Disclaimer: Don't own Kim Possible.

A Note from the Authoress: Yeah, no reviews yet. Sadness. Oh, well! If you're reading this, I really hope you're enjoying it, and, ya know, if you review it really helps me know what everyone's liking. Just a suggestion. If you're wondering, this isn't a Josh/Kim fic. I promise. And ummm . . . yeah, don't know what else to say.

Enjoy!

Chapter One

-November 4, 2005-

See if they'd call him just a sidekick now. He held the small form beneath him with inhuman strength, his hands fully encompassing her lovely neck, threatening to strangle her to death if she even dare move. He heard a whimper from beneath him and he tightened his grasp, moving to straddle the girl for more leverage. His fingernails cut into her skin, drawing little trails of blood here and there. He shook her, causing her head to hit the hard floor beneath her, eliciting a little moan from her lips.

"Oh, that was a nice sound," he sneered. "Maybe I should ask Josh if it's the same kind he hears."

"Ron . . ." her voice came out mangled and dry. "How . . . how could you?"

"Because I'm just the sidekick, right?"

Her eyes held a sort of utter betrayal that, normally, would have broken his heart. "No . . . of course not, Ron, I . . ."

"Right!" he cut her off with a violent shake. She whimpered. "Don't you see what we've become, Kim? What I've become?" He held off for a moment, moving to kneel over her. "What you've become?" He didn't give her a chance to speak, as he switched positions to hold her neck with one hand, using the other to stroke her hair lightly, almost tenderly. "You know, KP, I was so in love with you . . . for so long. Still am, actually. But you never saw that, did you?"

The terror in her eyes was all the answer he needed.

"But something's changed now. But you didn't notice, huh? Not until Monique died. And you still don't see . . ." he trailed off in a mumbling rant, as if arguing with himself; the Ron she grew up with and the Ron that was threatening to kill her, or . . . or . . . or he might want to . . . no . . .

"We're all going to die, Kim, and it's all because of you." He laughed; a cold, heartless cackle that made her wince. "Ironic, huh? You spend all your life trying to save the world, and you wind up the one who's gonna destroy it. Kudos for that." His fingers began to trail down her face, lingering over her lips. She shivered. "If you'd only stuck to babysitting . . . no-one would be in this mess."

She tried to speak, but he silenced her quickly before digging around in his pocket for what appeared to be a brand. She shrunk into herself, trembling in fear. It was, indeed, like a brand, and she knew precisely what it was. There, in the shape of a rose, were several blades arranged onto the design, big enough to fit into the palm of one's hand . . . the mark of the Plague.

"Yes, that's right. The Plague. We knew it couldn't be just one serial killer, didn't we? We knew, but we didn't." His grin was wild as he took her right wrist in his left hand. "We didn't want to think about what the truth could be. You won't save the world this time, KP, 'cause it's all your fault." She screamed as he brought the bladed brand down to her hand.

Ron woke in a flash, sitting straight up in bed, breathing hard. He looked round his darkened room in a panic, searching for some sign as to whether or not the horrible nightmare had actually occurred. Seeing only a mess of clothes scattered on the floor, and his teddy bear alarm clock and a little framed picture of Kim and him on the nightstand, he sighed and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

This was not the night to be having nightmares.

After Monique had died, Team Possible had refused all missions. It was a sad thing, really, as nations all round the world were forced to solve their own problems, no longer piling them on top of a couple of seventeen year old kids. Neither teen was really in the mental state to be freak fighting, but now they had more time . . . time to think. It was always about her, and it seemed like an eternity, although it had only been a few short days, and then, that morning, they'd buried her.

The clock read 2:14 AM.

He sighed and ventured over to his window, looking out into the calm that was Middleton. The town was hushed, as the Plague had finally arrived; no-one left their houses unless it was absolutely necessary. The city was at a stand-still. Who would have ever thought the death of one teenage girl could have brought so much fear to an entire city?

No, it wasn't the girl, it was how she died. The Plague was a series of mysterious deaths – murders – all round the world involving two very specific things: a series of small cuts on the hand, fashioned in the shape of a rose, and, from these wounds, a poison previously unheard of, and to which they'd not been able to create an antidote.

The victims were said to have suffered a painful death, lasting possibly thirty minutes before the venom caused them to lose consciousness. And yet, despite this, it would take only a split second to initiate one's end, sending them in a downward, inescapable spiral into the unknown.

He looked up to the sky.

His thoughts returned to the dream, that terror-filled realm where not only was he the source of the Plague itself, but worse, trying to kill Kim, his Kim. His Kim? No, she wasn't his, she belonged to Josh, and that's the way it would remain. If anything, he still related to that in the dream, where he told her he loved her . . . but she was his best friend, not his girlfriend. Never would be.

She'd found another.

But he needed to talk to her about this dream, to get it off his chest. He grabbed some clothes and started down the stairs, stumbling into his pants as he did so. He was about to slip on his shirt as he opened the door, only to drop the garment in shock as, there on his doorstep, he saw the one and only Kim Possible.

"Hey, KP," he stammered, confused. "What's up?"

Shocked as well, she raised an eyebrow, "I could ask the same of you."

He blushed like a crushing schoolboy. "I was actually going to see you; I need to talk to you about something." He noticed her examining his bare torso and turned a deeper shade of pink. "You?"

"Same," she admitted reluctantly, raising her gaze a little sheepishly. His muscular arms and chest were a new sight to her, and she wondered how long she'd been ignoring these changes.

An awkward silence ensued, and they stood there, she in her flimsy pajamas, and he in only a pair of worn cargos, his boxers peeking out around the waist.

After a few moments, they both spoke at once, "I had a dream."

They did a double take, no jinxing or sodas this time. "A dream?" she asked quietly.

"A nightmare," he responded seriously, his eyes cold and heartless, as if trying to protect himself from the emotional consequences of reliving the experience.

"S-so did I," she trembled, the cold night air finally getting to her.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but closed it again, lowering his eyes. He folded his arms to protect himself from the wind, too lost in thought to invite his companion inside . . . or into his arms.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"What for?" He did not look up.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, a little louder and more confident.

He sighed and scratched the back of his neck, not sure what to say. After all, as far as he was concerned, he should be apologizing to her, not the other way around. His mind was such a wreck lately, more so than usual, anyways. It really drained him, and he found that, try as he would, he could not act like he used to, not the funny guy with the equally funny haircut. Now he was just Ron Stoppable, sidekick turned unofficial partner, overworked and underappreciated. "Hey, KP, it's really cold out there . . ." as if to emphasize his point, she convulsed slightly. "Umm . . . come on in, let's watch a little TV, okay?" He grinned, trying to be as goofy as possible, but his eyes were still sad and worn.

A ghost of a smile graced her lips as she stepped inside. "Thanks," she said, trying to shake off the chill.

They sat together on the couch, flipping on the television and turning down the volume. Ron searched through the channels endlessly, trying to find one that wasn't some news report of the most recent Plague victim in whatever part of the world, but to no avail. Finally, he stood. "All right, then, we'll just watch a movie. What're you in the mood for?" He was already halfway to the DVD rack in the corner.

No response.

"KP?"

Silence.

He turned round to see her curled up at the opposite end of the couch, fast asleep. He smiled slightly, grabbing a nearby blanket, and moved over beside her, tucking her in warmly and placing a light kiss on the top of her head. "Sweet dreams, KP."

The lone figure made its way through the cemetery quietly, as if avoiding waking the dead. A dried leaf crunched under his foot, breaking the disturbing silence. He did not know why he was returning, particularly in the dead of night, but he felt it necessary; he was compelled to retrieve the thing.

He found it odd that, of all the flowers in the world, the boy had put a rose on her grave. After all, wasn't it a rose that had killed her? True, white roses spoke of innocence, and were a powerful symbol, but how could he have been so blind to have not seen what he was doing?

He chuckled in spite of himself. Silly, silly boy. He was a bit quirky, but still a good guy at heart; he admired that about him. And his minimal amounts of jealousy when he began dating his best friend. True, he'd seen the looks of contempt that the sidekick had shot him at first, and the over protectiveness he showed for his best friend, but it was more endearing than infuriating.

But he must have the flower. He did not know why, only that he'd had a dream, a terrible, frightening dream and, upon waking, he could remember no details, none save the order to go find and retrieve the thing the boy had put on her grave.

He knew he could've come in daylight, and actually replaced the token; it would've felt less like grave robbing then. But he felt he had to do this immediately, as if it were of utmost importance. He'd woken in a start and immediately donned the clothes he'd just shed before turning in, and then headed for the cemetery. He looked at his watch.

It was 2:17 AM now.

A thought came to mind: what would he do with it after retrieving it? Burn it? Tear it to bits? No, that would be pointless. He could always keep it until the purpose became clearer. Yes, that's what he'd do. Surely he was going to all this trouble for a reason, or at least a reason more than cooling his restless mind.

Ah, there it was.

MONIQUE JENKINS

B.: MARCH 17, 1988

D.: OCTOBER 31, 2005

And there, beside the temporary marker was what he'd come for, the single white rose. It was wilting, he saw, and stained with blood on one side. The reddish brown was smeared across the petals, causing the soft texture to shrivel upon itself. Hmmm . . .

Josh pocketed the flower and made his way back home.

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