A/N: For disclaimers please see chapter 1. Also, the country of 'Ephar' is mine and purely fictional, and not based on any real country at all.

Chapter VI – The Long Goodbye

Simon no longer felt American. He hadn't spoken English for over six months; he dreamt in Ephari, where he heard her voice utter the rich language in place of her soft use of their native tongue. Every night he saw her face, always he would see her happy, see her laughing at him on the street in New York, feel her against him in front of the fountain; yet every dream ended in the same way: the hurt in her eyes as she slapped him, often he'd wake in a cold sweat clutching his face. The guilt never seemed to go, the look in her eyes haunted him. He knew that it was something deep to have got this far under his skin, sometimes he took comfort that it might be love, but sometimes alone in the dead of night, he grew bitter and wished it away. She was still under his skin, which had grown dark from the days in the sun, the iron rich water they washed in, and the natural bean dye Jeremiah insisted he bathed in to darken his hair and beard. It would be fair to say that he was completely unrecognisable, aside from his eyes, which still burned bright blue.

Everything that Dayton carried loomed over her, a brief second of relief washed over her when she thought it was possible she might not have to go. Toby's intervention was not outwardly welcomed, but it was something she knew she had to do. Everything there carried a weight. The kids who excluded her at school, the only example she had left of marriage in failed ruins and her Father who was leaving her slowly, cruelly: it was commonly termed the long goodbye. CJ reflected that perhaps she had seen too many goodbyes in her life; the sound of the word played on her mind, it sounded odd as she thought about it too much as the plane progressed through the night sky. A thought struck her, Simon had never even said goodbye. She scolded herself; it had been a few months since she had blockaded him from her conscious mind, her dreams were a different matter, but she had tried with all of her might to shut her memory and thoughts of him out. It had been liberating not thinking about him every moment of the day, seeing something that reminded her of him, or just sitting daydreaming about how it could have been different; it was usually at the point of the memory of the feather light touch of his skin on hers that she forced herself out of her fantasies, or woke herself from her turbulent dream. Goodbye was a phrase we treat so lightly, she thought; now the weight of those words pressed her eyelids shut over her tired, contact-lens-dried eyes.

It was raining in Dayton; the rain always felt the same and the smell brought memories of childhood and school years flooding back. The instance that rang out in her mind was walking home one night when she was fifteen, in the April showers; her heart broken for the first time by a square headed quarter back named Jeff. As she allowed herself the thirty seconds of thought whilst scanning around for a cab, he drifted into her line of vision. The sparkle in his eyes hit her hard, the tension in their shared taxi made her feel uneasy; Marco wasn't the boy she remembered and she wasn't the scared girl who left Dayton in search of something bigger. He was handsome, her partner in crime all those years back, outcasts together, she had never been destined to be the most famous of their class, and he never wanted to look past the next few days. He had mellowed, calmed down and she had exploded out of her shell. Funny how the past feels so alien she mused.

Seeing her Father was painful, seeing him slip away from her was pushing her toward the limit of her emotional forbearance. Standing with him in that icy river as he failed to recognise who she was terrified her, it was a precursor of things to come, and moreover, standing there, they were exposed and alone; there was nothing she could do. But indeed, what could she do? Wanting to gather her father in her arms and tell him it was ok seemed to be far from enough, the act seemed perfunctory and in that instant, her heart wished that she herself could be scooped up in strong arms and comforted from her darkest day. The fact that she wished for Simon's arms, for him to be there to protect her from this awful fate seemed to make it worse. Who was Simon Donovan, how dare he leave her to face this alone? The fear she felt from her stalker was nothing compared to this. What little strength she had left she pulled together and took her beloved Daddy home. A home that used to be warm, she hadn't looked upon the clutter wondering if it would do her father some harm, the affection she had for the rustling in the kitchen now frankly scared her; the piano, yes, the sweet sounds of her father's soft hands running over the keys, the memories brought tears to her eyes. The tears finally fell long and hard when he looked at her, he looked at her in that photo as if he didn't care, he couldn't remember that dress he had bought her, he couldn't remember that she was posing for him, that even as a child she loved him with all her heart.

Marco was the one that reached into her world, who was her temporary shelter from the storm. Sitting in the warm air of the car, her tears had dried, but her heart was twisting and turning, wondering in so many directions. Looking over at him, she thought it wouldn't be such a bad thing, that she needed it, she would be in control. Control she had lost when Simon Donovan had walked so confidently into her life; control she'd fought to keep for three weeks before so willingly laying it down in a New York hotel bed. The key in Marco's hand turned, the growl of the engine assured her she needed this.

Simon Donovan stood as alone as he could under the protection of the barbed wire and security towers. He gazed out through the fencing into the abyss and cupped his worn hands. Kissing his right palm with chapped lips through a thick beard, he closed his eyes and blew his kiss out into the midnight air. "It should reach you tomorrow CJ," he whispered, his soft words chasing the thought away into the slight breeze. His eyes opened and he watched his token of hope flutter into the darkness. For a moment, he felt like perhaps she might not have forgotten him, but something was telling him inside that he was asking too much. It would be Valentine's Day at sunrise. The dark expanse of the night sky can make a human feel so lonely; in a way he hoped she would be feeling it too. For, although he admitted he would deserve it, he couldn't live with the idea that this pain was one-sided and ultimately in vein.

Marco's lips comforted her skin, his hands held her softly. He felt good over and inside her. Feeling raw pleasure from this one-off let her take control of her life that had been spiralling away. She had forgotten what it was to kiss someone and feel only the sensation on her lips, to have sex rather than make love. There was care, and there was emotion, but not to the soul-wrenching depth of her night in New York nine months before. It was easy, and it was lustful, the way she had always known sex to be. Finally, it was one last triumph over Simon. He had left her hurt and alone, but this was a one-night stand that she felt good about. The thought came to her mind as she lay listening to Marco's heartbeat: she was over him. Smiling like a naughty teenager, she kissed Marco again, still she felt nothing; she felt safe.

CJ had been back from her trip home for only a week, the mix of emotions were still very much at the surface: the pain over the slow loss of her beloved Daddy, the liberation and comfort that she had found in Marco's warm body. It was nearing noon and she had buried herself in work, blotting out the thoughts of loss and love that harrowed her in her sleep.

"CJ!"

"Yeah, Carol?"

"Some Detective from New York's for you."

"What?"

"Detective Miles of the NYPD, for you." CJ was struck dumb for a moment.

"Where?"

"In the lobby." CJ felt her stomach pit and dive; she couldn't understand why he of all people would be here to see her, maybe it was divine punishment for her comfort indulgence in Marco. "I can tell him you're busy." Still, curiosity somehow got the better of her and she conceded to be reminded of Simon Donovan's existence.

"No. I'll go. Hold my calls, I won't be long."

The smartly dressed Detective stood alone, staring at his fine Italian boots, he seemed to be unperturbed by the eight pairs of Secret Service eyes on him, but inside he was a festering ball of rage and hopeless despair. She brushed into the foyer, complete with a plastic smile:

"Detective?"

"Ms Cregg." The shorter man was not as welcoming as he had been in New York, the warmth in his voice when he'd been fooling with Simon was all gone; he was formal and more than businesslike. He didn't offer his hand.

"Hi. Can I help you?"

"Where is he?"

"Who?" She hated the fact that her mind snapped straight to Simon Donovan, but went ahead and asked anyway.

"Agent Donovan, ma'am."

"I have no idea." Her tone was dismissing, uncaring and cold. He, on the other hand, was on fire.

"You don't know, or you don't care?"

"I'm sorry, Detective?" CJ was slightly flustered by his tone, of course she cared, even if she wasn't about to tell the world that she had been hurt and had shouted over her heart in convincing herself mentally that she didn't in fact care.

"Have you been in contact with Simon Donovan?"

"Detective Miles, I don't understand where this is going…"

"Just answer the question ma'am!" He snapped – she was being obtuse and unsympathetic to his cause.

"No, nothing – he's been gone for months now, I'm surprised he didn't tell you." Her tone was that of frustration and annoyance. The Detective's face fell, his rage left him in an instant; the colour managed to drain noticeably from his tanned face. His boots took him a step back from her.

"OK." He nodded blankly, and backed off slowly, "Sorry to bother you. Thank you for your time ma'am." He bowed ever so slightly, turned and started for the exit. CJ was puzzled at his sudden change in mood. Usually policemen had a game face to wear.

"Detective?" He stopped in his tracks and turned slowly to her. "Is everything OK?"

"I have no idea." The reply was a marked mimic of her earlier dismissal. She took the few strides over to him; her voice was hushed.

"Why are you in DC?"

"To pay his little brother, Anthony's bail."

"What? Why? That's nothing to do with me. Why did you come?"

"Did you two fight?"

"I still don't know why you're…!" The fire returned and he cut her off again.

"I need to know, did you fight; did he get angry or upset?"

"No! He just upped and left, nine months and two weeks ago!" CJ stunned herself at her words, sure she hadn't been counting the days, the weeks, nor did that date in May stick in her mind… She held her head in her hands at her involuntary admission. Miles was silent. He had been fighting the reality of the evidence in his mind. Simon hadn't said goodbye. His hand slowly found it's way to the scar on his jaw. His eyes glazed over and he unconsciously backed away from the Press Secretary.

"Detective?" CJ's tone had quietened somewhat. "Are you ok?"

"Yes. Sorry ma'am. I'll go now." He started walking.

"Wait, you can't just come here, accuse me of…" She strode after him "then leave without any explanation." Miles turned forcing CJ to stop face-to-face with him; he spoke, his was voice blunt:

"Yes, I'm sorry Ms Cregg, but I'm afraid I really can." He turned and left CJ standing dumbfounded and alone.

"Fine!" She tried to shout after him, but it emerged as a whisper. It was raining and he swept away from her faster than she could follow. Defeated, she returned slowly to her office and the remainder of the nightmare the week had been so far.

TBC-