Title: Reunion

Author: Fins-Best-Friend

Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't sue.

Chapter 2

Bowan's eyes opened slowly. Through her drug-induced sleep, she had heard someone say her name. The voice was familiar, but not so much that she recognized it with any surety. She could feel the presence of someone else in the room watching her. The one who had called her name?

The ex-detective turned her eyes from the ceiling to the bedside, where she saw the completely recognizable face of John Munch. Her heart skipped a beat. He had grown so old! It was more than simple age. It was the stress of his job. She could read it in the lines on his face. Frown wrinkles deeply creased the spot between his eyebrows and the etches of wear and tear, both emotional and physical, were all too evident. While still handsome in her opinion, he was far from the happy, carefree, young(ish) man with the constant smile waiting behind those deep brown eyes – the same ones that still made her weak in the knees, even though she was not standing. What was she going to say? Was there anything to say?

John saw her troubled expression and broke the ice. "Bonjour, Madame Plouvin."

Bowan took a deep breath. The 'Madame Plouvin' thing hurt more than the migraine-level headache pounding through her brain. "John, I –"

Munch held up his hand, silencing her. He really did not want to hear it right now. "Save it. I can't take this as more than just another case, and I intend on keeping it that way."

He paused, waiting for her to say something. But she said nothing.

"What? No answer?"

"If you won't let me explain what happened, what's the point? Look, I'm not asking for forgiveness and I don't expect you to forgive it after what I did. I know what happened hurt you and it has been seventeen years of heartbreak for me, too, but you not being willing to let me finish a sentence isn't helping me much, either. You have no idea what my daughter and I have been through before coming back here and now this happens just when I thought we were safe." she said quietly, trying to hide the emotions that were threatening to come streaming from her eyes. She really has been through the emotional ringer more than once. No! Stop thinking like that! You'll only make it worse! I've missed that leprechaun accent, though. Munch found himself thinking as Bowan continued. "The last thing I need right now is someone bringing up my past. I could've dealt with it before this afternoon, but not now."

John tried to ignore the tears welling up in Bowan's eyes. He failed. His heart was still breaking for her.

"I know I hurt you, and –"

"Ya think?" he asked, still trying to ignore what his mind was screaming at him.

Bowan glared up at the ceiling in exasperation. Calm yourself down, Bowan. Now is not the time for your bloody Irish temper – not if you want back into his life. she told herself. "You called me for answers," she answered, sighing, "the true answers. Do you still want them or shall I stop?"

John shut his mouth and nodded, not sure if he really wanted to hear her story if it really was as bad as her eyes revealed. He mentally slapped himself. That tone in her voice made him feel, and react, like a naughty child. Nothing new there, he guessed, she had always been able to keep him in line.

"I know I hurt you and there's no excuse for that. I made a promise to you and I broke it, and there's no excuse for that, either, and I'm eternally sorry for what happened. There is, however, an explanation – a long complicated explanation, but an explanation nonetheless.

"As the daughter of an old-school diplomat, I always knew that there would be the risk of an arranged marriage, but living in Baltimore and working with you helped take that off my mind. Two months after we started dating publicly, my father called me from his hotel room in Baltimore, asking if I could pull myself away from work for a while to meet someone. I thought it would be just some old friend of his whom I'd never met, but when I got there, my father introduced him as my fiancé. He told me that there was no point in arguing, that all there was left to do was make it legal, with a signature from me, and public, by agreeing to an interview with some French TV news station after the wedding. I told him that Pierre was too late, that I already had a boyfriend and that I was just waiting for him to pop the question, but my father wouldn't hear it. He said that I didn't have options, that refusal was not mine to consider. I started to leave, but Pierre grabbed my arm. 'I'd listen to your father if I were you, Bowan.' he said, 'I'm a very powerful person with friends in high and hidden places.' I told him that I didn't care, that I already had a man and that he'd have to get over himself. I tried to leave again, but he tightened his grip and motioned for some of his bodyguards to block the door. There was no way I was getting out of there, regardless of my sidearm. Four men with big guns and two men with no interest in helping me versus one not-so-big woman with a not-so-big gun, you know? That's when the threats started coming. He said he knew people who could find this other man, you, and I didn't have to think hard to know what he was implying. That's when I consented. I didn't want to make any trouble for you and I didn't want fellow officers having to investigate your murder.

"My father called the precinct and told them the basics, like that I wouldn't be back because I was getting married and that he would send someone to return my gun and badge and clean out my desk and such. I didn't speak for days – too angry. I thought all that had been the worst part, besides leaving you. But that was hardly the half of it.

"When we got to the mansion in Paris, Pierre's demeanor changed. He had been soft-spoken and gentle – I hated for him for what he was forcing me to do, but he didn't seem that bad otherwise – but when we got there, he 'lay down the law for his fiery Irish girl' as he called it. That was when the rapes started, at least until he found out that I was pregnant. I didn't tell him that the baby might not be his and he wanted a son, so he didn't do anything that might risk harming the baby. I wish I'd known the real reason he wasn't angry that Zita was a girl."

Bowan was not even trying to keep from crying now and even John was trying to hold back the tears. She had given up her freedom, her happiness, and her child's freedom and happiness for him. How could he have ever been that angry at her? She had suffered – her child, who had never seen or met him, had suffered – just to keep him from trouble. He passed Bowan a tissue and she continued.

"After the doctor said it was safe to . . . you know . . . have sex again, the rapes renewed. Every night, almost, it was at least him almost all night. Sometimes other men visiting Pierre or men Pierre had invited for a poker night or something that had gotten too drunk to go home were 'invited' in. At first, I just tried to imagine it was you, but after a while, I gave up. You were so different from them and I couldn't associate you with them. As the years went by, I was able to basically ignore the pain and just get through it, but then he started moving in on Zita."

"Your daughter?"

She nodded. "When he started moving in on her, I tried to fight him – something I hadn't really done before, because it would only make things worse, but she was only ten! What choice did I have? She couldn't fight him off. I broke his nose and he had Bruno, his bodyguard, rough me up a bit for it. Of course he did more than that, but it wasn't like I wasn't already used to it. After that night, he locked me in a closet while he . . . you know . . . raped her. Several years went by like this until Zita began picking up on self-defense maneuvers from her bodyguard, Etienne. She waited until just before Pierre took me one night about three years ago to attack him. She broke his nose, too, before Bruno dragged her off of Pierre." Bowan said, chuckling a little through her tears.

"Like mother like daughter."

She nodded. "I felt so guilty, knowing that she got off worse for trying to help me. After that we were both locked in closets – she to wait her turn, me to keep from interfering with whatever Pierre did to her. One year later, when she was fifteen, she joined the French Secret Service as a detective, kind of like your FBI agents here in America. Sometimes Interpol contracted her for stings. She was perfect for the part, as long as she was in cognito. Most French people know Zita vaguely by her looks, having seen the Plouvin family so many times on the news after the beginning of Pierre's latest rise up the political ladder. She was good at it and liked the job and there were plenty of older-brother and father figures to make sure nothing happened to their 'petite Zita.' Besides, it got her away from Pierre. The headmaster of her school was one of the few outside the mansion staff and the FSS or Interpol who knew Zita's occupation and covered for her on the numerous occasions where Pierre called to find out where she was. As far as Pierre was concerned, she was on mandatory school trips. But I'll let her tell you about that."

"What brought you to New York?"

"Well, first we went to Baltimore, but the new cap just said that you had transferred to the Manhattan SVU unit several years back, so we left north."

"But what pushed you to run? Just too much too long?" he asked gently, reaching her another tissue.

"Pierre wouldn't try it on me, I was getting too old. But Zita, he thought, could physically handle his new hobby – erotic asphyxiation. That's when enough became enough. After I saw her the morning after when Etienne brought me into her room to show me what that first night did to her, I took Zita and our bodyguards to America. Xavier is an American citizen by birth, grew up in California, and Etienne grew up in New Zealand, so there wasn't a whole lot for them to get used to. I couldn't let her go through that stuff and they'd get in trouble for letting us run away. He'd kill us all."

"So you came to find me?"

"Before I left, you were the closest thing I had to family here. Real family – the kind that actually gives a crap about you. I decided that no matter your reaction, you were my best shot. I didn't know what else to do."

John had a decision to make. He could not not help her – take her and her daughter in – especially not after all they had been through. But it would be hard, seeing the woman who broke his heart every day until she got on her feet. He was not ready to trust his heart to her completely yet. His heart and mind would not let him.

"Look, I don't really like asking for handouts and I can definitely understand if you can't help us or if you don't want to – "

"No," John said, his head snapping up from its downward-staring position. He had made his decision. "my apartment has two bedrooms. I can sleep on the couch."

"John –"

"Look," It was time for the truth to come out. He could not keep it bottled up any longer. She had told him the truth, now it was his turn. "since you left, I've been a wreck. It hasn't been obvious, but it's been. I was going to propose. Heck, I still have the ring." he said, then hesitated.

"But?"

"I'm just not ready to trust you again. I want to, but not yet. I still love you and no matter how stubborn my heart and mind are being right now, I know I always will. But I can't rush into this sort of thing. Not anymore."

"And I don't want you to rush into anything you don't want to. I still want what we had and I want us to have a chance at that again. Start as friends?"

Munch smiled down at his hands. "John Munch. And you are?" he asked, holding out a hand for her to shake.

"Bowan O'Malley. Enchanté, monsieur." she replied, laughing for the first time since she had arrived in New York.

"I hate to bring this up, but aren't you a Plouvin, now?"

"Not for long. Our butler informed me this morning that Pierre had signed the divorce papers I put on his desk before I left. All we have to do is set a court date to decide custody."

"For Zita? Do you have to go back to Europe for that?"

"It depends on Pierre. I get the feeling that he's arrived in America by now. Zita and Pierre are American citizens by birth, though quite by accident, and I have duel citizenship, as does all the Plouvin household. The case could be heard in either an American court or a European court. Who knows?"

"I take it a pre-nup was signed?" John asked her, giving her the over-the-rims look she had been dying to see. He had had enough experience with divorce proceedings.

She nodded, smiling. "Yes, don't worry. I was a good negotiator then and I'm a good negotiator now."

John could not help but smile. "You have no idea how much I've missed you!" he said, taking her hands and giving them a gentle squeeze.

She squeezed back, her heart almost bursting with relief. "Likewise."

Their hands lingered for a few moments before a commotion outside the door interrupted them. Two large men burst into the room, the younger of the two calling out in a New Zealand accent, "Zita!"

xXx

Fin nearly had a stroke as a large man came barging through the curtain. Literally. Etienne had been unable to find the end of the curtain and proceeded to cut through the fabric with his knife. The detective leapt to his feet as the man burst through the barrier and pointed a gun at him. "Who are you?"

Fin was just a little too off-guard for speech. Zita rolled her eyes at her bodyguard. "This is a detective from the NYPD. Put your gun away."

Etienne promptly did as he was told as Zita turned back to Fin. "Fin, I'd like you to meet my bodyguard, Etienne Dupont. Etienne, this is Detective Tutuola. He and his partner are handling our case."

Etienne held out a very large hand for Fin to shake. Fin hesitated for a moment. This man was huge in comparison – six-four, six-five, at a guess – and Fin was not short himself. But to a man of Etienne's stature, five-foot-eleven was short. In fairness, however, he hid his disconcertion well as he stood and shook the proffered hand.

"Call me Fin."

"Tienne. And sorry for startling you like that. You can understand why I'd be a little jittery. I can't believe this happened."

A little jittery? Fin thought, re-taking his seat, If this is a 'little jittery,' I'd hate to see this guy mad.

Etienne turned his attention back to his charge. "Zita, you can't imagine how sorry I am for this. I should have never let you two talk us into letting you go out there alone. Are you all right? Well, aside from the obvious."

Zita hid a smile. When her bodyguard was not defending her from psycho-stalkers, rude suitors, or other men with guns, he was like a big teddy bear, and a little more than too concerned with her well-being. She had been in worse shape than this before on more than one occasion. He was definitely big brother material. "Yes, Tienne, I'm fine, aside from the obvious. At least until they try to feed me. I'm beginning to hate hospital food as much as airline in-flight food."

While Fin tried to choke down a laugh, Etienne dialed a number into his mobile phone. "I memorized the take-out numbers while Xav and I were waiting for you two to get back to the hotel. How's Chinese? I can send Xav to go get it."

Zita laughed a little half-heartedly. The hotel room had over three hundred channels, there was a PS2 in there, and he was sitting down, memorizing numbers out of the phone book. "Yeah, it's fine. You need a woman, Etienne. Or a hobby. I can't believe you memorized the take-out numbers."

Fin had gathered what information he could for that night and the victims seemed to be in good hands. He stood again and pulled out his card. "I need to get my partner and go. It's late and we have paperwork to do. If you think of anything else, give me call, all right?"

"Got it." Zita said, taking the card. "Thank you, Fin."

"No problem. It's my job." he answered, nodding in farewell to the girl and her keeper. It felt strange, hearing someone thank him. Normally, they just accepted or even ridiculed his work as a detective, but this girl had seen past her own problems enough to show gratitude. Maybe it was a fellow-detective thing. She understood what his job was like. Nevertheless, he could not shake the fact that she had thanked him. Someone of her social standing was the last person he had ever expected to thank him for anything. He would not admit it to anyone, least of all himself, but it felt kinda good.

Meanwhile

When the two large men burst into room 509, John let go of Bowan's hands and jumped to his feet, sending shoots of pain running through his knees. He certainly was not as young as he once was.

One of the men ran past them to the curtained section, but the other stood at the foot of the bed and pointed a rather large, dangerous-looking gun in John's direction. The man looked to be in, maybe, his very late thirties, closer to early- to mid-forties, with darkish skin and slightly-greying hair. He had relatively few lines on his face, which suggested early-forties, but age had very little to do with the muscles John could imagine (correctly) lurking underneath the sport coat he was wearing. Where was Fin when you needed him?

"Who are you?" the bodyguard demanded in an almost impenetrably thick French accent, then turned what attention that was not watching John and waiting for an answer, to Bowan, who was sitting in the bed trying not to laugh at John's reaction. "Are you all right, Madame Plouvin? What has he done to you? When I get my hands on him, I'll kill the monster myself!"

"I'm all right, Xavier, under the circumstances. I'll explain what happened later, and, no, you won't kill him unless you want to get prosecuted for murder. This is John Munch, a detective from the NYPD. Put your gun away."

John was still deciding whether he needed to work his heart back into his chest cavity or get a defibrillator to start it back up again. He just might take a day off after this.

Xavier warily put his gun back in its holster and offered his hand for John to shake. "Xavier Cousteau, Madame Plouvin's bodyguard. I apologize for startling you, detective. It's my fault she's in this mess, so you can see how I would be – how you say? – protective."

John nodded as he shook the huge sinewy hand. "John Munch, bony old guy. Also concerned."

Xavier chuckled a little at that. "Ah, trés amusant."

There was a moment of awkward silence before Bowan translated for John. "He says you're funny. Sorry, his English is a little broken sometimes."

John nodded in understanding as he took his seat again. His heart was working better now.

After a few moments of more silence, Xavier went to stand at his new post just inside the doorway, leaving John and Bowan alone.

"Well." John said, standing again and reaching into his pocket for his card, on the back of which he scribbled his home and cell phone numbers. "If you need anything before you're discharged, or if you think of anything else, call me. It's late and me and my partner have paperwork and a long day tomorrow."

Bowan nodded and John began to make his way to the door Fin was just exiting, when she called him back.

"John? Can you come back over here? I have a question."

John, grateful for an excuse to come back, returned to the bedside.

"You offered to let us stay with you and I'm eternally grateful, but we have a dog. Can you have pets in your apartment?"

John blanched slightly. Dogs had never been his strong suit. "How big is it?" he asked, envisioning a mammoth of a canine the size and approximate weight of a Chevy Suburban, only with considerably more drool.

"About a pound and a half."

"A pound and a half?" he echoed, the image of the Suburban replaced by that of the end of a Q-tip. "What kind of dog weighs a pound and a half?"

"He's a miniature Yorkie."

John gave her the over-the-rims look. "You never struck me as one to have a dog the size of a walnut as a pet."

"He was cute!"

"The limit is fifteen pounds. I guess Fifi can stay as long as he's housetrained, quiet, and you don't make the poor thing wear a bow in his hair."

Bowan held back a laugh. "For your edification, his name is Sir Reginald III, Reggie for short. And yes, he's very housetrained, and, no, we don't make him wear a bow, and, yes, he's relatively quiet because his vocal cords aren't big enough for much noise."

"We'll see how he takes to me when we get there. I tend to repel dogs."

She smiled softly up at him. "Thank you, John, for everything." she said, her voice growing serious as she squeezed the hand he had rested on the bedrail. "You don't know how much this means to us."

"It's a pleasure, as long as I get to meet your Zita next time we see each other." he said, pulling her hand up to his face and kissing her fingers.

"I knew there was the prince charming in there somewhere." she said, grinning.

John returned the smile. "Who knows? Perhaps we'll see more of him. I'll come by tomorrow, if I can. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, John."

Bowan watched him leave, smiling to herself. "I'll hold you to tomorrow." she whispered.

xXx

Fin and John made their way through the hospital halls in relative silence until Fin spoke up.

"So how did you know the mother?" he asked quietly, knowing this could be a touchy subject.

John sighed. Fin would find out sooner or later; it was probably best if he heard it from him sooner. "You thirsty? I think I'll need a drink for this one."

xXx

Etienne finished ordering the food and, after arguing for a few minutes as to who should go and finally flipping a coin to decide, sent Xavier to go pick it up a few blocks away. After he left, Zita grabbed the pole from beside her bed and managed, with Etienne's help, to get the curtain pushed aside enough for a conversation with her mother.

"The sedatives still wearin' off or are you particularly pleased about something?" she asked, noticing the small smile lingering on Bowan's face.

Bowan turned her head to look at her daughter. "You know that man, John, I was talking about?"

Zita nodded.

"Well, he caught our case."

"You meet up with your old boyfriend and you don't introduce him to your own daughter? That hits me right here, Mom, right here." the teenager answered, "stabbing" herself in the chest with her good arm.

"Sorry, he and his partner –"

"Had paperwork." Zita finished.

Bowan nodded. "He said he'd come by tomorrow if he could. You can meet him then. Besides, you'll get to know him pretty well if he can't make it. We'll be living with him until we can find another place here."

"Moving in with the old boyfriend already?" Zita asked in a mock-reprimanding tone. "Mom, the divorce isn't final for a while."

"When did that make any difference to Pierre?"

"Sorry, bad topic. So. What's this John guy like?"

Bowan leaned back into her pillows, sighing as her smile broadened. "Ah, where do you start . . . ?"

A/N: OK, I know there's some questions to be answered, like why Zita and Bowan are so nonchalant about their attacks and stuff like that. They will be answered in the next chapter. Hopefully I can get that up before the Second Coming . . .