Disclaimer: Don't own Collateral. Although with all the fics I wrote for this movie, you'd think I did. But no, alas, Tom Cruise isn't currently owned by anyone. And did you hear that Jamie Foxx will be working with Michael Mann again, this time co-starring with Tom's arch nemesis, Colin Farrell, to be in a movie-version of a modern day "Miami Vice"? But I'm digressing...

Welcome back! Oh, wait, I'M the one who's been away. Oh well. But anyhoo, I'm back and running with this fic. I don't know how often updates will be coming because I have a problem. When I got the Collateral DVD, I wasdetermined to use it to finish this fic. Well, it took me a while to get around to the Collateral DVD because my obsession switched people for a while, and when I came back around and I watched the movie with the commentary, I just started to appreciate how utterly brillaint the movie was and I felt terribly inferior. I mean, this story feels inferior to the brilliance of the movie. So I'm struggling right now to keep true to the spirit of the movie and yet make the plot unique. Which isn't easy. I had to go back and re-read Solace/Soulless to regain my "Vincent" perspective, but then I realized that Vincent only has one true love, Victoria, and that this story isn't really a romance...well, not a strict romance, anyway. It's more an angst/psychological thing than anything else.

All right, I'm so done talking. You've been waiting quite a few months for this update, if you still are keeping track of this fic, so onto the good parts...

Chapter Five Since When Is Any Of This Negotiable?

(For those who don't remember, we just left the Jazz club scene where poor Daniel gets popped in the head three times. Vincent has just dragged Callie out of the club, and Callie is NOT a happy camper.)

"What happened? What did you do?"Callie cried, even as her breath turned into steam in the open, chill air of the night, even as Vincent continued on mercilessly, towards the cab.

He did not even look back.

She dug in her heels and threw back her weight. She would have been yanked off her feet if she hadn't also decided to bend her knees and brace herself against the ground, like a child throwing a temper tantrum. He staggered, turned, took her other arm, pulled her up, and she lost her balance, falling chest-first into his frame. His arms caught her, pulling her tight, rigid against his body, not giving her an inch of space.

"Let…me…go!" she rasped as her arms flailed uselessly where his pinned them down against her sides. She looked to her left quickly, saw there were pedestrians approaching, that the streets were not so deserted, at least not on this side of town. Vincent saw them, too, let her go, caught her by the forearms and brought her heavily forward again, so that their faces were nearly level.

He bent down. His mouth covered hers, absolutely.

As a kiss, it was different. At first she knew damn well it was an act, his attempt at trying to make it look like this was some kind of lover's quarrel. The fact that she wasn't already screaming for help, that their body language clearly indicated that they knew each other, was enough to keep even the nosiest person from intervening. The kiss was the clincher. The climax of the scene.

And then, a few seconds into it, her amazement wore off and she realized exactly what was going on. By the time her brain hazily processed it, he really was kissing her.

Really. Kissing her.

The fact that Vincent was attractive hadn't escaped her. Sure, he was prematurely gray, and had shot at her, but that didn't stop his eyes from being so green, didn't stop his voice from being raspy in all the right ways, and didn't stop his very masculine frame from feeling so good against her body.

Then there was pure chemistry at work. She had never understood the power of a kiss. She had always heard the myth that you never knew if you were right for a certain guy until you kissed him – the Shoop song, "It's In His Kiss," seemed so silly, but it was absolutely true.

The spark went through them both, back and forth a couple of times. It seemed that his lips were never going to let go.

She stopped fighting, falling limp against him, only her willpower keeping her on her feet. She let her arms hang, then slowly drew them back to her body as he relaxed his grip, and then, when the kiss broke, she just stared at him, too shaken to speak.

To her amazement, the same look was in his face. Or at least, she though it was. He seemed to blink, and it was gone.

"I am not playing," he said.

She opened her mouth to speak, realized she didn't know what to say. "Not playing?" she managed. "You've been playing me all night."

His lips twisted, and the hints of his wicked smile seemed to glimmer down at her. He relaxed his arms further, and she was able to twist out of his grip. She looked at him, barely five inches in front of him, and let out a long, deep breath.

"All right. I'm finished with this," she said, quietly, as if to herself. "You're getting yourself another damn cab driver. Take your fucking money back." She reached into her back pocket, pulled out the three hundreds. "I quit."

"Doesn't work like that," Vincent said plainly.

"Yes it does. You don't know me and I don't know you. Have a good night." She took a step back.

He matched it with a step forward. "You don't get to walk away now, Callie."

"Watch me." She spun. The next thing she knew, Vincent had grabbed her and thrown her up against the wall, his hand at her throat. She felt the curve of his thumb and forefinger across her windpipe, ready to close it in a heartbeat.

"You're not listening to me," he said. "You're not going anywhere except where I tell you."

"Fuck you," she managed.

He almost smiled again. "Maybe another night. But never when I'm working."

She struggled against his hand, too angry to be afraid for the moment, although the fear was creeping up on her, slowly, a chill in her limbs. "Let go of me!" she cried, although with his new pressure, it came out more like a squeak.

"Relax," he said casually, "and I'll consider it."

She glared at him, then, slowly, forced herself to stop moving. Then, gently, he extracted his hand from her neck, and grabbed her shoulder, and what he was about to do next, she would never find out, as her cellular phone went off in her pocket.

Vincent looked down. She imagined that few people in the world ever saw him truly surprised. He seemed to have forgotten about her cel-phone, and could imagine that for a guy in his line of work, that was a big, fat mistake. He looked up at her, annoyed.

"Hey, don't blame me, you're the one who's supposed to know everything," she said, turning away from him, pressing her cheek into the roughness of the brick wall behind her. Then she felt a tremor of embarrassment as his hand delved into her pocket and took the phone out.

"Who's Ray?" he asked.

"My brother."

The phone stopped ringing. "You talk to him a lot," he commented.

"Yeah. Well, he is a cop," she reminded him, then regretted it with the look Vincent gave her.

"So what happens if you don't answer? He just leaves a message?"

"No, he calls back until I do answer," she said with a sigh, knowing she had to be truthful, that if she lied, it would just make Vincent angrier. God knew where she stood at the moment, but she was an idiot to think that he wouldn't kill her, even now.

As if on cue, the phone started to ring again.

"What is it with this guy?" Vincent snapped. He considered the phone, considered her. "Answer it."

She seemed amazed at this suggestion. "And say what?"

"He's your brother. Lie to him."

"I can't. He'll see right through me."

"Then you'd better make it good, if you don't want him to get hurt."

Her stomach lurched. She hadn't thought of it quite that way yet. The fact that she was in danger hadn't escaped her, but that her brother might get hurt purely by extension was horrifying. She took up the phone in one hand, and shakily pressed the green phone button.

"Hey, Ray," she said, hoping the fear in her voice wasn't too obvious, even as she tried to bury it under a mask of exhaustion.

"Callie," came Ray's voice. "What's going on? You really busy?"

"Yeah, it's been a crazy night," she said, knowing that wasn't a lie, watching Vincent's face the whole time, searching for cues. "What is it?"

"Well, I know we already had this discussion "

"That's never stopped you before."

"I really want you to go over and visit dad," Ray said.

"Not this again," she sighed, her weariness genuine.

"Callie, he's having a rough night. His insomnia is really bad; he needs some company. I would go over in a heartbeat, but I stumbled into a crime scene about an hour ago and now I'm getting dragged all over town."

"Crime scene?" Callie pressed, her spine starting to tingle. "What's going on?"

"Same old bullshit in L.A., really," Ray said, "but one of my leaks got shot, and supposedly one of his higher-ups is dead, too."

She wanted to ask where he was. She wanted to ask who was dead. She didn't dare, not with Vincent looking at her.

"I'm bogged down, I'll be lucky to get off shift three hours late. Come on, Cal, drop off your fare and head on over, five minutes. I'll really owe you."

She sighed deeply. She was ready to tell him that she absolutely couldn't that night, but knew it was just going to lead to an argument.

"Tell him you'll go," Vincent whispered, who had been listening to the conversation the whole time. It was remarkable how loud the tiny speakers of a cellular phone actually were.

She glared at him. "I'll see. But I can't promise."

"That's enough," Ray said, "Love you. Thanks."

"Love you too." She hung up the phone. "I don't lie to my brother very well," she said. "He's going to be really pissed at me when he finds out I didn't go, although I really doubt that you give a shit."

"You're going to go," Vincent said. "We both are." She stared at him, not reacting at first. Vincent mistook it for confusion. "We have to go," Vincent attempted the rational track. "If you don't go, Ray finds out, he comes looking for you. Not good. For either of you. We go, there's no problem."

Speaking softly and forcefully, she said, "I'm not taking you to see my father."

"Since when is any of this negotiable?" Vincent asked in a dangerous tone, stepping closer to her.

She calmed, backed off. "Who the hell am I supposed to tell him that you are?" she said. "I never bring fares home."

"I'll think of something on the way. Let's go." He handed her the keys to the cab, and they got in and left.

8888888888

It was midnight. Even though the clock flashed 12:01 a.m. on her dashboard, it was pure midnight. She'd seen an episode of some show like Twilight Zone a long time ago, where an old man, who was really a vampire, explained that actual midnight was not the literal 12:00 a.m., but a few minutes before or after, when the true hour struck, and evil came out to wreak havoc on the night.

Evil had already been out to play for a while, now, she thought ruefully. Then, she remembered, with a pang, how much that episode had upset her. In the story, at the midnight hour on Halloween, the old man/vampire had been torn to bits by the neighbors, all of them becoming mindless zombies under some weird kind of spell. In the morning, no one remembered what they had done, but the boy the old man befriended discovered the truth. At the very end, the boy was with his father, and the wind started to blow, and for no reason, the father started coughing, which was the exact reaction everyone had to the old man/vampire, and the boy had a look upon his face as if he understood that whatever the old man was had been passed along to him, and that one day, he would suffer the same fate.

She blamed her father, really. He was far too into creepy stuff like that. Outer Limits, Unsolved Mysteries, you name it, he had seen it. Only that episode had ever really bugged her.

The knowledge of your horrible fate, hanging over your head.

What was she going to tell her father? Vincent had been pretty much mum since they'd gotten back on the road, and she was more than content to keep it that way. A part of her burned with fury, knowing how she was being manipulated, how she was being used, and the other part shuddered regularly in fear, knowing her life might be over after this one night, than these might be her last hours to live. Which only made the rage worse, as it was all directed at him.

She knew the route by heart. She was surprised to find herself already climbing up the winding street that led to her father's house, her headlights barely making a discernable path before her. She found the right driveway, and pulled in, tucking the car deep into a pocket by the garage, not wanting to block the main door. It was an old habit, one Ray had instilled in her, about never letting your car ever block anything else. She considered that her father wasn't going to go anywhere that night, he certainly wasn't much of a wanderer, but she was clearing the way anyway, grasping at the familiar patterns of her life, trying to stay somewhere within normal.

She turned off the engine and glanced up into the rearview, expectant. He looked back at her, his eyes dark in the shadows, his hair seeming less silver and more a dirty brownish-gray. "Here's your story," he said softly. "I'm a friend."

"A friend in an expensive suit who rides around with me in my cab after midnight?" she quipped.

His eyes moved out of the shadows, pierced her for a moment, and then he resumed in that same low voice, slurred together in the slight way of someone speaking quickly. "You had an accident. Ran into a deer."

She cocked an eyebrow. She wanted to echo, "A deer?" but didn't dare push her luck.

"You didn't know who else to call. You knew I worked a night shift, so you called me. You wanted to make sure that the cab still ran all right, so we took a ride. You were upset so you wanted to go see your dad."

Looking away, Callie gazed toward the front door. It wasn't so unthinkable. "So we're friendly," she muttered.

"Aren't we?" he said, his voice still that same low-key, but that wicked twinkle back in his eyes. He pressed, "Maybe we're even dating, a little. You haven't told anybody yet because you weren't sure where it was going."

She didn't want to look at him now, didn't want to see his amusement at the obvious discomfort this suggestion caused her. He was having too much fun reveling in the knowledge that she found him attractive. To save her dignity, she said, "Fine," and pulled back on the door handle, making it slid open.

Vincent buttoned his jacket as they approached the walk, probably to hide his gun, Callie thought, glancing at him. With the way he'd trussed her up for that club, it did conceivably look as if the two of them were out on a date. Although that didn't explain her using the cab or all of the damage to the car, either.

It occurred to her, perhaps for the millionth time, that this was totally insane. Her hand went to the screen door, familiarity only mildly soothing her nerves, and she slipped her key into the lock on the doorknob. The wooden door opened and she leaned around it, calling softly, "Dad?"

"In here!" came the reply from the living room. Within seconds, before Vincent could close the doors behind him, Callie's father, Raymond Fanning, Sr., was standing in the small dining room that connected the kitchen and the living room, wrapped in his robe. He looked mildly started to see that his daughter wasn't alone, but he recovered quickly when Callie approached him confidently, wrapping herself in his arms for a warm hug.

"Hi, Daddy," she whispered. Ray Sr. kissed her cheek and smiled down at her before politely turning to Vincent.

"You brought a friend?"

"Yeah, this is…this is Vincent," she said, letting her awkwardness play in her favor. She looked bashfully up at her father. "We're, uh…sort of…dating."

"Sort of dating, or are dating?" Ray Sr. asked, turning smiling eyes to Vincent and extending his hand. "Raymond Fanning, nice to meet you Vincent."

"Likewise," Vincent said, and Callie noted the guarded look on Vincent's face as he took her father in.

"I had a little bang up with the cab," Callie said, rushing on as if she were embarrassed by the whole thing. "I called Vincent to help me…Ray's busy and I wasn't sure if you were up, so he came down and rescued me."

"I thought I saw something funny about the cab," Ray Sr. said, frowning as he glanced out the back window again. "What did you do, hit a deer?"

"Yeah, who would have thought you'd find deer in South Central?"

"Oh, hell, I'm surprised you didn't hit a bear or a coyote, but I know there are some deer out there too. Why are you still driving it, though? Shouldn't you have taken it back to the barn?"

At this point, Vincent stepped in. "Well, Callie was worried about her boss giving her hell over the damages. We were driving it around to make sure everything still worked okay."

Ray Sr. squeezed his daughter's shoulder. "What, Callie let her boss push her around? You haven't known my daughter too long, have you?" But his smile was gentle, teasing.

Vincent's gaze drifted to Callie. To her father, it just seemed affectionate. The intensity of the look made Callie's breath catch for a moment. "Well, we're still getting to know each other."

"I wanted you to meet him," Callie interjected, just to put the finishing touches on the lie. She squeezed her arm around her father's waist. "I'm sorry I've been keeping it from you guys, I've just been so busy lately—"

"No, sweetie, don't sweat it." Ray Sr. made a motion with his head to indicate they follow him into the dining room. "Come on, let's sit down and talk, get to know each other. I'll make us a snack. You hungry, Vincent?"

"Famished," Vincent replied with his most cordial smile.

8888888888

One of Ray Sr.'s talents was the art of sandwich making. Vincent watched as the man stacked everything carefully, laid out the sliced onions, the lettuce, the butter pickles and then spread equal parts mustard and mayonnaise over the top layer of bread, where it would touch the meat. Cheese was placed between the pieces of roast beef and sliced chicken, one Swiss and another darker, looked like a mild cheddar. Then he cut it, corner to corner in both directions, and pinned it through with toothpicks, just like a restaurant, and served it with some chips from a bag on the top of the fridge.

He hesitated to dig in. Vincent wasn't much of an eater when he was on the job. Hunger was one of those alien sensations to him, like remorse and lust. He glanced over at Callie. He'd hit two out of three that night, might as well go for broke.

She was already eating, devouring her sandwich with a ravenous appetite that belied her situation. People were strange in situations of stress. Some lost all appetite and some buckled down like pigs in their slop bins. Although she was considerably neater.

They chatted. It was light, friendly banter, with Ray Sr. asking him what he did. Vincent talked about how he was a private consultant, that he spent a lot of time traveling, and made up something about meeting Callie on campus, where he was doing a part-time teaching job, passing on some of what he knew.

"That's rough, traveling all the time," Ray Sr. said. "You like it?"

"It's all right," Vincent replied. "Some places are nicer than others."

"Vincent's not an L.A. fan," Callie murmured, finishing her glass of soda.

Ray Sr.'s eyebrow arched. "Well, it's not for everybody, Cal. I'm personally thrilled I live all the way out here. Where I can see the city lights without drowning in them. When I was younger I had to travel, leave Callie and her brother and mother for a week on end at times. I always hated it. I guess it's easier on single people."

"Yeah," Vincent said in a low voice. He caught Callie rubbing her eyes, saw the tiredness in her jaw. Her father was much quicker, though.

"You want to lie down for a bit, sweetie?" he said, placing a comforting arm on her shoulder. "You've had a rough night, with this accident and all."

Callie managed to suppress most of a rather bitter, ironic laugh. "No, Dad, I pass out and I'm done for at least a few hours, and Vincent's taking time from his very busy schedule to help me out." She cast him a look. "I don't want to keep him too long. But the snack was great, I feel recharged."

"You didn't eat dinner again, did you?" Ray Sr. sighed at Callie's sudden look. "You don't take care of yourself, Callie! I've told you again and again that a body needs energy. I don't care about this getting thin nonsense. You mess up your metabolism and you certainly won't lose any weight, anyway!"

"I'm not trying to lose weight," Callie said, fidgeting. "I just get…caught up in stuff."

Ray Sr. turned to Vincent. "Contrary to modern society," he said, addressing whom he thought was Callie's potential suitor, "I don't believe in all this being skinny as a twig. Callie's mother wasn't skinny, she had curves where a woman needs curves."

"Dad," Callie grunted, getting up and putting her plate in the sink. She started to rummage through cabinets at this point, almost nervously.

"All this pressure to look a certain way, act a certain way. Your mother would roll over in her grave if she knew you were starving yourself!"

"I'm not starving myself!" Callie said, bending down and managing to find a back of chocolate chips. "Look, see, chocolate, I'm going to stuff my face! Happy?"

Vincent smirked. It was echoed by Ray Sr.'s amused harrumph. "Now, don't get carried away in the other direction."

Callie just gave him a completely flustered look and shoved a handful of chocolate into her mouth.

Ray Sr. turned to Vincent. "You know, I'm not going to totally embarrass Callie by asking you if you're one of those guys that insists on girls being skinny as rails—"

"I'm not," Vincent said, with the kind of level-headedness that utterly convinced Ray Sr. within seconds. "I promise."

"Good. You want some coffee? You need any more caffeine to get you through the night? I'm making some for Callie, she always needs at least a liter of it before she goes back out the door. Did you bring your thermos, Cal?"

Callie had finished her temporary chocolate attack and was rolling the bag back together and rubber-banding it. "No, I forgot it in the car, Dad. I can go get it—" Vincent jumped, ever so slightly. Just a quick jerk of his eyes toward her, showing her his displeasure at this plan. She understood, instantly, and amended, "No, wait…oh, hell, I left it at home. I didn't get to dishes last night and it's in the sink, dirty."

"No problem, you can borrow mine. I'm not taking it anywhere, anyway." He started to get the coffee maker ready, opening up a glass container of ground coffee beans and pouring a healthy amount into a filter, then slapping everything in place and getting the concoction started. "Why don't we go sit in the living room? It's more comfortable. Callie, I still think you should put your head down for a minute. You used to do those power naps, remember? They always helped you."

Callie was cleaning melted chocolate off her fingers. "Yeah, I guess I can try that," she murmured, not convincingly. She shot Vincent a nervous glance as the man stood up and watched Ray Sr. retreat into the living room, expecting his guests to follow. He motioned with his hand, and she scooted out in front of him.

"You're fine," he whispered so only she would hear. "Just keep it cool."

The living room was cozy, as all rooms in California had a tendency to be. There was an old barkalounger in one corner, obviously the prized seat in the house, and a small overstuffed couch against one wall. The television was on the other side, and the rest of the room was taken over by pictures

Vincent's eyes couldn't help but roam to them. They covered the walls, sometimes in single sets, sometimes hung in group frames, smaller pictures peeking out from different shapes in the lining of the frame. Pictures of a family's life.

It gave him pause. He watched as Ray Sr. made himself comfortable in his chair, and Callie sunk into the corner of the couch closest to him, familiar, trusting.

And for the second time that night, he had a very uneasy feeling.

This man was not the kind to reject his children. This man was not the kind to ever raise his hand in anger and smack his daughter or his son across the face. It was envy, Vincent suddenly realized. Envy for this father who was so much of what he should be.

Callie's nervous expression didn't hold for long. In her secure position at her father's feet, there was a relaxation there that seemed to surround her like an aura, as if there she couldn't be touched, that there wasn't anything anyone could do to harm her, least of all Vincent, while she was there. Her body language screamed of trust, cried out that even in this crisis she endured, sitting here, by her father, was a reassurance that was so soothing, it was almost as if her father could actually protect her from anything.

He wanted to feel the cruel irony of that situation. He wanted to relish the fact that he could easily kill them both, right this second, and not bat an eye. That if he demanded it, he could submit her to the most humiliating of situations, right there for her father to watch, and there wasn't a damn thing the old man could do about it.

Those thoughts did not appeal to him. Instead, they nauseated him. As Ray Sr., in an unconscious gesture of affection, reached over and ruffled Callie's hair, Vincent could almost believe that this was a safe place, that maybe it was the sort of place he wanted, that he had always wanted.

But no. This night was far from over. Three down, two to go.

Callie glanced up, seeing that Vincent was hovering in the doorway, not quite at his ease. He knew she was looking at him, and even let her stand up, trying to pry her away from that ease she had suddenly picked up.

"Daddy, I think we need to go," Callie said, when Ray Sr. noticed her move. "Vincent's got to get back, and I should finish my shift. I'll come by tomorrow afternoon, we can have lunch, okay?"

Her voice trembled slightly over the last words. Vincent's eyes inadvertently went to the pictures, stepping closer to them. "We still have a few minutes," he heard himself saying. "Is this your mother?"

He pointed to the picture of a dark-haired woman, large brown eyes, full lips, having a definite Greek air about her. It was her wedding picture, and her dress was a bit much, all ruffles and lace, but she seemed happy, and so very, very young.

"Yes," Callie said. "That's her wedding portrait. That's one of her taken closer to when she…when she died."

Vincent turned his eyes to a group of pictures. It was from a Christmas holiday, Mom in the kitchen, family opening presents, sitting around the table. The picture was such a collage of perfection that for a moment, Vincent felt as it someone had struck him directly in the gut.

It wasn't like he hadn't seen facsimiles of perfection before, but none of them had seemed so real.

Callie was in a few of the pictures, a spindly girl of thirteen or fourteen, braces and pony-tails, all legs and no chest. She had her arms around her mother in one picture, which was surprising considering she was just at the age where she should be starting to push her family away in the adolescent search for independence. Instead, her arms were wrapped firmly around her mother's waist, and her chin was resting on her mother's shoulder, and the two were both beaming, wearing matching sweaters that might have been gifts on that very day.

Callie chuckled in the back of her throat. "Oh, God, Dad, I'd almost forgotten about that one," she said, pointing to it. "That was such a joke. My Aunt Carolyn thought it would be funny to buy me and my mother matching sweaters the year before," she told Vincent. "And so we put them on and said that each year we would take a picture in them, and send it to Aunt Carolyn to remind her of her faux-poi. (sp?)" She paused, a breath of pain in her throat. "This was the only year we were able to do it."

Vincent nodded, glancing at Callie. Then his eyes drifted to Ray Sr., who had turned on the television, and was absently flipping the dial. When he turned back, as Callie went to get her coat, his eyes met Vincent's.

"She and her mother were very close," he said in a low voice, so only Vincent would hear. "It's hard for her to talk about her."

Vincent just nodded in understanding. And felt yet another strange, peculiar feeling. As if he understood exactly how Callie felt.

He had never understood how anyone felt before. It just hadn't been important.

Suddenly uncomfortable in that stifling house, he shook Ray Sr.'s hand goodnight and managed to get Callie out into the driveway. Just being outside was a good change. He followed Callie to the car, and they rounded the corner, disappearing from the view of the house.

"Callie," he said. "Wait."