A/N. As before, thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed. I haven't replied to any of the newest, at this point, but I do plan to do that later on tonight.

Disclaimer. I do not own Flight 29 Down or its characters, nor do I own any of the songs recommended. I am not profiting from either in any way.


Song. Always Something, by Switchfoot

Chapter Three: Smell.

A bizarre mixture of mints and pepper hits her the moment she opens the door, but Taylor doesn't blench or hesitate before entering the small office; the scent is familiar by now, almost comforting. She offers a tight-lipped smile in greeting as she seats herself on the couch across from the old man who waits for her, his legs crossed and hands folded neatly on his lap.

Her resolve not to speak cracks a little when she sees him lean forward, directing his attention fully at her, genuine interest flickering in his eyes. Though she knows that it's just his way of getting patients to open up to him, it makes her relax in the same way that the scent of room does. His own openness seems to radiate off of him in waves that Taylor muses must be mingling with the mints and the pepper. She wonders, for a moment, if it has a smell, but doesn't bother checking. It's a waste of energy that she isn't sure she has.

"Taylor," the man acknowledges when she finally looks up at him, the wrinkles on his face deepening as he speaks. "You're looking well today." He knows she hates it when he says that, but it has become part of their routine, a five-minute routine that was established wordlessly after their first meeting.

"Kemyss," Taylor deadpans, blatantly ignoring him as she studies the framed, degree-proclaiming certificates that hang against the room's eggshell-white walls. He doesn't seem to be bothered by her disrespect, something that she is both irritated by and grateful for.

The therapist pauses before he questions, "Would you like to talk today?"

He asks her that whenever she sees him, but Taylor always shakes her head, afraid she'll say the wrong thing if she opens her mouth. Today, though, the smell of mints and pepper makes her eyes water, and she suddenly shudders, nodding before she has time to think. The crack inside of her has suddenly broken, leaving her feeling far too exposed.

"Yes," she murmurs before she can cover herself up once again, and she feels her resolve shatter even as the word leaves her lips. "But only today."

Dr. Kemyss dips his head as that, his expression unchanged. "Only today," he agrees.

Taylor closes her eyes before she begins; if she looks at him, she knows she will loose her courage. Instead, she concentrates on the aroma of the pepper and the mints and her therapists willingness to listen, and she gradually begins to remember the smell of an ocean, an island, and a time that already feels long gone. All of it burns her nose.

"First, there was this trip…" she finally whispers. "There were seven of us." Taylor pauses, feeling a frown tugging at her lips and pent-up emotion tightening her throat. "Mostly, I guess, there was this boy…"

Distantly, her mind registers that she is being asked a question, but Taylor ignores the impulse to open her eyes and listen. She doesn't want to see or hear right now; she needs to focus everything she has on the new scent that tickles her nose. If she doesn't catch it before it's gone, she knows, somehow, that she may never get another chance.

Eventually, Taylor's attentiveness fades and she sighs hoarsely. "He smelled like sand and rain and moonlight," she explains solemnly. "And like something constant and patient and expectant and forgiving."

She opens her eyes quickly, the moment broken as she looks up at the old man. She is convinced of her description, but he stares silently, unmoving, and Taylor panics when she cannot read his face. Only when he looks away, blinking suddenly, does she catch a glimmer of recollection, knowingness, in his eyes.

Before she can catch herself, Taylor smiles a closed-lipped smile that finally manages to reach her eyes. "…And understanding. He always understood," she concludes, and, as Kemyss slowly smiles, she feels a little less alone.


A/N 2. As always: comments are appreciated, flames are accepted, and constructive criticism is absolutely adored.