Disclaimer: Well, I still don't own anything having to do with Red Eye, and I'm not making any money off of this. Surprise, surprise.

A/N: Thank you to everyone for the kind reviews and for your patience – this last week has been rough, school-wise, and this coming week isn't looking much better, so updates will be a little more sporadic. Also, I don't know where Will came from – he just kind of showed up, and I ran with it.

Cool and dark, the interior of the Hare and Hound contrasted starkly with the humid air and neon lights of Atlanta at night. Jackson straightened his cuffs as he took the five steps down into the common room of the pub. Dim lamplight filtered through the smoke-filled space, caressing dark wood polished smooth by years of traffic. The crowd was modest, he decided, and seemed to be composed of both the regulars and those out looking for a good time. With any luck, the particular old-timer he was looking for would be occupying his customary spot in some secluded corner, nursing a pint of stout.

Time was of the essence, but there was protocol to follow, so Jackson made his way to the bar and ordered a beer that he didn't intend to drink. It would take some time for news of his arrival to make the rounds; all he could do in the meantime was wait. He preferred hard liquor, but rarely indulged – the last time, in fact, had been at that fateful Tex Mex in the Dallas airport. A bourbon, straight up, with a plate of nachos on the side served to keep him occupied while he awaited his mark. He had been smugly satisfied with himself and with the bait he'd dangled in front of Lisa – the promise of some flirtatious little interlude at an airport restaurant, inspired in part by the romantic comedies she watched so often. Only now did he have an idea of what it had cost her to take him up on his offer of companionship.

That train of thought was bothersome, and Jackson traced abstract shapes in the condensation trailing down the glass before him to distract himself. He couldn't relax. A search of the three bodies in his apartment had yielded little of interest: standard issue Berettas with the serial numbers filed off, generic clothing, and no tattoos on any of them. Those tidbits ruled out a possibility or two – not bounty hunters, maybe not even the Russians after him for the failure of the Keefe job – and revealed that a professional was behind the hit.

With a casual air, Jackson inspected his fingernails for any lingering traces of blood. He wasn't used to it, the gore of a slit throat or gut, the wet burbling of a last breath, the warm, sticky spray. The immediacy of death. It dredged up memories that he would rather keep buried. His stomach rebelled at that thought, but he inhaled deeply and forced himself to focus. In his estimation, sometimes life was reduced to the most simple of equations: kill or be killed. When backed up against the wall, Jackson always chose the former. Call it a bloodthirsty nature, or call it a survival instinct – the fact remained the same.

"Mr. Rippner." The formal address interrupted Jackson's contemplation and sent the fatalistic thoughts scurrying for the dark corners of his mind.

Finally, Jackson thought as he turned, following the gruff voice to find the matching face of an older man with a shock of white hair and the beginnings of a paunch. Eyeing the last, Jackson said, "Been having a few too many pints there, Will?"

The man clicked his tongue in good-natured disappointment. "Still lacking all respect for your elders, I see." He jerked his head toward the deeper recesses of the pub. "Care to join me?"

"That's what I'm here for," Jackson replied, feeling a little less dour as they exchanged their ritual banter. "It's almost like old times."

Will cast a sharp glance over his shoulder but said nothing more until they were ensconced in the expected corner booth. "There's been a lot of talk about lately," the old man probed delicately. "I heard tell that you were laid up for a while."

Reflexively, Jackson's hand traveled to the base of his throat where the collar of his shirt almost hid the round white scar. "That would be an understatement," he said. The overtones of bitterness and anger in his voice were obvious. "I let a job get out of hand, and she managed to put some holes in me. It was quite the laundry list – perforated trachea, puncture wound to the thigh, a collapsed lung, fractured fingers, and an entire array of bruises and lacerations."

"Mmmm," came the noncommital reply, muffled by a mouthful of Guiness. "Sounds like you got too close."

The muscles in his jaw spasmed and his blue eyes blazed. It didn't matter that the analysis was accurate – it mattered that he was still so transparent before this man. "Damn it, you think I don't know that?" Jackson fought to keep his voice low.

"No, I think you know that very well. It was merely an observation." Will steepled his thick fingers under his chin. "From where I sit, you seem to have recovered your health, but not your temper." He held up a hand to forestall the inevitable protest. "That is not a condemnation. You're no longer my student; I have no grounds to pass judgment on your work. However, I will admit that I'm curious about the particulars of your last mission."

"Like I said, I failed."

"Come now, Mr. Rippner. Treat me to one of your infamous diagnoses."

Jackson closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. Will O'Sullivan had always been and would always be a difficult son of a bitch, but he was one of the few people in the world Jackson could trust implicitly. So he launched into a description of the Keefe job from the preliminary plans rejected by the Russians to the gory details of Flight 1019. He was pleased that he managed to keep his tone clinical when speaking of Lisa, but it was a small victory. The story of his escape from custody concluded the recitation; he fell silent with an expectant look at Will – after all this time, it was still habitual.

The vaccuum between them filled with the sounds of the pub – glasses clinking, murmured conversation, the far-off thunk of a dart finding its mark – until Will finally spoke. "There's something you're not telling me."

Jackson glanced away, as if assessing the room. When he looked back to his former mentor, his manner was bold. "I had unfinished business in Miami."

With an exasperated sigh, Will took a long draw from his nearly empty glass. "Revenge. Foolish lad. She's here, then?"

"Right now, she's passed out on painkillers back at the hotel." At Will's questioning look, Jackson elaborated, "We were attacked at the apartment – she was grazed by a bullet." He leaned forward. "What I need is information."

"And a real doctor."

He let the jibe slide and pressed on. "These were professionals, Will, and if I'm going to get out of this one alive, I'll have to address the problem."

"It seems to me that you have several problems that need addressing," the older man said thoughtfully, stroking his whiskered chin. "If it were anyone else, I'd tell them I'm retired. But I'll make an exception for a star pupil." He fixed Jackson with a piercing gaze to rival his own ice blue one. "Though if you know what's good for you, Mr. Rippner, you'll take me to see the girl first. Right after you pick up the tab."

"Miss Reisert. Can you hear me?"

The unfamiliar voice eventually broke through Lisa's drugged haze and she forced her eyes open to see an older man towering above her with Jackson hanging back a few steps, arms folded across his chest, watching her lazily. "Will O'Sullivan," he supplied when he saw her eyes on him. "He's a doctor."

"The wound isn't severe, but it'll bear watching," Will said over his shoulder after examining the site and replacing the bandage. "The shock seems to have worn off, but she needs to get something on her stomach before the next dose of Vicodin." He patted Lisa's hand before stepping away to converse quietly with Jackson.

The fatherly gesture brought homesick tears to her eyes and she was glad when they left her alone, Will promising to return with food. Her stomach twisted at the thought of something to eat – it had been a day and a half since she'd had anything at all. It was hard to focus because of the medication, but the painful growling of her stomach demanded attention. When the doctor finally returned with a plate – room service, it looked like – Lisa ate with gusto despite the man's continued presence. His watchful eyes were somehow less disconcerting than Jackson's, though she wasn't certain she wanted to know how he'd gotten involved in this. He didn't seem to be under any duress from Jackson, which meant that he must be an associate, or even a friend. That last possibility was alien – it was hard to imagine Jackson having friends. Acquaintances, yes, maybe even ones who thought of him as a friend, but she doubted he reciprocated. Friendship required an emotional investment of which Lisa had seen no evidence thus far.

That's the pot calling the kettle black, she thought, suppressing a grimace. Did she really have any place to judge when she'd backed out of so many friendships herself, unwilling or unable to maintain the relationships in the face of her personal tragedies? There were more important aspects of Jackson's character to condemn.

"Well, it's good that you have a hearty appetite," Will said after she'd finished eating. "What's your pain level?"

The question was surreal in its familiarity and Lisa automatically answered. "About a four." Distant memories of a dislocated shoulder, of numerous visits to the doctor for a host of other minor – and major – ills frayed the edges of her emotions and she chewed at her bottom lip. Why did he have to be a doctor, a member of a profession she'd learned to trust over the years? Why did he have to be so normal? Jackson had been normal, too, at first glance. Normal, and even charming.

"All right, then, time for a painkiller."

He produced a tablet and Lisa choked it down. "At least your bedside manner is better," she groused as she leaned back against the headboard of the twin bed.

Will had been on his way out, but her words stopped him. "Better?"

"Better than Jackson's."

A smile split his craggy features and Will chortled. "Well, that always was a major complaint about Mr. Rippner. 'Thoroughly lacking in bedside manner.'"

And with that cryptic remark, he was gone, leaving Lisa to wonder about it until she drifted off to sleep.