Hey, it's a new chapter! Dana becomes a magnet for confessions, and loose threads are wrapped up.

Beta'ed by the lovely WtchCool.

- o – o -

Chapter sixteen: The Times, They Are A Changin'

Liz sat half on the floor, half on the couch as she watched the newscast. Being upside down made it about…thirty percent more bearable. Not by much, but… Whatever. She sighed and then winced, rubbing her nose gingerly. She'd broken it before, but biologically speaking, this was the first time she'd done so. The first time always hurt the worst. Ow.

"You're looking fabulously broody," Trip commented, walking into the room. He put a mug on the table and flopped down on the sofa, managing not to spill a drop of coffee from his mug. He smiled at Liz's glare and sipped his coffee.

"Eff off," Liz grumbled, sitting up and pulling herself onto the couch. Trip, who'd spent a good chunk of time learning how to contort his body like Raia and some of the other acrobats in the carnival could, was suitably impressed. He made a mental note to learn how Liz had managed to crawl onto the sofa without sitting or standing up. It looked kind of cool.

"I stand corrected—you're not broody, you're moody. When did you start—"

"Finish that sentence, and I will rip your tongue out," Liz snarled, punching Trip in the arm. Trip yelped as hot coffee sloshed over his chest. Liz smirked at him as he tried to mop the spilled coffee up.

"Waste of good coffee," Trip grumbled. Liz smiled at him over the rim of her mug. Her nose had healed sufficiently in the last two days that she could—if she were very careful—drink tea without the aid of a straw. "So, what was so fascinating that it had to be watched upside down?"

"Marty Voyt's in custody, pending a psych evaluation," Liz replied cheerfully. Trip would have been more offended at the cheerfulness, except he kind of hated Marty too. Their relationship hadn't improved after he'd asked Marty if he and Fleming were having sex. Oddly, Susan hadn't been quite as distant… That was odd: And disturbing, but mostly odd, as far as he was concerned. Oh well.

"Why does he need a psych eval?" Trip asked, already knowing the answer.

"He swore in front of the court that Peter Fleming was Chess."

Trip sighed. Some days…

"Yeah, that's what your mom said," Liz replied. She smiled, before frowning. "Huh. Fleming was a bit…weird, though." For Liz, Trip thought, weird meant a lot of things. It could have meant she was out of tea, the shipment was late, or there was a bit of bad weather coming her way and her umbrella was on the other side of the city. (He'd been unfortunate enough to be near her when all three had occurred. Somehow, he'd ended up getting thrown out a window on all three occasions.)

"How weird was weird?" Trip asked, dreading the answer.

"Spock eyebrow," Liz replied. It took Trip a few seconds to get the reference.

"Think Jamie was in his thoughts?"

"Poor girl."

"Amen," Trip replied, taking a swig of coffee. He grimaced at the grains in the bottom of his mug. It was disgusting, how he always seemed to get those, even when he got the first mug. Gross. "So, what exactly are we doing tonight?"

"The same thing we do every night, Pinky," Liz replied, absolutely deadpan. Trip chuckled. "No, we're actually going to work out what to do about our fathers. Mine… Well…" She trailed off, chewing her lower lip as she stared into her mug of coffee.

"You're more used to him not being there," Trip said. "And now that he's noticing you—and breaking your nose—you have no idea what to do. You know," the ten-year-old continued, "I always wanted to see you at a loss for words, but… I kinda wanted to be responsible for it."

"I think the concussions made you forget the week after me seventeenth birthday," Liz replied. Trip flushed. Okay, that was different. For one thing, he hadn't actually been meaning to proposition her, but… It had happened. It'd been fantastic and, for once, she hadn't tried to murder him afterwards. "Cat got your tongue?" Liz asked sweetly.

"Shut up!"

Liz grinned and finished her tea, bad mood gone.

- o – o -

Dana Faraday prided herself on being good at hiding her emotions. Hell, she was damn good at it. She'd managed to wait until she could duck into the courthouse bathroom before breaking down. After ten minutes, the public defender had managed to calm down enough to clean up and face the public. Marty had gotten through to his lawyer, finally, but it hadn't helped. If she'd known what he was going to do, she would have warned him not to say it.

She wasn't up to date on some of the more…current events in the city, especially not where the local criminals were concerned, but even she knew it was stupid to try to expose a villain's identity in public. Reading all of those comics with Trip had taught her that much. It was…stupid, and kind of sad. And now, Dana thought as she punched the elevator call button again, Marty was enjoying the finest psychiatric care that Owl Island Prison could provide. Why hadn't he learned that a prison sentence was shorter than pleading insanity? What a moron.

The public defender made it to her car without being assaulted by reporters. It was a well-known fact that she was friends with Marty—the news of their falling out had never made it to the press, thank god—and that she was "Chess'" widow. What a load of croc.

"I suppose you're 'appy," a deep voice rumbled from behind her. Dana jumped in surprise, dropping her keys. Scales was standing next to her car, dressed in a dark suit and a heavy overcoat, despite the temperature. Did the man not sweat or something? Sheesh.

"Not really," Dana replied, praying he couldn't see her hands shaking as she knelt down to pick her keys up. "Why are you here?"

Scales looked at her, chewing on his lower lip. If Dana had had a camera, she would have recorded it for blackmail. Seeing the smuggler as anything less than violent or totally in control was weird. Good blackmail material though. She tapped her foot impatiently, arms crossed over her chest as she waited for a reply.

"Is…is me daughter 'appy, wherever she is?" Scales asked, wringing his hands a little. He looked uncomfortable. Dana couldn't help but feel a little sorry for him, but she squashed the feeling ruthlessly. There was a nine-year-old girl hiding in her apartment, and the man who was responsible for her injuries was standing right in front of her. No matter how worried he looked, Dana couldn't, in good conscience, say anything to him.

"I don't know," she replied frostily. "You should have thought about that before beating her," she added, unlocking her car.

"I…I didn't mean to… I would never…"

There was nothing more pathetic, Dana decided, than a grown man breaking down and sobbing. Seeing the smuggler kneeling on the ground, head clutched in his hands and sobbing like the world was ending…was incredibly pathetic. It was beyond pathetic, actually. She sighed and got out, kneeling down next to him.

"Scales, you broke her nose, and her cheekbone was fractured. She's lucky she wasn't concussed. And all you can say is that you 'didn't mean to'?" Dana was well aware of the fact that she was playing with fire. She also knew that Liz still adored and respected her father, but the man really needed to be taken to task.

"I…" Scales looked up, face streaked with tears. His eyes were red, and it was obvious he'd been crying a lot. Dana was also pretty sure he'd been drinking. "I… T'is was th' firs' time I ever raised an 'and to 'er, I swear. I…I promised t'at I'd never raise an 'and against me girl, no' after…no after wot me childhood was like… Oh god…"

Dana patted his back awkwardly. "There, there," she said, wondering just when she'd become the go-to girl for vigilantes, smugglers, and small children. Well, the small children were excusable—they came with being a mother. Vigilantes and smugglers, on the other hand… She sighed. This was just one weird-ass day, wasn't it?

Eventually, Scales left. Dana had assured him that his daughter probably wasn't holding any long-term grudges (she was only nine, after all), and that—wherever she was holed up—she was probably safe and happy. Dana stared at her car keys for a few minutes.

"Screw it, I'm getting a bottle of wine for tonight," she muttered and stuck the key in the ignition.

- o – o -

Vince paced around on the apartment roof, rehearsing what he wanted to say to Dana if she came up that night. He'd thrown out at least six possibilities so far, including just kissing her senseless so she couldn't attack him when he took his mask off. She'd probably brain him with a stiletto or something. (Why the hell did she need to wear shoes with pointy heels? Those things were dangerous!)

"Hey, Dana, guess what, I'm not actually dead," Vince said with false cheerfulness. "Nah, that's stupid. And she'll hurt me. Hm… Hey, Dana, remember when Vince got blown… And that's even worse…"

"What's even worse?"

Vince looked up in surprise. Dana had climbed onto the roof, carrying two wine glasses, a bottle of wine, and a thick blanket with her.

"Ah…nothing," Vince replied, dropping into his vigilante-rasp automatically. It was more habit than anything, and it was killing him. Maybe he should just take his mask off… "Can I help you with those?" he asked, pointing to the items she was carrying.

"No, I've got it," Dana assured him with a smile. "Are you allowed to teleport under the influence, or should I get you some water instead?" She held up the extra wine glass. Vince felt a cold ball of dread settle into his stomach. Something was up. Oh boy. It was big, and it was going to hurt him, wasn't it?

"I'm sure it'll be okay," the vigilante assured her. He smiled and accepted the glass of wine from her. "What's the occasion?"

Dana looked up at him, one eyebrow raised. "Does there have to be one?" she asked, taking a sip of her wine. Vince shrugged. "Thought so," Dana muttered. She sighed, staring at her glass. After a few minutes, she spoke up again.

"Today, I watched my husband's best friend willingly chuck himself into the loony bin at Owl Island because he's an idiot. Then, I had Scales—you know, the scary British smuggler that broke his kid's nose for no reason I know of—break down in my arms, sobbing like a little kid. The only thing that could make this trifecta perfect would be you telling me that my husband isn't dead and you're him."

Vince coughed uncomfortably. "About that, Dana…"

"Oh for the love of god!" Dana swore. "You know what, I am not drunk enough for this conversation. Come back to this in about a bottle or so, okay? Just…don't. Okay?"

Vince pulled his mask off, smiling sheepishly at Dana. Well, she'd invited him to do so, hadn't she? Getting a glass of wine thrown in his face wasn't much of a surprise. Neither was the slap—or the sobbing into his chest. The kiss was, though.

Nice, though. Very nice.

- o – o -

Over the next few days, Dana began repairing her relationship with her darling blockhead of a husband. The first order of business was letting Jack know what was up. After all, she'd have felt bad just dumping him out of the blue for no reason. He didn't deserve that. Looking back on it years later, Dana would find that the memory of Jack slugging Vince and calling him a heartless jackass for abandoning his wife was one of her favorite moments.

At least Trip and Liz had been out with Gerry and his mother during that little confrontation. Trip didn't need to know that his father was actually his best friend the vigilante. Liz was also out, because she was too much like her father, minus the sobbing. Gerry would have been fine, but he was too friendly with Trip. (Although Dana did wonder how much of what Gerry said was actually believed by either Trip or Liz. That would have been a fun conversation…)

The last bombshell to top everything off with a cherry was Orwell, of course. Dana had been reading the morning paper with a cup of coffee and her husband when the hacker had somehow gotten into her apartment. Dana had only met the girl once, but something about her had stuck in the public defender's memory.

That conversation was what led Dana and Orwell to their place in a receiving room off Peter Fleming's office. Dana was doing a crossword from the Herald, trying not to show how much the little bombshell had affected her.

It was one thing to learn that Orwell had set her husband up, even if it had been unintentional. It was entirely another to learn that the hacker was, in fact, Peter Fleming's long lost daughter. Now that she thought about it though, Dana could definitely see the family resemblance between the two of them. It was a little creepy.

She sighed and finished the crossword while Orwell went into her father's private office, alone. The billionaire's assistant, Charles, had politely brought her a cup of coffee, prepared just the way she liked it—black, two sugars. Dana had carefully ignored the coffee, more than a little disturbed at the fact that ARK somehow knew how she took her morning jolt of caffeine.

"YOU WHAT?!"

Dana winced at the bellowing from Fleming's office. It sounded like a nice, polite, father-daughter row. Maybe she'd get lucky, and they'd obliterate each other through sheer force of personality. Or something. (Knowing that her husband was innocent, and Marty wasn't a lunatic, helped with that wish. Well, mostly. Marty was still a dick.)

"I! Don't! Care!" Orwell screamed at her father, exiting his office. She stormed out of the receiving room, heading for the elevator. Dana stood up and was about to follow the irate Fleming heiress when the billionaire came out of his office.

"How did I raise such a brat?" Peter said. Dana was pretty sure it was a rhetorical question, but couldn't resist.

"Could have something to do with that giant silver spoon in her mouth," she snarked. Peter looked at her, an amused smile twitching around his lips.

"Mrs. Faraday. Come to tear my heart out with a spoon so you can eat it, I assume?" Darn it all, why did he have to be so… Well… Damn, he was good looking up close. And she was married. And supposed to hate him for being Chess. Crud.

"I forgot to bring lemon juice," Dana replied with a smile. Fleming laughed at that, an amused glint in his eyes.

"Well, she'll be back. It'll be hard for her to run away, now that she's made her intentions so clear." He sighed. "You know, the media—and Orwell—love painting me as the bad guy, from time to time." Dana gave a mental groan. Another heartbroken confession from a nutjob? Did she have a sign on her forehead that said "criminals can unload on me for free" or something?

"I originally formatted ARK as a private security company. Then Jamie's mother was taken away, and I became focused on protecting my daughter, in any way I could. This was just the next step—making a city where she could walk around without bodyguards, and where other children would never have to worry about losing a parent…"

Dana sighed. She was going to have to buy a lot more booze, for future emergencies like this. The public defender wondered if most of the alcoholics on the planet were that way because they managed to attract the crazies. And now she'd learned why her husband had had to take the fall for Chess' crimes: Fleming was a good, if psychotically overprotective and somewhat homicidal, father.

As she left to drive Jamie back to her temporary home, Dana had to wonder how the billionaire would react when he met the girl's boyfriend, a short man named Rollo, with an even shorter temper.

The thought made her smile all the way home.

- o – o -

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