S H A R P I E

A/N: Hello, darlings! 'Tis Maddy and Nicole here.

Nicole: We have come to bring you a new fic. A TAGTEAM! Yep, that's what I thought. Now, you might want to review if you want more and some fluff...possibly a lemon...heehee. Ooooh, cheeese...

Maddy: -smirks- What she said. And the usual; should you not like the way the story is progressing, then you may flame, but make it a joke-y one. Remember, I like jokes. So does Nicole. Doesn't she? Hmm? –snickers- Hope y'all like this!

Prologue

Suze

I had been searching for that one special person in my whole life. Someone to like me for who I am. Someone to help me in my time of need. Someone to lend me his shoulder when I'm down. Someone to be there when I need them the most.

And most importantly, someone to love me.

When I was younger - about ten or so - I'd dreamt of marrying Prince Charming, with doves, trumpeters and a grand wedding completed with fireworks. The horrendous taste that had possessed in me in my formative years left - thank God - when I entered high school.

Then, I dreamt of meeting a "cool" guy - a punk, perhaps, with black eyeliner, piercings, tattoos and all. Oh, and a bike; a huge black and silver Harley would be nice. But anyway, I grew out of that phase fairly quickly - which, by the way, gave my mother unprecedented relief - and I dreamt of marrying . . . someone who was good and kind and loves me.

But my "search" didn't really start in earnest until my sixteenth year, when I moved to Carmel, California. My mother had gotten re-married and the (second) love of her live lived out there. I had to move from my home in Brooklyn, NY, just so I could live with three annoying stepbrothers. But it did have its perks.

The guy my mom married, Andy, was an awesome cook. You name it, he could cook it - awesomely too, might I add.

I also went to a new school and met someone like me.

Okay, when I say that, I don't mean I'm batting for the other team or something. Not that I've any prejudice against homosexuals - seeing how I may have one for a step-sibling (Dopey: why else would he wear those wrestling sweats?) - but I'm as straight as a line that was drawn with a ruler.

But I digress.

Anyway, this person I was talking about before I went off-track - a bad habit of mine that I'm still trying to break - happened to be a man in his late sixties and a priest at that-- he was the principal of our - my stepbrothers and I - school.

When I said 'someone like me', I meant this: I see dead people.

Well . . . sorry. Don't mean to go all cliché on you, but it's true. I'm a mediator. I see the spirits of the deceased. I see ghosts. And . . . well, it's not all that fun, actually.

Think Haley Joel Osment with Buffyesque fighting - God, I love that show; why did they have to cancel it? - and you've got it. But sadly, I didn't have someone like Giles with me.

That is, until I met Father Dominic, the priest and principal of Junipero Serra Mission Academy - the school that the Ackermans and I attend - who turned from merely an authoritarian figure and became more of a . . . father figure to me.

I guess you're wondering where my father is in all of this. No, he didn't abandon me and my mom, if that's what you're thinking. Well . . . he died of a heart attack when I was six. I still see him from time to time - in ghost form, people - but I don't tell my mother that. She'd just send me to another shrink like she did back in Brooklyn.

Anyway, as I began to know and understand Father Dom, he became a very important part of my life. Sure, I lied to him sometimes - mostly about mediating and the exorcisms; the ghosties aren't going to leave when you tell them nicely - but he still meant a helluva lot to me.

I kept in touch with him even after I moved on to college; in fact, we still talk now, even though we're now right across America from each other. I made it a point to call him almost every week to update him on my life -and usually about the paranormal scrapes I get in- and visit him every Christmas/Easter/another national holiday whose name I'm too lazy to think of right now, just to see him and talk to him about new ghosts.

But sometimes we would stray from our usual mediating topics, and moved on to our personal lives... that was when he told me about what life was like when he was a kid.

He even told me (well, I figured it out when he started talking about a certain ghost back in the day) that he loved a ghost. It was kind of . . . weird coming from a priest. But, after it sank in, I realized that's why he became a priest. Because he could never love again.

I did rather well in college; was majoring in psychology. I went to the University of Northern California, NoCal - as the locals call it. But as I started college, I realised that I was... lonely. Yeah, I had a roommate and everything. My best friend from NY, Gina, moved here after high school - and had a major crush on my eldest step brother - and became my roommate. I had friends and acquaintances in all of my classes; and you wouldn't find me at home on most Friday nights. But it wasn't that.

It wasn't about my social life. It was the whole significant other thing.

Yes, I had a few boyfriends back in high school. But I never really saw them as someone I could love. As someone I could count upon should I have a crisis or something. To tell you the truth, I don't even like most of them; I just went out with them so I wouldn't seem like a loser.

But in my third year of college, I met someone. The Someone. He had already graduated college and was four years older than me. But when we met, I had a feeling... Like I knew he was different from the other typical, beer-guzzling, football-obsessive, Neanderthal guys I've dated; he was special - and not to mention extremely H-O-T. I really don't know what he saw in me.

We met one night at the park. It wasn't like a blind date or anything - or anything remotely resembling a date for that matter. I was there mediating a stubborn ghost who wouldn't move on. He wanted revenge on his killer, and since the killer was already dead before he could get to him, he wanted to kill his assassin's girlfriend. Not the best of ideas, actually.

Actually, it was downright dumb. But then again, he was a guy, so... we can't blame him for his thick-headness now, can we?

So, like I said, I tried to get him to move on. Actually, I was at the park to get some exercise -I had been cooped up in the house for nearly two weeks for my finals, and now that they were finally over, I had to get out of the house and quick. The flab on my thighs and stomach that I had worked so hard to get rid of by jogging thrice a week was slowly but surely coming back. That I could not allow.

Anyway, as I was saying, there I was, minding my own business and trying to make my butt fit into my jeans again, and then all of a sudden, he showed up out of nowhere - literally - and began trying to pummel me. Well, sorry to tell ya, mister, but Suze is the last person on earth - or any realm for the matter - you want as your punching bag.

For one, this baggie punches back.

And yeah, I retaliated with a vicious right hook. But since ghosts heal quickly, he had an advantage over me. Soon enough, I could barely get a punch in. I was trying my hardest to defend myself from going down in the fight or chasing him away - whichever came first.

Somehow I had gotten thrown to the ground with the ghost on top of me. For everyone else, ghosts don't have matter; to a normal human, they have as much weight and sustenance as shadows, or sunlight. But to me they are real, they have weight, and most of all, their punches hurt like hell.

So I was pretty winded, with a 250 lb. ghost sitting on, straddling me. Alright, I could barely breathe. But jeez, you would too, if some weird, middle-aged and obese man jumps you and pins you to the ground. Anyway, I better get back on track.

So... just when he was about to pop me one in the face, someone pulled him off.

At first I was pretty relieved. I was saved from getting a serious black eye. But then I realized what happened. Someone, something, had saved me from a ghost. That means... he or she or it must be a mediator, right...?

I turned to the person - or whatever - that had saved me.

And when I looked him right in the face, I nearly passed out. Oh. My. God. He was ... he was gorgeous.

Tall, maybe about six foot two, with dark hair and dark brown eyes (I think) - it was rather dim outside, even with the streetlamp in the corner - and most of all, a killer smile, with white teeth and a dimple on his right cheek. Not to sound clichéd, but oh, I think I've died and gone to heaven.

"Are you okay, senorita?" he asked me, helping me up off the ground. God, his voice... So silky and deep, and with the faint tinge of a Spanish accent too.

Call the presses now: Suze is actually, for once in her life, speechless.

As to his question, I could only nod dumbly as he, grunting a little with effort (Oh, God, I'm FAT!), finally got me up. But then I realized that my ankle must have been broken or twisted or something, because I fell right back down once he released my hand.

Oh, and note: I am never going to wash my right hand again.

"No," I grunted out in response. Oh, I am so attractive.

He helped me up again, pulling me into him and placed my arm across his broad, sexy shoulders. Aaaah, I was in sheer bliss. Those muscles... I think I was experiencing a hormonal overdrive then.

Then I realized that I didn't even know this guy. I mean, I trusted him right away. But ... why? I usually never trust people. Hell, it took me over a year to finally trust Andy, even if he did make fantastic meals - that was partly why I began to trust him (no bad guy could ever cook that well).

So what was it so special about this guy - or rather, senor - that made me feel I could trust him with even my life? That made me feel . . . safe? And all within a few minutes of meeting too. God, I am such a shallow and lusty bitch. Listen up, ye boys out there. It only takes a pretty face to crack Suze's defences and get under her skin.

He helped me over to a bench and sat me down. "Do you want to explain to me what happened, senorita?" he asked calmly.

Um, no. If I did he'd think I was a total nutjob and send me to that white padded room right away. And then I'll have to wear a straitjacket. Yuck. No, thank you very much. "Erm . . . I - er . . . no." I said uncomfortably. "Not really."

He looked at me from where he was checking my leg for injuries. He had sat me so my back was against the arm of the bench and my legs were on the bench, splaying straight out. He was sitting at the other end, by my feet.

I could already see the swelling in my leg. Great, another hospital visit. Oh, Gina would be so pleased.

Thank God I had already moved out, or Mom and Andy would kill me when they see my . . . trunk of a leg. God, I think my ankle has swelled to the size of a milk bottle. Not to mention that it hurts.

He laughed at what I had said. What? What was so funny?

I guess the confusion must have shown on my face, because he explained why he was laughing. "Well, I kind of do know what happened. I just want to know what provoked him."

Wait... what? Did that dead crackhead slammed my head so hard against the ground until my brain became scrambled like those eggs Mom loved for her breakfast or something? Because I did not just hear what he had said. "E-excuse me?" I stammered.

He looked around quickly; making sure nobody was watching or listening. "You, senorita, are a mediator," he said bluntly, lowering his voice until I had to strain forward to hear what he was saying. When he noticed the shock on my face, he chuckled. "That's how I reacted my first time of finding out I wasn't the only one out there."

"No," I said. "I mean, I know I'm not the only one. Only mediator out there in the world, I mean. My high school principal was one also. But that's all I know," I admitted.

He gave me a smirk. "Your principal?" he asked, smiling.

I glared at him. "Yes, my principal. Who do you know that's one?" I asked. Then he touched my ankle where it hurt. I sucked in a breath and tried to tamp down the tears that had risen suddenly in my eyes. "OW!"

"Lo siento," he apologized. "I'm sorry . . ."

"Suze," I said suddenly, realizing we never got each other's names.

He looked at me oddly, replying, "Perdón? Oh . . . I'm Jesse . . . but Sooze? Is that short for something? Susan, perhaps? Or Suzanne?"

"Susannah. You know, as in that song 'Oh, Susannah, don't you cry for me'," I said, smiling slightly at his expression of mild confusion. Who'd have thought that that the knitting of brows would look so... adorable? He looked like a little lost boy, asking for directions back home.

He smiled. "Ah, I know the song. Mi madre is very fond of it.

I smiled also. "Well, it was nice meeting you, Jesse. But I better get home now before my roommate freaks out."

He chuckled. "You're not going anywhere until you tell me what happened, Susannah," he said. Then he lowered his voice, "and . . . I should get your number too, don't you think?"

I giggled. Yes, giggled. Slap me now, please.

"Call me Suze. And okay," I replied, like a little girl. "Well, I came here to exercise," I began to explain, "and he showed up right behind me. I fought him a bit, but then he just got the better of me and then you showed up."

"Okay ..." he said. Then he looked down at my ankle, his brow creasing again in concern. I mentally swooned. "First of all, your ankle is broken. Second of all, tell me why he did that.A personal grudge against you, perhaps, Susannah?"

I shrugged and waved my hand, dispelling the notion. "I repeat, call me Suze. And nah, it was just that he wanted to kill his murderer's girlfriend and I wouldn't allow it. Simple as that. Oh . . . and how do you know it's broken?"

"So let me get this straight," he said. Then he got up and started pacing in front of me. "You wouldn't let him kill his murderer's girlfriend, so he snuck up behind you and started hitting you just like that, querida?" he asked.

"Yeah, that's pretty much it," I said. Then I looked at my watch. 9:47pm. Shit. Gina will freak; I told her I'd be back by nine-thirty. "Can I go home now? My roommate'll send out search parties if I don't."

He looked at me, then down at my leg. "No," he replied in a no-nonsense voice. "I need to get you to a hospital. Your leg's condition is pretty serious, querida."

And no matter how much I protested, he refused to back down and took me to the hospital. Luckily my apartment was right around the corner from the park, so I got on Jesse's car, and didn't have to worry about mine, as I had jogged there.

They admitted me right away - he told me that he worked there as a doctor later. I got a cast for my leg and some crutches. I also got stitches in my hand where I had punched the stupid ghost. God, this is what I get for trying to mediate?

They actually wanted to keep me over night, but I absolutely refused. I had to get back before Gina called in the National Guard or something.

Jesse drove me home and helped me inside. Gina was waiting right there when I got back. She was about to start yelling at me, but saw the cast and crutches and the hot guy helping me. "God, Suze, what the hell happened?" she demanded.

I looked at her and said, "I'll tell you later." Then I turned to Jesse. "Got a pen?" I asked.

He looked at me weirdly but grabbed a pen from his jeans and handed it to me. "Give me your hand," I said. He did so, giving me a weird look. Then I wrote my number on his hand with my left hand. It was a bit sloppy since I'm a righty, but he seemed happy nonetheless.

"Well . . . good night, then, querida." He smiled at me briefly as I closed the door, and my knees weakened. "Good night . . . wait! What's that . . . kay-ree-da or whatever it is that you keep calling me? What does it mean?"

I wrenched the door open again, but he was already gone.

And then I had a whole night's worth of interrogations from Gina to answer to.

A/N: (Maddy) Review, or I'll punjab you.