her father were purely hypothetical, something about the way she seemed to remain alert, as though expecting the man to burst through the door of the shop at any moment told him that she may just be attempting to bite off more than she could chew.

If she truly were in danger from a man that he believed had already attempted to kill her once, then perhaps Aziraphale would be best suited by inquiring the appropriate entities upstairs once she went home for the day, just to be safe.

"Of course—of course I would," Fiona finally acquiesced, folding her hands together in her lap, and forcing herself to exhale in a shaky rush before going on, "But it's all completely—"

"Hypothetical. Yes. Of course."

"Shall I grab us some tea, then? Perhaps a spot of lunch?" The young woman offered, forcing herself to stand, and willing her limbs not to shake beneath her weight as she watched a flicker of doubt move across Aziraphale's features for a moment, before he nodded his assent.

"Certainly, my dear. Though I—I encourage you not to wait for me, if I am not here when you return. There is something I—I have to take care of, that I just remembered, and it absolutely cannot wait."

Nodding in agreement, and offering her employer and friend another tentative smile, Fiona began the task of moving towards the staircase that would lead to the floor below, grabbing her purse along the way, and securing it to her shoulder before her hand landed upon the banister and she began to step down. In spite of the lingering trepidation that remained in the wake of her father's sudden appearance, she was rather relieved that she had managed to alleviate Aziraphale's suspicions, or so it seemed on the surface. And so, she was able to finish the trek down the staircase, and head out the front door with relative ease, the little tinkle of the bell hardly registering as she began to move off down the crowded street towards the sandwich shop she knew her employer favored, and tried her best to force her worries over her father to the back of her mind.

Perhaps, if she was lucky, she would be able to convince Aziraphale to join her for dinner, as well, and prolong her return home just a bit more as a result…

…

Well hello there, darlings! And welcome to chapter ten in Fiona's tale! I have to say, the muses kind of went haywire with this one, as I initially intended to just focus on more time getting to know Crowley, but they apparently didn't like that as much as they liked bringing her father into the mix, instead. Hopefully none of you mind my little digression, or at least not too much! I confess I kind of had fun loosening the reigns and letting those crazy muses fly, so hopefully you all enjoy the end result as well! I promise, Crowley will feature again very soon!

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! Special thanks go out to last chapter's reviewers: ChiTown4ever and NomNomNomNomYUM for leaving such wonderful feedback the last time around! I truly do appreciate the support, more than you know, and I hope you enjoy this chapter every bit as much as you appear to have enjoyed the last! As always, I cannot wait to hear your thoughts!

Until next time, my loves…

MOMM