Unreasonable Addiction

Chapter 6: Departure

By Yumegari and LRH

Hanover paced back and forth, grumbling to himself, his hands behind his back and his brow furrowed. "Damned implacable..." he growled. He slammed a fist against the squad car hood. "Some Witness Protection!" He growled, glaring at Lynley. "Bastard walked right into her house!"

"We weren't expecting him to be here," Lynley defended himself. "It was a fifteen second news-blurb, and it only aired yesterday. And he's almost never left New York before."

Hanover shook his head. "What a mess," he said, leaning on the car hood. "We've got to get Holmes out of there. But he's got us blocked off every time!"

"Why do you think he wouldn't talk to us?" Lynley said, looking at the files again. "It's kind of against his style, isn't it?"

Hanover looked at him before shaking his head again. "By this point there's no telling what his 'style' is any more. He's gone completely 'round the twist instead of just mostly around it like he was before."

Lynley frowned. "Mad geniuses aren't something they train you to deal with in the academy. We need that weirdo who usually deals with people like him. What's his name, Spider-Man."

"You know how to contact him? It's not like he's got a Spider-Signal."

"Good point." He grimaced and rubbed his temple. "If we just storm the place, she's going to die. Last time he kidnapped her, he let her go when he was finished with whatever he needed her for."

"But last time, he wasn't surrounded. He's going to use her to bargain a way out, and that means taking her with him. We can't let that happen."

"No, we can't..." Hanover replied, sitting on the squad car and lapsing into silent thought. We certainly can't."


Clair sat down on the floor by the couch. "Is the local working?"

"Mmm," Octavius mumbled. He slitted his eyes open. "Somewhat," he mumbled. "So bright..."

"Oh, your glasses," she realized. She stood up and turned out the light. "Better? Do you think you can sit up? It'll help stop the bleeding."

With some difficulty, he pushed himself up, leaning against the arm of the couch. "What'd ... Hanover have ... to say?" he slurred, leaning his head sideways against the back of the couch.

She sat next to him, against his right side. "He just asked if you were wounded, and about my ear, and he told me that they'd have me out of here as soon as they could."

His hand slowly came up to curl his arm around her, cold fingers against her shoulder. "Mmm," he said. "Will they, now?"

"Not if I have anything to do with it," she answered, taking his hand in both of hers. "You're getting cold. Shock." Worried, she pulled the throw off the back of the couch and tucked it across his shoulders.

"Nnnnhh," he said, his eyes fluttering shut. "Sleepy. Something... tells me I ... shouldn't be..."

"Come on," she insisted. "Stay awake. It's almost time for the next injection. We're more than half done."

He sighed and forced his eyes open. "What's this stuff ... for, anyway?" he mumbled. His right hand tried to find hers again. Her scant warmth was better than nothing.

She held his hand, chafing it to warm it. "Dissolves the blood-clot. Otherwise, the ZJ won't make much difference." Clair looked at him, noting the rapid pulse in his wrist. She was unhappy with the amount of medication she was having to give him, but she got up and fetched an anti-shock medication from her cabinet. "This might help," she said, holding it up.

"Whatizzit?" he asked, blinking blearily at it.

"Anti-shock. It'll stabilize your heart-beat and help you wake up." She drew the amount. "I'm just worried, you have so many drugs in your system already."

"What's a few more?" he blithered deliriously, that half-smile flickering across his face again.

She nodded resignedly, and injected the new serum into his arm before picking up the t-PA and making that shot as well. "Only two left, now. We're nearly there."

He sighed a long sigh and waited. After a moment, it did seem as though his head cleared somewhat, as though he'd warmed up a little and his eyesight cleared. He looked up at her.

She grinned and moved over to the table, beginning to clear stuff off it onto the chair and shelves. "When this is all over, you're going to need to sleep for a week, you know."

"Mmmmmm, yes," he said, attempting to drag himself off of the couch. The brief notion that he'd sleep that week better with her there with him flickered through his mind.

She looked up from the notebook in her hands and stepped over to him, reaching out and planting a hand in the middle of his chest to keep him down. "Stay there. You're not as well as the drug is making you feel."

"Nonsense," he muttered. "Been through worse." He resumed his attempts to rise. "I was dead, once, you know that? Or at least so I've gathered. I think I can walk this off, so to speak."

"Sit down," she persisted, not removing her hand. "Between the blood-loss, the stroke, and the shock, you're in no condition to be on your feet at all."

He tilted his head forward a fraction, black eyes glittering in the dim light at her. "You'll need help if this is to be completed any time soon, won't you?"

"Yes," she admitted. "I don't want to risk putting you under this time, so I need to work out the alternate delivery. It'll be faster, easier. I just have to figure out the formula."

"Then let me up. I'll assist you with it."

She relented, helping him up before going back to her notebooks, picking absently at the blood that had dried on her neck while she studied her designs. "I think I can cobble this together with what I have, but it'll be a rough and dirty version of what it's supposed to be. The effects will be harsh."

He sat in the chair, leaning briefly against the table before looking up at her. "What's it meant to do, exactly? he asked, weakly gesturing with one hand to bring the notes closer.

She came over to him, standing with her shoulder against him. "The serum still acts like an infecting virus. Do you remember, last time, that the problem with just administering it was that it damaged the myelin sheath and let the neuron get infected. So it has go into the soma and only the soma, with no outside contact. This alteration would make a carrier virus, one that would bond to the neuron, deliver the serum to the soma, and then disintegrate."

He nodded. "Would that eliminate the need to extract a sample and then reintroduce it to the brain?"

"Entirely. You'd just inject the virus into the bloodstream." She tapped a list of chemical names in the notebook. "I don't have most of these, but they're refinements, to make the process easier on the patient. I just need..." she stared into space, running over her chemical inventory in her mind, and grimaced. "No, I don't have any prataxin." She swore badly.

"Is it necessary?"

"Very," she said, slamming the notebook down onto the table. "It's what will bond the serum to the virus. It's why I couldn't afford to test this before. Expensive, man-made chemical adherent."

His eyes flicked about the room. "Can anything be used as a substitute?"

"Nothing I have here," she said, cross with herself. "If I'd been thinking about it, I would have picked some up at the hospital. I feel like an idiot."

He sighed audibly. "There's only one thing for it. Give me the phone."

She caught on. "It's called prataxin chemoglobin, and it'll be in the university's lab at Harborview Medical," she supplied him, handing over the phone."I need about 3 grains."

He nodded, managing to hold it in his left hand while his right slowly dialed the numbers. However, lifting the thing proved painful as he got it about five inches up before hissing in pain and nearly dropping it.

She winced sympathetically and took the phone, holding it for him.

Hanover nearly jumped clean out of his suit when the cellular rang. He fumbled it up to his eyes and checked the readout. Holmes' number. What on earth could this be about, he wondered. He pressed the button to talk. "Holmes?" he asked. "Is that you?"

"No," the voice on the other side, instantly recognizable, told him.

"You finally deign to talk to us," Hanover growled.

"Not so glib now, are you?" Octavius sneered. "My demands have changed again, Hanover."

"How much longer are you going to do this, Octavius?" Hanover spat. "What more do you want from her and us?"

"Not much more, I assure you," Octavius replied smoothly. "I need you to send someone to retrieve something for Doctor Holmes."

"Oh? What?"

Octavius looked at the chemical name he'd had her scribble down. "Prataxin chemoglobin," he read. Over the phone, Hanover swore. Octavius chuckled. "Not exactly something one can stop into the local convenience store for, is it? She tells me it can be found in the University laboratory at Harborview Medical. She will need three grains of it. Can that be arranged for us, Mister Hanover?"

Hanover tore the sheet off his note-taking pad that he'd scribbled this down on, thrusting it at Lynley. When he looked about to object, Hanover covered the phone and hissed, "We have to get him what he wants. No telling what this psychotic bastard'll cut off of her next!"

"Is this even a real word?" Lynley muttered, staring at it. But he didn't argue, and jogged across to his car, skidding out of her driveway, through the veritable parking lot of police cars, and off towards the freeway.

Hanover returned to the phone. "Someone's going to the University to get it."

"Good, good," Octavius purred. "I expect you to telephone me again when it arrives. You will be instructed how to deliver it to us then." He nodded at Clair to hang up the phone.

Clair clicked the phone off and set it aside. "Well, there's work we can do on it before it gets here. I have the base viral form, but it needs modified so it degrades when it's supposed to."

He nodded. "What does that entail, exactly?" He sighed. "My memory of chemistry is foggy at best," he admitted, eyes dropping and slipping to the side.

She opened the chemical storage cooler and took out two vials, then snagged a third from the shelf next to it. "I've got to bond an acid-complex to the virus, but the acid-complex has to be coated with a protein shell so it doesn't work too quickly. I can fine-tune it to about four hours, which is more than enough to let the serum do its job."

With a soft, contemplative sound, he pulled the notebook across the table toward him and opened it, flipping through its pages with nerveless fingers, scanning its content. He drew his eyes down a page, flip, another page, flip... He looked up briefly as she spoke, then returned his attention to reading.

She pulled a sterile vial out of a drawer and tipped a tiny quantity of the protein-suspension into it, setting it into a stand and using a syringe to measure out an even smaller amount of the acid-complex. She glanced at him, reading her notes. "Anything interesting to you?"

"Hnnn," he said, one finger tapping slowly against the paper. "This protein you're using for the buffer shell will prevent the acid from bonding. Its molecular structure is too dense."

"What?" She looked up, tipping her glasses up to look at the page through them. She blinked at the numbers there. "You're right. How in the world did I miss that?" She set the needle-full of acid down and checked the label of the protein. "You're right."

He smirked as if to say, Still got it. "I'm sure you have a less-densely structured protein to use. A natural one, perhaps?"

She nodded. "I have a lighter protein, from another project. It's plant-based, but it's simple enough that it should still work just fine." She got out the other protein and checked the molecular weight written on its label. She handed the new vial to Otto. "Think that'll work?"

He peered at it. "It should, if I remember correctly."

Clair nodded and took the vial back, measuring its contents into a new test tube and holding it up to the light that filtered in through the curtained windows. She added the acid carefully and swirled the tube, mixing them.

He returned his attention to the notes. "Fascinating," he murmured after a moment.

She continued to mix the solution with a glass pipette, then set it aside and picked up the vial of viral base, checking its label. It was a little older than she would have liked, but as long as it was still active... She smeared a drop onto a slide and slid it under the microscope, smiling when she saw the tiny forms milling around mindlessly.

There was a beat after which Octavius cleared his throat. When she looked up, he gestured to the side of his head, raising one eyebrow. "Don't you think you ought to..."

She raised her hand reflexively, almost but not touching the mess of her ear. "Oh. I probably should bandage it." Concern for him had distracted her, and it had nearly stopped bleeding. She stepped back from the microscope and wet a pad of gauze to clean away as much of the spilled blood as she could before awkwardly trying to fix a square over it, getting the tape tangled.

"Come over here," he said, a little exasperatedly.

She pulled a piece of tape out of her hair with a grimace and went to him. "Could you just hold my hair back? It keeps getting in the way."

Slowly, he reached out, slipping the fingers of his right hand into her hair and holding it against her head. With a wince of pain, he brought the other up to press the bandage against her ear. His fingers were warm again, though not as much as before.

With his help, she finally got it fixed in place, pulling out the strands of hair that had been caught in the tape. "That should do it." She turned her head to look at him. "Thank you."

He nodded, carefully moving her hair back over her ear before returning his attention to the notes.

She went back to her vials, carefully measuring one into the other and stirring them, then making another slide and checking it. "Good," she murmured. She could see the protein-coated strands being absorbed by the viruses, exactly as they were supposed to.

Looking up from the notes at her murmured comment, Octavius drew in a breath to speak, when a siren made itself heard. He whipped his head to stare at the window. "What the-"

"Maybe it's the prataxin," she said hopefully. "He could have made it there and back by now."

"Hnnnn, it had better be," he growled, his gaze not leaving the window. His fingers twitched.

The siren died as a car skidded to a halt in the gravel, and Clair nodded. "The sooner we get it, the better." They didn't have to wait long for the phone to ring again.

Clair looked at it for a beat, and picked it up in the middle of its second ring. "I'm here."

"Doctor Holmes," said Hanover's voice on the other end, sounding harried. "We have the prataxin you need. Mind telling us what you need it for?"

"I can't," she said tensely. She pressed the mute button on the phone so Hanover couldn't hear her speak to Otto. "How should they get it to us?"

He thought for a moment. "We can't have them deliver it to you, they'd simply take you and run," he mused. Eventually he sighed. "They'll have to deliver it to me."

"They'll shoot you!" she protested. "They don't know you're already wounded."

"What else is there for it?" he demanded. "If we both go to the door to receive it, it'll simply be a repeat of last time!"

"Mm," she said, thinking. "Both of us, but you stay behind the door. Close enough to be a threat, but out of the line of fire."

He looked at her for a few beats before sitting back in the chair again. "All right, then," he said quietly. "This had better work," he added after a beat.

She put the phone back to her and thumbed off the mute. "He says to tell you to bring the Prataxin to the front door. We'll meet you there."

Hanover was apparently thinking this over, as a moment of silence greeted her statement. "Okay," he said cautiously. "We'll bring it to the door." He hung up.

"Show time," she quipped, trying to lighten the situation. "Again." She offered her hand to help him up. "What was it you said about a career as an actor?"

He took it, bracing against it to stand, wincing and hissing with pain. "Aheh. It may be safer than my present occupation seems to be nowadays." He picked up the sword and draped his right arm over her. "Anyone can get a career onscreen these days, it seems."

"It seems that way sometimes." They moved out to the entry way. "Alright, here we go. Last time we should have to deal with them until we get your mind working right again."

He heaved a gusty sigh. "Let's hope so. I grow weary of this... maddening vulnerability." He hefted the sword in his left and, gritting his teeth, and pulled the door open, using it for support and standing more or less behind it.

She stepped forward, raising a hand to shield her face from the headlights. It was completely dark now, but the yard was brightly lit and crowded. She could see a crowd of reporters behind a police blockade, and no less than three helicopters were overhead.

Hanover stood on the sidewalk, a white paper bag in his hand. He came forward, his canny gaze taking in her bandaged head and hollowed, frightened eyes, and the shadow behind her, the sword it held glinting in the light of the halogens. He appeared to weigh his options until eventually he held out the bag for her to take. "Good to see you're at least doing somewhat all right, Doctor Holmes," he said.

She nodded silently, glanced behind herself, and took the bag, crushing the paper in her hand. Inside, she could feel the tiny ampule.

Octavius stirred behind her, the sword arm coming up and curling slowly around her, sword pointing upward. He pulled her back. "You have our thanks for this, Mister Hanover," he growled softly.

"I'd say 'you're welcome,' but it's ridiculous in a situation like this one," Hanover replied. "Get it done and over with, whatever you're forcing her to do, Octavius. The sooner we bring you in, the better."

He could swear he saw the glint of light off teeth as the shadow that was Octavius grinned. "We shall see, Hanover, when this is finished."

Hanover glared at him in anger and maybe a little fear before turning and walking back down the sidewalk toward the squad cars.

Clair stared after him in desperation until the door shut, at which point she twitched and bit her lip to keep from laughing. "This is working," she said, opening the bag and pulling out the prataxin. She spotted his glasses on the floor, where they had fallen earlier and picked them up, reaching up to slip them onto his face. "We're almost done."

He almost seemed relieved at having the dark lenses over his eyes again and the corner of his mouth twitched upward briefly. "Good," he said. "He was right about one thing, this does need to get done, and the sooner the better." They made their slow way back to the lab and the couch, where he dropped himself heavily on the cushions. Frank lifted his head with a soft brrrt and looked up at him.

She got out the serum and set about measuring it and the doctored virus into separate test tubes, checking her watch, then added a few drops of the prataxin to the later, finally mixing them all together. "Just have to check, see if it's bonding..." she said distractedly, making yet another slide. Frank crossed the couch and settled himself on Octavius' hip while she watched through the microscope. She adjusted the focus, checked her notes, and then grinned hugely.

He looked up from eyeing the cat dubiously to see that grin. "Good news, I take it?"

She nodded and stepped back, doing that same strange little momentary victory dance that she had done years ago in his lab, when a sample was successfully infected with the ZJ for the first time. "Take a look. It's beautiful."

He pushed himself to his feet, swaying until he reached the table, and made his way across the room until he reached the microscope, leaning down and peering into the eyepiece.

In the microscope's view, the active parts of the serum were being absorbed into the modified virii, speeding them up, giving them a purposeful motion.

Clair stilled herself with effort, but the grin remained. She brushed her hair back from her face and went back to the table, watching the slide as though she could see the microscopic activity, her face intent.

Octavius straightened slowly, turning to look at her. "How quickly will this virus spread?" he asked.

"Very quickly," she said. "I think. I don't think more than twenty minutes to infect the entire brain, repairing as it goes. But the effects, the stimulation will last longer, because the virus won't degrade that fast and the serum isn't hidden in existing neural tissue."

Octavius made his way back to the couch, appearing more frustrated with his condition than usual. He dropped himself onto the thing and sighed gustily, watching her expectantly. "One more dose of that t-PA, right?" he muttered after a moment.

"Yes." She checked her watch again. "In about ten minutes. This will be ready by then. Do you want to take them at the same time?"

He closed his eyes and nodded. "It'll be done more quickly that way."

Clair opened her mouth to say something more, then paused and shut it. Setting the test tube of Zombie Virus into the holder on the table, she came over and sat next to Otto, curling her feet under her again and leaning against his right shoulder. "So, what happens next?" she asked quietly, absently petting Frank.

He grew quiet, gazing ahead and blinking slowly. A quiet sigh. "I leave this place. I can't stay here, obviously. I'll go back to New York. Back to what I've been doing and will continue to do." He turned to look at her. "And... if you still so desire. I'll ... take you with me," he finished, as though coming to a realization.

"I'd like that," she said softly, looking down at her hands. "Today... today has been the strangest, well, second strangest day of my life, and yet..." She was struggling for words, and she looked up, into his eyes. "I'm more... content than I've been in years." She shook her head. "That's not the right word."

"What is, then?" he asked, gazing at her, that intense gaze that seemed to let nothing escape its notice.

"Happy. Confident. Warm." Her hand found his, wrapped around it. "Needed." There was a question in her eyes now.

"Yes," he replied, and again, it sounded like a realization. His eyes focused on her again. "You may be right," he finished slowly. He leaned toward her slowly. "Yes," he murmured, his eyes slipping shut. "Needed..." His lips met hers again, burning hot.

She responded, molding her mouth to his. Heat rolled through her, searing her nerves. She held her breath, didn't need to breath. The moment could have lasted forever.

The kiss was a long one, certainly longer than he'd intended. And yet, a memory stirred. This was how he'd always done it, though so long ago as to have been another lifetime entirely. Memories of that time had slowly returned, an idea here, a habit there. The cigars had made him cough violently. This, however, this was something he could get used to.

She broke away reluctantly, at last, for air, feeling as though she would catch fire any moment. She kept her eyes closed, happy merely to feel his presence, his skin against hers.

He sighed and nuzzled lightly against her neck for a moment, taking in her scent. Green apples. Her hair still smelt like green apples. He brought his hand up to her neck and then into her hair, fingers twining in the strands, and his lips grazed her neck as he whispered, "Needed... we're both needed, aren't we?" He slowly pressed his lips against her neck, right under her ear.

"Oh yes," she answered on an indrawn breath, tipping her head back, her hand threading into his hair as well. It tangled around her wrist, then slid free. She turned her head, capturing his mouth again briefly. Their glasses knocked together, and she laughed.

This served to snap him out of it, somewhat. His hand still lingering in her hair, he gazed at her, a smile tugging briefly at his lips again. His lips parted and a breathless beat passed as he looked into her eyes before he spoke, softly: "We should ... yes, we should get this done." His eyes flicked toward the table.

She took a deep breath, fought down the sudden upsurge of disappointment, and nodded against his hand. "Yes." She untangled her hand from his hair and straightened her glasses, kissing him once more, lightly, before getting up. She got the t-PA and the Zombie Virus and the last two syringes from the box and came back, sitting cross-legged on the couch next to him while she drew the doses. "Remember last time?" she asked, tapping the Zombie one and checking it for air.

"Vaguely," he replied, looking off into the distance.

"This time will be much like that, but a little harsher, I think. Faster, as I said. Are you ready?"

He closed his eyes and nodded, pushing his right arm toward her and leaning back into the couch.

She injected first the t-PA and then the ZV into the vien, then soothed the irritated site with a kiss. Not letting go of his hand, she settled into the hollow of his shoulder. "Give it a minute to reach the brain," she said, watching his face intently.

His eyes remained closed, and he lay back, waiting, counting each breath, until he came to notice that, with every breath, things seemed to tighten. Crystallize into exquisitely sharp relief. Hyperfocus. Not painful, but something just as knife-edged. Full of that same pins-and-needles sensation, as though blood had returned to his brain. He twitched under that sensation. The light, even through his shades, blinded him, the slight sounds of room deafened, the myriad of mixed, unidentifiable scents exploded between his eyes and he curled inward, nearly falling off the couch.

Clair caught him, keeping him from toppling forward. Mindful of the increased sensitivity that she knew he was enduring, she tried to touch only his clothes. "Careful," she murmured quietly.

He made a strangled sound. The slight warmth of her hands burned his skin and his own clothing chafed it almost intolerably. He'd almost rid himself of his shirt entirely when he began to twitch, jerking and trembling, muscles tremoring of their own accord. He flopped backwards and gasped in a huge breath, trying desperately to still the twitching before his arms and legs flew off.

Her eyes widened as she watched him. It wasn't supposed to be this severe! She half-stood and leaned over him, pinning his spasming arms to the couch before he hurt his shoulder anew.

He breathed hard, his eyes fluttering open, and saw her standing over him, holding him down, and an irrational panic seized him. He cried out, clenching his fists and thrashing his way free only to roll off the couch entirely. Almost as quickly as it had come, the spasming died down to the occasional twitch and he curled on the floor, his hands to his head as a dizziness washed over him, receded, dredged up every thought he could have possibly had and then dumped them all on his consciousness, like a wall full of television screens all tuned to different channels. He moaned and screwed his eyes shut again, fingers curling, nails digging into his scalp, his legs curled in and twitching.

She scrambled off the couch and crouched next to him, her hands hovering. She wanted to help him, but there was nothing she could do other than wait for him to master it himself.

He writhed as a sudden fire coursed through him, flaring up a sudden almost painful need, all the more maddening for its unidentifiability. His skin grew unbearably hot, his insides pulled themselves out through an unknown source, taking every last drop of moisture from his mouth and throat, a sudden pulling, achingly crawling sensation made itself felt below his middle. He felt his mind slipping, a sudden loss of control, a sudden headlong plunge into madness, into nightmares, and he cried out, hands clawing at his head, eyes wide and staring, as he rolled onto his back, still writhing, trying to escape his own skin. His heart would explode, his brain would twist itself into lost madness.

She watched, horrified at what her invention was doing to him. When he began to claw at his head, she grabbed his hands, holding them firmly and shouting. "Otto! Look at me, you can handle this, you can get through this. Please, come back!"

His fingers curled round hers in a crushing grip-causing her to notice almost detachedly that he'd already regained full functionality to his affected right side-and his eyes snapped toward her as though seeing her for the first time. "Ghj..." he spluttered incoherently, still twitching. "Hngh... ngeh... kkkhh... can't... can't..." He moaned breathlessly again, gasping rapidly, his eyes losing focus. "Don... lemme... hhttt... die... again..." he jerked harder, eyes rolling now, and frothed. "HNGAH..." He cried out, back arching, and tremored for an instant before going limp, limbs trembling weakly, eyes half open and unfocussed, his breath loud.

"You're not going to die!" she shouted, desperately checking his pulse, touching his face. "Otto, Otto, please, can you hear me? Answer me!"

His breathing began to slow, and his eyes slipped shut. His face was pale and slick with sweat, his hair damp. It calmed further, his head stirring limply with the motion of his chest, lips parted. His fingers curled, seeking her hand.

"Come on," she continued, half-crying as she took his hand, half-crushing it. "Please, you can't leave me, not now. Stay with me, come back, please, Otto, please. Open your eyes, Otto, look at me, please. Let me know you're alright."

Another moment passed. His eyes slitted open and looked at her. "'Sssthe first time... you've ... said my name..." he mumbled, blinking up at her.

She shook with a sob of relief and smiled, wiping her eyes. "I didn't need to call you before. You were right there." She hugged him tightly, and he could feel her shuddering. "Ah lord. I thought I'd killed you."

"Nonsense," he mumbled, his arms curling around her. "It'd take ... more than that to kill me ... you silly girl." He closed his eyes again, his senses finally clear again. Just as they had been last time, again, thanks to her. Clair really was a name that suited her.

"I'm so sorry," she mumbled against his shoulder, not willing to let go, get any farther away than she was right now. "I didn't think it would do anything like that."

"That's the nature of the beast," he said, sitting upright and allowing her to wrap around him. One hand toyed with her hair and he leaned on the other. "Experiments always carry with them unpredictabilities. Else they wouldn't be experiments." His fingertips gently rubbed against her scalp.

She clung to him, careful of his left shoulder. "I should have waited, tested it first." She closed her eyes and pressed her head up against his hand, for all the world like a cat.

He chuckled briefly at that, and she could feel his voice rumbling in his chest more than she could hear it in her ears. "You should know by now, that with me that's never an option." He grew silent for a moment, then spoke again: "As much as I would love to sit here on this floor with you in my arms, there's still the matter of the police presence surrounding your house."

She opened her eyes. "You've still got your hostage. You can negotiate your way out of here, right? My car's still in the garage."

"Hnnn," he said, thinking. He stood, swaying only slightly, and walked to the lab door, stopping for just a moment and looking down. "Something tells me I'll end up never taking walking for granted again," he muttered before opening the door and stepping out into the house proper, sticking to the shadows and ducking under the windows as he made his way across it to where he remembered the garage door to be.

She followed him, turning on the garage light. Her LeBaron was there, the lovely red convertible that had been waiting for her when Lynley first brought her here, but there was also Brandon's giant, sleek SUV, gleamed dark chrome under the fluorescent lights.

Octavius seemed to size up the vehicles. "Who does that belong to?" he asked, gesturing to the SUV.

"That's Brandon's," she said. "Brand new. He just got it two weeks ago, from a custom dealer up north." She looked sideways at him, conspiratorially. "It might get better gas milage."

A slow grin spread across his face, probably the most wicked grin she'd ever seen in her life. "Perfect," he purred.

She grinned too, although the evilness was lacking, and lifted the spare keys from the rack just inside the door, jingling them. "Come on, help me pack. I'm not leaving everything behind."

He raised a brow at her. "Just what are you thinking of bringing with you?" he asked as he followed her inside.

"Just my work," she said, heading back to the lab. She started gathering up the scattered notebooks and chemicals, packing the latter carefully into an insulated case.

He stopped and picked up his shirt, slipping it back on, wincing a little as he pulled at the wound in his shoulder. After buttoning it, he put on his coat, looking a little sadly at the blood-stained hole in the left shoulder. "Pity," he murmured. He buttoned that, too.

She looked up from her scavenging of the chemical storage locker. "Is that the same coat you had last time?"

"Yes," he said, picking up the sword and the other half of the walking stick. "I'd actually grown rather fond of it. Ah well, I can always procure another one."

She looked around, checking for a last few things, and handed the small case of chemicals to Otto, shouldering the substantial stack of books herself. "That's it from here," she started to say, but then a soft brrt from the vicinity of her ankle made her look down at Frank, who seemed to know that something was going on. She looked back up at Otto. "You mind if he comes?"

Octavius opened his mouth to object. The last thing he needed about the place was animals. They got in the way, they shed hair all over, you couldn't sit anywhere without finding a cat in the way or on your lap or in your work two seconds later, they destroyed valuable things... they purred next to your head and kneaded your skin with soft paws and really, weren't he and Frank more similar than either would probably care to admit? Both had had their lives saved by that Zombie Juice stuff, after all. He looked down at the cat, who flicked his ears and made that same brrrt sound again. He heaved a sigh, hefting the case in his arm. "Oh, all right," he harrumphed.

She smiled up at him and made her way out to the SUV, unlocking the rear and putting her stack of books in haphazardly, then going back for Frank and his leash. She stopped in her own room, looking around to see if there was anything she needed.

Octavius found himself stopping behind her as she looked ito the bedroom. He looked down at her, watching her face.

She looked back at him, only the mildest regret on her face. "I told you, this wasn't my life. I never really lived here." She dug a few pieces of clothing out of the closet, choosing for anonymity, and stuffed them into a string bag. "It's just a place I stayed for a while."

He stood in the doorway, watching her silently, his face expressionless. Presently, he nodded. "I understand," he said, his voice a quiet rumble as he looked about the room. Presently, he stepped inside and led her back out the door.

Despite her words, her shoulders were set and tense as she put the last things and Frank into the SUV. "Do I drive?" she asked, holding the keys out between them.

He raised an eyebrow. "You're joking, right?"

"Right. New York. I didn't learn until I got here either." She opened the driver's side door and paused, looking at her car. "I'm going to miss my baby," she said, patting it, and, on an impulse, taking the grinning foam ball off of its antennae and pocketing it.

Still standing next to her, he touched her hair. "I'll find you one just like it," he murmured, a smirk on his face.

She shook her head. "Where would I keep one in New York?"

His arm slipped around her and he leaned in, kissing her neck. "Mmm, I could find space. It's all in where you live, after all."

"Hmmm," she said, closing her eyes. "Where do you live now, anyway? Still where you took me, or have you 'relocated'?"

"Same place," he murmured against her neck, both arms now curling around her. "I rather like it there, but I could always find a new place. It's not hard if you know where to look."

"We should get going," she said reluctantly.

"Yes, we should," he said, finally letting go of her. He turned and opened the door, climbing into the seat behind the driver's. She got into the driver's seat and, after looking back to see that he was ready, thumbed the switch that opened the garage door. It set of a flurry of excitement outside.

"What the hell!" Hanover spluttered, coffee spraying as he executed a marvelous spit-take. The other cops and SWAT team riflemen raised their weapons as the SUV backed slowly out of the garage.

Octavius grinned and lifted the sword again, angling it so that it lay across Clair's neck. He leaned forward and licked her ear briefly before tightening his grip on the sword.

Hanover jogged up to the car, gun in hand, and tried to peer through the window. "Doctor Holmes?" he said, tapping on the window. "Is that you in there?"

She stifled her smile instantly when Hanover approached, replacing it with the frightened, frozen look that she had been using all day. She pressed the button, lowering the automatic window an inch, but didn't say anything.

Hanover peered through the crack, seeing her frightened eyes and the sword. He backed up a pace. "What the hell are you doing, Octavius?" demanded, shock evident in his tone.

"She is needed further," Octavius replied. "That's all you need to know."

"Damnit, that's not all I need to know!" Hanover shouted, bringing up his gun, trying to aim into the vehicle's backseat. "Step out of the vehicle, Octavius, or I swear to God I'll shoot you here!"

The sword moved a fraction of an inch. "I wouldn't risk it, Hanover," he said quietly. "You'll notice I've made something of a recovery."

Indeed, Hanover noticed that the sword was gripped in Octavius' right hand, which seemed fully functional now. His gun wavered.

"Drive," Octavius said, nudging at Clair with the sword.

She pressed her foot down, forcing Hanover to step back rapidly as the car sprayed gravel out of the driveway. She rolled up her window, looking in the rear view mirror as the various police scrambled into their cars to make chase, but she had enough of a head start to make the first light before they could turn around.

Hanover ran back to his car as the men dispersed into vehicles and the chase began, sirens already wailing, lights already flashing. He threw himself into the vehicle and started it, tearing off after the SUV as it sped down the street, five squad cars and a van after it.

Clair sped under the yellow light at the main road, crossing it and swinging immediately into a tight turn that took her down towards the water, into a labyrinth of warehouses and boat yards. The police followed closely as they raced through the empty parking lots.

She swerved to miss a stack of empty crates, hauling on the wheel to make the turn. "My car was a lot lighter touch," she remarked, irritated by the SUV's heavier handling. She circled around, leading them, and got back on the main road. She swerved into the narrow on-ramp that led them up onto the Fremont bridge, just as yellow lights alongside it began to flash, and a shrill bell rang. Clair looked down to see a ship approaching the bridge. It had started to open, but she stamped on the gas, hurtling around the barriers and across the narrow, widening gap. "I don't think they'll follow us across that," she laughed, exhilarated.

Octavius looked back through the rear window. "We're not out of the woods yet," he said. "They'll radio for backup to head us off on the other side."

She didn't take her eyes off the road, coming off the bridge. She could hear sirens approaching again, from ahead of them, so she got off the highway, hoping to disappear in the convoluted streets of this much older part of Seattle. The roads were nearly empty this late in the evening, and she dodged around the rare slower traffic.

"Alright," she said, thinking aloud. "They're going to expect you to run east, right? So let's go north. What ID did you use to get on the plane? Do you still have it?" She circled a block in the residential area, turning towards the taller buildings of the city center.

He dug in a pocket of his longcoat until he found what he was looking for, a black billfold from which he pulled a small ID card. "Here it is," he said. "Heh. Looks nothing like me."

"That'll do. You have no idea how easy it is to get across the border up here." She wound warily through the city, passing by the Space Needle and the EMP.

A moment of silence lapsed as they drove and Octavius watched the Space Needle come into view. His gaze wandered and he gave a start. "Good lord, what in the world is that!" he yelped, pointing at the... he guessed it was supposed to be a building, under it.

"The Experience Music Project," Clair growled, looking over her shoulder to switch lanes. She could hear sirens, but she saw no lights for the moment. "Any time you want to blow that up, you have my support. And you'll probably get a medal."

"It looks as though I'd do several million in civic improvement," he muttered darkly. "It looks as though someone sneezed the contents of a high-school art class onto a vacant lot and enlarged it."

"Close," she grinned. "It was designed by Frank O'Gehry. There's something wrong with that man that not even the Zombie Juice could fix. Parts of it move." She made an expression of distaste, but then they left the monstrosity behind as she approached the express lanes. "Did we leave them behind?"

"I'd only just regained a measure of my sanity, Clair, don't endanger it by describing any further that travesty of architecture," he replied, looking out the side and back windows. "And no, it doesn't look as though they're behind us at the moment."

"Wonderful." She joined into the faster traffic heading north through the express lanes, and before long, they had left Seattle behind. She relaxed into the rhythm of the light traffic. "So. My plan is to cross into Canada and head for the East coast. Borders are easy at this end, but I don't now about that end. Do you?"

"Hmm?" he said, a little distracted. He looked up at her. "I've never exactly fled the country. I wouldn't have the foggiest idea." He returned his attention to the billfold. "Hnnn," he observed.

"Can I see it?" she asked, looking in the rear view mirror. "Fake ID's and stuff like that fascinate me. On a purely academic level, of course." She smirked, widening her eyes innocently.

He shook his head, smiling slightly. "Very well," he said, handing it over. What she saw while trying to keep her eyes on the road was the name "Oliver Ostzynski" and what looked like an old photo that had been digitally sharpened, of a rotund man with a bowl cut of dark hair of unidentifiable colour and thick glasses, wearing a somewhat startled expression. A second glance told her there was something familiar about the man's features.

She snorted. "Oliver? And who is that?" She looked between the card and the face in her rear view mirror. "Is that you?"

Octavius pulled a face. "Yes," he admitted, reaching out a hand for the card. "Anyone who even notices the difference looks upon it as an improvement and thus don't suspect." He examined the picture again. "I'm inclined to agree with them-I've no idea what I was thinking then..."

"The way you look now is definitely an improvement. As for what you were thinking, it probably went something along the lines of 'my hair's getting in the way of this experiment. Better get it cut,' and that's it." She fingered her own shortened hair. "Been there."

"Hnnn," he rumbled contemplatively. "I'm sure it was something along those lines, I can't quite remember." He pulled in a breath and sighed.

"Something bothering you?" she asked, riffling one-handed through Brandon's collection of CDs. Most of them were hers anyway, she noted sourly.

"Hmm? No. Not really. I'd come to terms with it a long time ago. No, I think the ..." Here he yawned cavernously. "...euphoria and the adrenaline are wearing off..."

"Take a nap," she said, smiling. "I'll wake you up if anything's going to happen." Outside the car, it started to rain, a typical Seattle shower, no more really than falling mist.

"Nonsense," he said, rubbing his face. "I've done quite enough sleeping for now."

It started to rain harder as they got farther north. Clair left the freeway at Marysville and followed a long side road that would eventually reconnect to it, just to throw off any possible trail. As they passed through a small town, Clair asked, "Do you want to get something to eat? There's a drive-through here..." She looked in the rearview mirror again.

His head had fallen to the side, hair draping on either side of his face, his hands lying loosely in his lap. If she listened carefully, she could hear a soft snoring.

She sighed, smiling, and drove on through the night. It was just past midnight when they reached the border, and she reached back and tapped him awake. "We're here."

"Hmmm?" he said, forcing his eyes open. "Where, exactly, is 'here?'"

"The border. Come on, they'll want to see your ID, 'Oliver.'" She pulled forward to the customs booth, where a very tired man in a uniform checked their IDs, asked them if they had any vegetables or radioactive materials, and waved them through.

Octavius snickered quietly as they pulled through the guard station and onto Canadian soil, shaking his head.

"See what I mean? The borders here are a joke, and it's even easier to get back in. If you've got Washington plates, they just wave you straight through." She drove on, watching the signs along the road. When she spotted a rest stop, she took the exit and parked in the darkest corner of its parking lot. "Sleep sounds like a really excellent idea, don't you think?"

"Mmmm-hm," he mumbled sleepily, already having found a corner to lean into. He cracked open an eye and looked at her.

She crawled over the seat and curled up next to him, her head on his shoulder. Her breathing slowed to match his, and his heartbeat was a comforting rhythm under her good ear.

He curled his arms around her, his fingers idly slipping into her hair. "Sleep sounds like an excellent idea, indeed," he murmured. He sighed, a long, slow sound, his fingers curling and uncurling lazily in her hair, more and more slowly until they stopped altogether and the soft buzz of his snoring could be heard.