Two weeks, he'd told them. Two weeks of nothing to do with any of what his life had become. Of course that didn't include the security cameras he insisted on installing and taking her to a rifle range one day. Those were important safety measures; in his mind they shouldn't count.

His stay was a tonic to his life; Stella was balm to his spirit. They'd known each other a long time, so even with the infrequent and unannounced—unannounced was another safety precaution, in case someone got wise enough to tap her phone—visits there was no awkwardness between them. Hannibal showed up, she took care of him with cigars and brandy in the evenings, he took care of her with a tenderness that his men would have found out of character. And the sex! Hannibal doubted Face ever had the luck he did.

They were good for each other and with each other.

She did lament once that although she received his letters, she always wished she could return the favor. As he tried to apologize once again, she brushed off his regret with understanding.

In the same vein, Stella also told him he needed to quit sending money. She didn't need it; her savings were plenty; he required it more than she did, with all the temporary housing he and the team were forced to reside in. Hannibal was happy that for once he was able to wave her off and insist that it wasn't going to change.

This living was easy and comfortable, and Hannibal had pangs of bitter-sweetness that it was only a transient situation. He hadn't lied when he told her he wished he could be with her every day.

But thirteen days passed, and when he woke up the next morning with her watching him, he didn't say anything, couldn't say anything, to stop the tears in her eyes. He held her close and let her weep, and when her tears finally dried they made love with an intensity that shook him. They lay together for as long as they were able, then voicelessly she helped him collect his things and pack his bag.

He made a phone call out her earshot to B.A., who promised to pick him up from the same airport he'd left.

They stood together, him leaning on the stoop railing and her leaning against him, to wait for the taxi. They didn't speak, but occasionally one of her hands would slip between the buttons on his shirt and caress his stomach.

The cab arrived and idled in the street in front of the house. Hannibal held a hand up to the driver for a few more seconds. He turned to Stella.

"John Hannibal Smith, you take care of yourself," she told him firmly.

He was glad she was passed crying. Her strength was amazing. Nodding, he said gruffly, "I'll write."

"Thank you."

Then, knowing the driver already had him on the clock, he kissed her. She clung to him for a moment, then he turned away and started to the road.

"I'll see you again," he called over his shoulder.

"You better!"

He was able to smile as he got in the cab.

True to his word, B.A.'s van was waiting as Hannibal stepped out of the terminal. He climbed in the front and tossed his duffel bag into the back as B.A. pulled into traffic. Neither of them particularly cared to stay on property with the possibility of Federal agents around.

"You have a good two weeks, Colonel?" B.A. asked. "You looked healed up."

Hannibal put a hand to his lip. "Yes I did, B.A. It was too short, but these past two weeks did me a world of good."

B.A. nodded. "Good. Now I don't wanna ruin the surprise, but Murdock's been goin' on and on about them pandas—Face had to physically stop him from tryin' ta get in the pen with 'em—an' he won't shut up about this spy museum they toured—"

Hannibal grinned. "Sounds like it was a good two weeks for everybody."

The black man nodded again. "It was a good idea, Boss. Just like all o' yours."

Hannibal suddenly couldn't stop smiling.

fin.