A/N: Glad folks are enjoying this.
A Comet Appears
Well this is just a simple song
To say what you done
I told you about all those fears
And away they did run
You sure must be strong
And you feel like an ocean
Being warmed by the sun
My life in an upturned boat, marooned on a cliff
You brought me a great big flood
And you gave me a lift
To care, what a gift
You tell me with your tongue
And your breath was in my lungs
And you float over the rift
— Simple Song, The Shins
Chapter Four: Simple
Lola scanned the store.
The layout was much the same as the others she had visited, the same displays, the same strange, oracular posters aimed at spending.
She had the shoes in her hand, index finger holding the heel of one, middle finger holding the other. Again, she understood what a needle-haystack errand this was. Even if, by some statistical miracle, she found Cinderfella (the Converse were men's shoes, too large for almost any woman), there was no reason to think he had anything to do with Walker.
His shoes simply showed up on the same beach where her parachute showed up. Coincidence.
And I don't even know the chute was hers, do I? I just refuse to believe, can't believe, it wasn't.
She and Walker went way back; they were friends. Lola owed Sarah the attempt to find her.
Besides, since Walker had been in LA, she had made a different impression on Lola. Under the remorseless efficiency and the single-minded insistence on protocol and technique, Lola caught glimpses of a woman, vulnerable and alone, downcast by a life consistently inhuman in its demands.
Even at the Farm, even as she climbed the ranks of recruits, outtopping everyone, Walker had seemed wrongly cast as a CIA agent. Unlike the other recruits, she took no joy in what she was learning, no pride in how well thoroughly she mastered it. She had seemed somnambulant, although that made no sense. Her success required wakefulness, extreme wakefulness. But Walker seemed to be silently singing herself to sleep, trying to do all she did without any self-consciousness.
Lola noticed the small man at the front desk, bearded and staring at her. Staring — at her first and then a moment later at the shoes.
Lola's pulse quickened; her agent's instincts engaged.
"Hi," she plunked the Converse shoes on the desk in front of the bearded man — Morgan, according to his name tag — "I'm hoping you can help me with an errand of mercy that's starting to feel more like a fool's errand. I found these shoes on the beach early this morning."
She picked up one and turned it over, revealing the Buy More sticker. "I was wondering if they belonged to someone who worked here, or who frequents the store. I'm not just hoping to return the shoes," Lola said, venturing into the neighborhood of the truth, always the best place to sell a lie, "I need to ask him, at least I'm guessing it's a him, if he saw a friend of mine there. She's missing." Lola let herself smile wanly, but made sure that her posture showed serious concern.
The man, Morgan, had been staring at the sticker. "I know those shoes, that sticker. I put it there. Long story. The shoes belong to my buddy, Chuck, but he's home. Sick. Personal day"
"But he works here?"
The man nodded. "Yeah, though who knows why. I'd like to think it's so he can hang with me, but it's not, or not much. This is Neverland; that's the main appeal, I guess. I mean look at all this Peter Pan green."
"So, your friend, this…Chuck…is Peter Pan?" Lola did not quite understand, though there was a lot of green, including Morgan's polo shirt.
Morgan gave her a surprised look. It took him a moment to answer as if he'd never actually thought through his comparison before.
"No, no, he's not Peter Pan. I am — now that I think about it. Chuck's more like Wendy Darling."
"Huh?" Lola asked, flatfooted; she was still lost. Allegorical Readings of Childhood Classics was not a class at the Farm, and she had never read Peter Pan and never seen the movie.
Morgan gestured around him. "This is my home. It's not Chuck's home. He's just visiting. Eventually, he'll leave Neverland, go back to the real world, and grow up."
"Where's the real world? Where does Chuck live?"
Morgan waved his hand. "Not far from here. He —"
Two other men walked up, both in white shirts, black ties, and name tags. They looked vaguely Mormon. "So, Morgan," the dark-haired one asked while leering at Lola, "hoarding the beauty?"
Morgan grimaced. "And, on cue, the Lost Boys." He leaned toward Lola. "They fell out of their perambulators and onto their heads, and they've been here ever since."
Lola felt the creepy eyes of the bulgy one, the light-haired one, winding up her body like poison ivy. She shook her head, annoyed.
"Enough literary crap," she whispered intensely. "The only reference I want is an address. Just tell me where to find Wendy! I mean — Chuck."
Morgan wilted, crestfallen. "Sorry, we…um…extend our metaphors around here. — Chuck lives near here, in an apartment complex in Echo Park…"
Morgan gave Lola the address. She wrote it down. The other two men stood silent, staring fixedly at her breasts as if her breasts were at the counter but she was not.
She left the Buy More with the address and the shoes. The bulgy man spoke as she went through the door. "Do we sell shoes now?"
Ellie walked quickly through the hospital lab door and closed it tight. She wanted to be able to consult the Internet without Chuck peeking over her shoulder — or Sam.
Beautiful women don't just show up on beaches sporting black suits and amnesia. They don't just rise from the ocean or fall from the sky. Sam came from somewhere.
Ellie opened her computer and searched for LA airplane crashes. Her search resulted in nothing. She changed her terms, searching for emergency landings, engine troubles, and anything else she could think of but she still got nothing. She hunted on the Missing Persons Center, The FBI lists of Kidnappings and Missing Persons, but she found no match for Sam, no report that suggested her. The failures of her searches made Ellie more suspicious, not less. If there was no record of Sam, of how she ended up on that beach, how she got hurt, then that had to be because the information was being withheld.
Sam, Ellie concluded, is not a terrorist. She's the opposite: a government agent.
It was a hypothesis that seemed to make sense of everything, the body suit, the scars, the holster, the reference to Lebanon, the news blackout.
The government. They could cover up news of a plane explosion. But if Sam worked for the government, wouldn't someone be searching for her? Trying to find her? Unless they thought she was dead.
Maybe no one knows she is alive.
Ellie hunted down a phone number for the Central Intelligence Agency. She stared at it for a long time. It would be the right thing to do for Sam. But would it be for Chuck? Still, if Ellie didn't call now, wasn't she just delaying the inevitable? Kim Possible would come to herself and go home. She would not stay in Echo Park for long. Chuck was going to get hurt; there was no way around it.
Ellie took her phone from the pocket of her scrubs. She started to dial and then she stopped. She couldn't do it. She saw Chuck's face when Sam took his hand that morning.
Could she rob her brother of that smile? No. Events would have to play out without her interference.
There was a knock on the door. She opened it. It was Devon. Exhaustion radiated from him.
He had gone to work the night of Chuck's party and worked the entire next day.
During the day, Ellie talked to him briefly, told him about the woman, and he agreed to let Ellie and Chuck decide what to do.
He came home, dead on his feet, long after everyone had gone to bed that night, and he had left before breakfast the next day. He had seen the woman, V, asleep on the couch as he went to bed and as he went to work but still had not interacted with her.
His present smile had little energy.
"So, babe, is…V…still at the apartment?"
"Sam. She remembered. Her name is Samantha."
"What's she like?"
Ellie shrugged. "Hard to tell. She likes Chuck. It's almost like she's a baby chick — imprinted on him."
She wrinkled her nose; shook her head at herself. "No, that's not fair. She likes Chuck, but I worry that it's thankfulness, not real attraction."
Devon yawned, but not out of boredom. "Why? Chuck's a moderately charming guy. Hell, more than moderately. Why can't she fall for him?"
"Because, Devon. She belongs to a different world than Chuck. I'm sure of it."
"A different world?"
"She's a government agent."
Devon's jaw dropped. "Like a spy?"
"Yes, exactly like that."
Devon shook his head. "She sure sleeps soundly, for a spy."
"Are spies light sleepers?" Ellie asked.
Devon turned up his hands. "I don't know, but it's my impression. Constant danger, you know?"
"Do they fall in love?"
Devon shook his head. "Doesn't fit the stereotype. Sleepless and loveless."
Sam stood in the steaming water of the shower; the bathroom was cloudy with steam.
Ellie had gone to work. Devon was still there. Chuck was making a late lunch for her.
Sam and he had walked for a long time and then come inside, and, as Ellie readied for work, they had watched a few episodes of Bewitched. They had not prompted any memories for Sam, although she found the show amusing. Endora, Samantha's mother, reminded Sam of someone, but she could not say who.
She didn't struggle to remember. Ellie had cautioned her against that. The hot water rained on her skin.
She ran her hand along her forearm and noticed, for the first time, the small scars, all healed, along her forearm. There was another scar, less the remains of a cut than a puncture, just below her collar bone.
A long line ran crooked across her ribs. All the scars were faint, but they were there, on her. Part of her. Why? Who am I?
One small part of her wanted answers to the questions. Another larger part wanted her to ignore the questions.
She felt happy, as crazy as that sounded. Happy. The experience of the feeling told her she was new to it. Happy. She ought to be miserable, to be plagued by the questions she asked instead of mostly ignoring them.
It was like she was on vacation — but she did not know from what.
She turned off the shower with one hand and opened the shower door with the other, stepping out in a single concerted motion.
There, in the billowing steam, stood Chuck, holding a towel with one hand, covering his eyes with the other. "You forgot your towel. I didn't expect you to step out from behind the frosted glass. Frosted and steamy."
Sam giggled and took the towel, wrapping it around herself just below her arms. Had he seen her? That question mattered to her more than the questions about who she was. She was almost certain that she hoped he had seen her. Holding his hand as they walked outside had warmed Sam, warmed her to her core, and now, the thought of Chuck's hands on her body sent a shiver of longing through her.
How long since I have been with a man?
Her body's answer assured her that it had been a while. A while.
Chuck turned and left the bathroom and Sam toweled off, smiling to herself but also aware of a need that had settled in her belly, simple but urgent.
She sighed, and the breath she breathed out felt like Chuck had put it in her lungs.
Chuck was squeezing his fists tight, trying to erase the unsought vision of Sam, wet and naked, stepping from the shower.
Entirely lovely. Perfect. He had been right. She was Venus, even if she was also Sam.
He needed to forget what he had seen. She was not for him. He had flirted with the idea that maybe she was until the shower door opened, and then he knew it was impossible.
She was from the sky, a goddess; he was from the earth, a clod. Such beings did not mix, despite mythological stories. He was a simple man. Sam was something else.
She would remember — and she would leave, return to the sky, leaving him behind and below.
But she was entirely lovely. Perfect.
He closed his eyes and sat on the couch, feeling like he was marooned on an upturned boat.
Lola had been on her way to Chuck's apartment when she was called into the LA office.
She could not put the call off to continue what she was doing since what she was doing was, technically, unsanctioned.
Acting without orders, alone. She had never done this in her life and it could get her into trouble, even fired.
Lola tried to dodge the assignment but she could not.
She would have to wait until tomorrow to find out if Chuck knew anything about Sarah. The Converse she stowed in her trunk.
Sam got up from the couch. The need she felt earlier would not go away; it could not be ignored. She padded down the dark hallway in complete silence, impressing herself.
How do I do that?
Chuck's door was not closed all the way. She closed her eyes as if she were a child making a wish, and touched the door gently. It swung open.
She could hear Chuck breathing, deep and regular. She gently closed the door.
She walked to the bed, the side opposite him, and lifted the covers. She slipped under them. She had on only a T-shirt of Chuck's and a pair of Ellie's shorts.
"Sam?" Chuck's voice was thick with sleep; he rose on one elbow, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm.
She put her finger on his lips as she slid against him. "Shhh. I want…I want to thank you." She removed her finger from his lips and replaced it with her lips and tongue.
A/N: I'd like to hear from you.