A/N: You asked, I answered. This is now officially a WIP. You only have yourselves to blame…

In the end, they compromise. The Italian restaurant he books is nice, but does not have any Michelin Stars. The upside of that is the price. Oh, and the fact that the courses consist of more than three mouthfuls. And they can, y'know, actually get in that night, not in two months' time.

And hey, as he points out, it still beats Chez Jack's.

Clarissa, it seems, needs more convincing. To the point of when they meet up outside the Lyell centre the next morning she is still going on about it. Honestly, he doesn't know how he puts up with her sometimes.

Actually, scratch that. Yes he does. But that doesn't mean she gets to win all the time.

Still, it would be nice if her opening gambit wasn't, "It wouldn't have killed you to get us in somewhere even a little up-market, you know."

Jack gives her a glare with no heat behind it as they make their way inside. In pure falsetto, he adds, "Hi Jack. Last night was really nice. Thanks for picking up the tab and all. How are you this morning?"

The look Clarissa gives him in return might be favourably labelled as exasperation. "Michelin Stars, Jack. You promised."

Voice back to normal, he sighs. "Oh, I see how it is. This is the thanks I get for a nice meal, is it? Besides, those places are always too up themselves for their own good."

Clarissa snorts. "Really? Name one time…"

But before she can finish the question he is answering. "My birthday, two years ago. Remember? We all went out and spent more money on ten mouthfuls of food than I did for the rest of the month! What's wrong with actually feeding people, huh?"

"Just because you can't appreciate the finer details of Michelin star dining doesn't mean…"

"I'm just sayin', it's not the same." Rounding the corner, he sees Nikki (always the early bird) already sitting at her desk, and calls out to her for help. "Nikki, back me up on this."

He can tell he's startled her by the way her head flies up, her scarf slipping ever so slightly. He's about to comment on the fact that she still has it on, when yesterday she had taken the one she had been wearing off within minutes of entering the building, complaining it was making her too hot, when he notices the bruises.

It's hard to miss them, really. The deep purple and black coin shaped marks right over her throat, 4-1 pattern in a classic choke hold. His blood runs cold. "Nikki? What happened?"

But he doesn't need her answer, not really. He can tell exactly what has happened, and suddenly he wants nothing more than to go back twelve hours (was it only 12?) to the night before and wait for her to return to the lab before going out to dinner to make sure she was OK.

He is across the room and bending down to get a better look before his brain has fully registered everything. Gently, ever so gently, he pulls the scarf away and gets a good look at what that monster has done. Eyes fixated on her neck, he asks Clarissa to go get a first aid box. Ice packs. Anything, really, at this point.

(To be honest, a punching bag wouldn't go amiss either, but he has more important things to do right now.)

Fingers barely skimming her skin, he takes in the damage, feeling his pulse increase at the sight flinch she gives as he brushes over the tender marks. He sees her hand come up to push him away as she brings her head up, but his reflexes are still sharp, and he gently catches her wrist before she can make contact. He is helpless to do anything more than brush his lips over the bruises, trying to apologise with the gesture, even if she doesn't know or understand what for.

He feels the hitch in her breathing as he does so, and finally pulls back, but only enough so he can rest his forehead against hers. Just the thought of the force needed to inflict that type of contusion sends his pulse racing, and he grips her hand tighter as a reminder to himself she is still here. Trying not to let the full brunt of his anger (at Forsyth, yes, but also a little bit at her) from seeping in to his voice, he whispers, "You know, I could kill him for that alone."

He feels her tense under him, but he won't apologise for telling her the truth. Because he could. He would. He has come to realise there is nothing he wouldn't do to protect the woman in front of him; even if that means taking on a hitman with a gun while he is completely unarmed. It was only the fact she had been injured and they needed that sad fuck alive that had meant he hadn't pulled the trigger back in the woods.

"No. You wouldn't."

The words she whispers back are full of confidence, and it throws him. Because how can she be so sure when even he is not. He thinks back to all the times he has lost control. Of the years his brother spent in jail because he couldn't control his temper. Of all the cage fighting he does just to let the anger out somehow.

So, with a rueful sigh, he rebuffs her knowing tone. "How do you know? You have no idea what I'm capable of."

There is a pause, and the words hang heavy in the air. And then she still finds it within herself to argue with him. Honestly, what is it with the women in his life that constantly fight against him?

"I know exactly what you're capable of."

This time, his response is more immediate.

"No. You don't." And then, to prove he's right and she's wrong and because she's sat there with bruises on her neck and a bandage on her leg and because Jesus Christ she could have fucking died and he wouldn't have known anything about it and how can she still look at him like that he kisses her. Quick and hard and he tries to show her everything without showing her too much, so it's over before she can fully react. Or, hey, hit him.

And then they are just two people on the cusp of… something, and he sees wonder and confusion in her eyes, and wonders if she can see any of what he feels in his.

Feeling like his point has been made, he tells her again, "You don't know. But if you want to find out, you know where to find me."

She takes a breath as if she's about to protest, and he can't let her. Because if she says anything he might just kiss her again. Or yell at her. So before he can find out, he stands and leaves without looking back.

He feels her hand try to grab him as he pulls away, her startled, "Jack?" almost breaking him. But he knows they both need a little time, and probably a little space, so he pushes on.

It is the hardest thing he has ever had to do.

TBC.