P A S S A G E
Sequel to Privilege
(temporary title)

A/N: Finally! Exams are over, school is out – and I am back to writing WaT fanfiction at one in the morning.

So I know I've already mentioned some of the differences between Privilege and its sequel, specifically the darker tone of this fic. Another difference: Privilege began with one scene and evolved into a complicated story line as I wrote it. For instance, I was probably more than a quarter of the way through before I even began to toy with the idea of Dylan Casper and the affair. While this sometimes led to complications in making what I wanted to write match what I had already written, the actual writing was easier to do because I wasn't limited by a pre-conceived plan. This fic is different. I know sequels are usually (no, not always, don't jump at me) cheap rip-offs of their origins, often in the too-much-of-a-good-thing category and only written because the author doesn't want to admit to him- or herself that the first work is done. Because of this, I've already mapped out the entire main plot of this fic, if only to prove to myself that this fic has a purpose, that it is a new story in itself – a real continuation, not just a dragged-out ending of Privilege. So now I have to consult my lists and charts whenever I sit down to write. The point is, the writing process of this fic is a bit different from that of Privilege, so please hang in there and bear with me.

Going back to the darker tone thing. A warning: I'm thinking the rating of this fic may go up in the future, if only as a precaution. Like I said, the idea is that this fic goes deeper, pushes you closer to the edge. I'm not sure yet exactly how close.

On a lighter note: as you read this chapter, please do not try to remember who Sean and Shannen are, because you have never met them before. Everyone else – barring the random agents – you should recognize.

Man, this is a long Author's Note. Does anybody actually read these?

C h a p t e r T h r e e
Night

. - . - . - .

Sam jerked awake and stared into the chilly darkness around her. Her breath was coming fast but dead silent; she dared not make a sound. If she could not see him, logic told her that he could not see her. She was trained for this. She could wait it out, she could beat the blackness. Wait for him to make the first move, then attack. Her grip tightened on her gun and she pulled the safety back.

It clicked in her hand, and the small sound reverberated in the room. Sam looked down.

Her gun. She was holding her gun.

The nightmares had never been that bad before.

She forced herself to take a breath, close her eyes. When she opened them again, she could see a little better.

Window shut, door closed. There was no one in the room. Of course not.

She could turn on the light, she thought. The lamp on the bedside table was bright enough. The only furniture in the room was her bed, the table, a dresser, and the bench under the window. Not many places for shadows to thrive.

Yes, she could turn on the light. But she wouldn't.

What kind of FBI agent is scared of the dark?

Slowly she clicked the safety back in place. She lowered the gun.

I could have shot someone tonight.

She gently placed the gun onto the table, then got up and walked to the window. Parked across the street was the snow-dusted, unmarked FBI van where, she knew, two bored and overtired fellow agents kept watch. She hadn't wanted them but Jack had insisted, and Sam had been too worn out to argue with him. I can take care of myself, she had said. I know you can, he had replied. But I don't want to take any chances. And that was that. She gave in and went home, pretending not to notice the van that followed her taxi to her apartment. She had given the two men a brief, half-hearted smile on her way in. They had been there ever since.

I can take care of myself, she had said a few hours ago.

Cause I did such a great job of that last time, right, Jack?

. - . - . - .

He could just barely make out her silhouette as she moved away from the window. Why couldn't she turn the damn light on? He hadn't seen her in months. God knows it had taken long enough to find her new apartment. She was more careful, he'd noticed. She never took the same route home, if she could help it. She watched the people around her more, and whether she knew it or not, she always managed to keep considerable distance between herself and any strange man she met. Just watching her fascinated him.

Oh, he knew now that he'd been wrong in the beginning. He'd thought they were destined to be together, that that was why she had come into his life; to become his. He'd thought she'd be his One.

But he was wrong. She was as treacherous and deceitful as any other woman, teasing, tantalizing, and screaming when he got too close. She thought she had gotten rid of him.

He was not a man to be gotten rid of. And Samantha Spade was going to learn that the hard way.

. - . - . - .

Danny's cell phone started buzzing around on his nightstand at precisely two twenty-three in the morning. Danny groaned and rolled over.

Insistent, the phone began ringing shrilly. Danny snatched it off the nightstand, rubbed his eyes, checked the caller ID, and flipped it open. "This better be good. I'm trying to get my beauty sleep, you know?"

Sean didn't laugh. "Hey, man, sorry to wake you. You said keep an eye on the ER. Thought you'd wanna know right away."

Danny's breath caught in his throat for a moment, and he sat up. "She there?"

"Just came in. Slashed her wrists. Dad found her unconscious in the bathroom."

"And?"

"Stable. Still unconscious, but she should wake up soon." Pause. "Want me to call Shannen? She could - "

"No, it's okay, um, I'll be down there in fifteen, alright? Make sure they'll let me in."

"You got it, bro."

"Yeah, thanks, man."

Danny ended the call and got out of bed. He had been waiting for this call and hoping not to get it. Almost five months ago, when Carolynn had finally been allowed to leave the hospital, he had known she wasn't ready. He could see it in her eyes, in the way she stared past the people around her and the way she wouldn't meet his gaze.

He had known somehow, instinctively, that she would try again.

And now they had to talk.

. - . - . - .