12

At Papeete's Mamao Hospital, Alan sat on a cushioned bench beside Emma Farleigh, while Gordon filled out a police report, and TinTin waited for news of the parents and baby. Emma had passed inspection earlier, but her infant brother, who couldn't speak, required a bit more looking over.

To distract the girl, gradually drying in the sunshine beneath a gaily-patterned blanket, Alan entertained her with stories about himself. How he'd blown up the boys' lavatory at school, shaved the neighbor's rabbits, and digitally recorded the principal striking out with his mom (excellent black mail material). Emma was enthralled, finding Alan nearly as wonderful as he did.

"...So, anyway," he was saying, "I had to get back at him, right? So I sprayed his gym locker full of Virgil's doe-musk 'buck bringing' stuff. Omigosh! It stunk so bad that people were, like, crying. I got expelled again, but it was worth it!"

Emma giggled, snuggling herself closer against the grinning boy.

"Alan Tracy," she said, with all the bright certainty of childhood, "I do believe that I shall marry you, one day."

He ruffled her long brown hair, saying,

"Look me up in ten years, Em, and if I'm not, like, already occupied, we'll talk." A light promise, easily made, but she took it to heart, as little girls will.

Meanwhile, Gordon had finished with Officer Tamatoa, and stalked back over to TinTin. The girl stood by the nurses' station, dejected and pale.

"And...?" He enquired.

She shrugged helplessly.

"Mrs. Farleigh is in stable condition, and the baby is doing well, but they will say nothing of the husband, except that he is receiving artificial blood, and neural stimulation."

Gordon sagged visibly, his coppery hair glinting in the window-filtered light. She could see... feel... him blaming himself. Impetuously, TinTin put a hand up to stroke the tumbled hair off his forehead, but he caught at her wrist.

"Don't, please," he told the girl, very seriously; wanting to say more, but quite unable to. Alan joined them then, for a plump, smiling nurse had called Emma in to see her mummy.

"Didja hear that?" He boasted, "She wants to marry me! Rescuing people is, like, totally without parallel! I could, y' know, absolutely get into this."

Except that, for some reason, his two best friends in the world weren't buying into his fine mood.

"Dude! What is the matter with you two?" The baby-faced blond demanded, clearly exasperated. "We did it! Just us; no help from the Three Musketeers. I mean, we haven't rocked this hard since Macedonia, and you guys look like you want to jump off the roof! What's up with that?"

It was Gordon who responded, sounding as bleak as TinTin looked.

"Alan... what if we'd not been there, today? What if we'd decided t' go surfin' , instead? They'd have died..., down t' th' babe, even. And we'd have heard of it first in th' damn paper. Makes me wonder... How often do 'little' things like this happen? Nothin' at all t' do with International Rescue, but the' entire bloody universe t' four innocent people."

TinTin reached out and began rubbing Gordon's back, which was rock-hard with tension. This time, he didn't stop her. Alan, though, merely rolled his eyes.

"Okay, but, like..., we were there, remember? We saved them..., duh! And mostly, I might add, because you're this amazing uber-diver. Gordon, man, why can't you just lighten up, and enjoy being a hero? You used to be more fun than this!"

TinTin inhaled sharply, ready to step in, if it looked like the boys were about to come to blows. There was no need, though.

Gordon dropped his gaze, packing the unwanted feelings away alongside a great many others.

"Right. Sorry. Just bein' stupid. Too much sun."

His world righted once more, Alan grinned and clapped his friends upon the shoulder.

"There you go! That's more like it! But the only cure for too much sun is more, and I hear the barrels calling our names, man."

So, a little later, when the Farleighs had been seen to (Michael, Sr. began showing signs of brain activity, and the kids, who'd be staying with an uncle and aunt in Papeete, were released) Alan, Gordon and TinTin left the little hospital and headed for big surf.

San Francisco:

The tour van pulled to a stop in the tall, wooded hills surrounding the Presidio. Long since shut down, the former military base-cum-park had been refurbished, and part of its land appropriated, by International Rescue. It was late afternoon, and the sun was warmly westering, though the atmosphere in the van (around the redhead, at least) was decidedly frosty. Cindy had attempted to apologize, but the other woman merely adjusted the set of her clearly non-prescriptive glasses (her eyes through the so-called lenses never changed size), and got out a book, Julius Caesar's "Gallic Wars".

"Thanks a lot," Cindy told her, as she stepped out of the still-running van. "And, hey... nice wig."

The door slammed shut with far more force than necessary, giving Cindy that warm, cozy glow that only came from having totally pissed off another woman.

"And he's prettier than you are, too!" She added, as an inspired parting shot. Then, grinning to herself, the rescued reporter cast about for her next move. The airstrip wasn't much, but the jet at the end was familiar, and the pilot...

Cindy dropped everything, and all but teleported.

"Scott!"

She got there, somehow, meeting him halfway, after kicking off her high heels and racing full tilt over the steaming blacktop. She threw herself into his arms, was lifted clear off the ground and kissed so hard that it left her gasping. Something utterly important, some element that made everything else in her life work, clicked back into place.

It was nearly impossible to talk and kiss at the same time, and Cindy would eagerly have chosen the latter, but Scott had something to say.

"Listen, Hon," he told her, pulling away a little, then crushing her back against his chest for a moment, "You need to come home. Which brings up a... No, wait. Shut up for a minute, please. I'm trying to... I've got to do this while I can, before you decide to take off, again. Uh...," he rubbed at the back of his neck with one big hand, looking pained, apprehensive and (a little) hopeful.

"You... uh..., wouldn't want to think about... you know... getting married, would you?"

Having said that, Scott appeared to deflate somehow, the look in his dark blue eyes reflecting utter shock at his own boldness.

Cindy's jaw dropped.

"Married...?" She repeated, incredulously. "No one's ever asked me that before." If he'd hit her over the head with a baseball bat, she couldn't have gone any number.

"But, Scott... I don't know how to cook, and... half the time, I forget to shave my legs."

Somehow, he managed to keep a straight face.

"Well, uh... Kyrano and Grandma usually handle Kitchen Patrol, Hon, and I'll, um... let you know if the 'natural look' gets out of hand. Any other objections?"

He grew suddenly more serious, then, expressing something that actually had him worried.

"Not waiting for a better offer, are you?"

Cindy tipped her head back to stare at him.

"A better... You mean John? You're kidding, right? Glaciers are fun to look at, but I wouldn't want to bring one home. Besides, I kind of like my men to have a discernible pulse!"

Relieved, Scott let go for a bit, and helped Cindy collect her scattered belongings.

"So... That's a maybe? A 'let me think it over...', a 'hell, no, but thanks for asking'...?"

Cindy hoisted the tote bag, dusted herself off, and grinned.

"You know, Hollywood, somewhere out there, there might be a guy who's just as wealthy, good-looking, charming, and has as exciting a job... but I guarantee you, he can't do that 'confused puppy-dog' look half so well."

And she kissed him again, as he handed her into the luxuriously appointed private jet.

"So...?"

"I'm not Catholic," she protested.

"I can live with a civil ceremony."

"Your father hates me," she insisted, as he donned his head set and started up the engines.

"He's not asking you, I am."

"I don't know the first thing about kids!" She shouted, over the gathering scream of twin jet engines, and his murmured conversation with the nearest tower. The plane began to taxi.

"Grandma has all kinds of patience, and years of experience," he yelled back. "Anything else?"

The nose wheel lifted, as trees and buildings whipped past with violently growing speed.

"Yes."

"Okay, out with it. What's the problem this time?"

The ground dropped away, the jet's sleek shadow rippling like dark fire over foliage and hillside until it became too small and indistinct to pick out. Beneath them, the big square peninsula that was San Francisco spread itself out like a beautiful jigsaw puzzle. Ant-like traffic, pretty toy buildings, wrinkled blue ocean, the incomparable Golden Gate Bridge, and bird-guarded Farallon Islands. Her home... once.

Cindy turned her eyes back to the pilot, gut-punch handsome in his mirrored sunglasses, bullet-scarred leather jacket and radio headset. She put a hand on his arm.

"Uh-uh. I meant... 'yes'. Let's do it."

And, for a little over an hour, until the plane touched down on Tracy Island, they were the only two people in the world who knew that single, wonderful secret.