(Thanks to demonchilde for her help. Oh, I recently enabled guest reviews, so if you want to review any story of mine, you can do without signing up to be a member. On with the story"! ~ FV)

THIS IS NOT WHAT I'M LIKE

"Frances, breakfast's getting cold!" Bailey yelled out to his daughter, who was holed up in her room.

"Be there in a sec, two pages to go!" Frances would have her final social studies exam today. After that, she'd be done with high school. They would have to wait for a month or so to hear if the Macon college would accept her. If all went well, she would start college in later in the fall.

Bailey shook his head, sipped his coffee and checked his suitcase absent-mindedly. He was planning on making dinner for him and Frances in the evening, to celebrate her accomplishment. Linguini soup, her favorite.

Frances emerged from her room, with her heavy social studies book in hand. When she reached the kitchen, she snapped the book closed. "Okay. How much time have I got?" She'd asked her dad to drive her to school. She'd spend her spare time revising in the library.

"Is twenty minutes okay?"

"Sure. Thanks, dad," she said as she sat down and started wolfing down her grilled cheese. She caught his amused look. "What? I'm hungry."

"I didn't say anything," he played innocent.

Bailey was having trouble concentrating on work. He checked the time, wondering when Sam would get in. She'd be late soon, and she hadn't called him to let him know. He froze when he realized that he'd put on his purple tie. For some curious reason, that fact unsettled him a little. He hadn't worn it much since...

He noticed a flurry of motion outside his office door. Sam had been about to enter, but Washington had engaged her for some reason or another. He took a few steps towards the door before his progress was halted by a call. He turned on his heels and took the call.

"VCTF, Special Agent Malone."

"Agent Malone, it's Agent Wes Renick from Chicago. I hope I didn't catch you at a bad time."

Bailey's spirits lifted up. Maybe there was hope on the horizon with Henegar. "No. Any news on Henegar?"

"Not yet, I'm afraid. I'm calling on another unrelated matter."

"How can I help?"

"The Bureau field office and the local police department share an intranet, an online, secret database of criminal records. The system's been compromised quite seriously these past few weeks. Someone hacked their way in and deleted a significant amount of data."

"I see."

"Our IT guys say that the expert in these matters is an employee of yours. George Fraley. I was wondering if I could prevail upon you and him for him to help us out. Only for a day or two. I'd just like to get his opinion on how to safeguard our system from future attacks."

"How soon would you need his expertise?"

"Frankly, the sooner, the better. I appreciate anything you could arrange."

"I'll get back to you by the end of the day."

"Thank you. Goodbye."

Bailey hung up and turned to face the door, only to find an empty space. Sam was somewhere else by now.

He was unaware that while Sam had been talking to Washington just outside his office, her eyes were drawn to his back every so often for the briefest of looks before commanding her senses again.

Later on in the day, Bailey, Sam and George were convened at the upper table of the command center. The computer whiz was set to divulge his latest findings concerning Jack's aliases.

"So, I have run through DMV and Georgia's criminal records, especially around the times when Jack was on the run."

Sam took in George's regretful expression. "And you came up with bupkis." At his nod, she leant her head against the chair and closed her eyes.

"Doesn't mean he hasn't made a mistake somewhere, sometime. We just haven't found it yet," Bailey tried to rally their spirits.

"Or he had time to cover it up," Sam pointed out with a glum expression.

Bailey stayed silent for a moment, thinking. "Maybe we should spread the net again. Look into neighboring states."

"No, don't bother. We can't find anything because he's too damn good," Sam muttered and stormed away.

"Sam!" She didn't pause when she heard Bailey call her name. He almost lept out of his chair and followed her, but refrained from doing so at the last minute. He told himself that she needed some time to fume alone. After that, she'd be fine.

George was playing with the ring on his thumb. "What should I do?"

"Look into it, if you could. Jack isn't infallible, although he'd love for us to think so." Bailey took a moment to push his thoughts of Sam to the side. Then, he remembered Renick's phone call.

"Georgie, I got a call from an agent in Chicago. Apparently, their computer network was hacked into and severely compromised. They wondered if they could get your input on their safety measures."

"I'd have to stay in Chicago? How long for?"

"One or two days, as soon as we can spare you."

"Oh. I'll let you know tomorrow."

"Thanks. Good work on the alias thing."

Bailey strode out of the command center, his feet taking him towards Sam's office instead of his own. He paused at the door, wondering briefly if Sam had fumed enough. Only one way to find out.

Just as he stepped forward, Sam emerged from her office. They nearly collided with one another.

"Sorry," she mumbled, giving him a quick look before focusing on something behind him.

"It's fine. You okay?"

She rubbed her forehead and made a face. "Yeah. Sorry about being short with you guys. I didn't mean it."

He looked at her under his brows. "I know."

"Is George going to work on it?" Her eyes were fixed on the resident computer expert.

"He will." He looked at her, a question in his eyes, and he opened his mouth as if to say something but held back. He touched her upper arm in a fleeting caress before turning on his heels and walking away. He didn't notice her freezing at his intimate gesture.

She'd been hyper alert ever since the dream, and being so close to Bail only made her more so. She could barely bring herself to look at him in the face, for fear of her own reaction. She stared at his back and chewed on her lip. She could still feel his hand brushing her skin. She shuddered and retreated into the safety of her office.

In the relative quiet of her fire station home, she'd decided to just forget about the dream, like it never happened. It had to be a one-time deal, right?

Her certainty had started to crumble as soon as she was faced with Bailey.

She ran her hands through her hair, flopped down onto the sofa and pinched the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes. She needed to get a grip. And fast. Like yesterday.

"Good morning, Bailey," George greeted and walked through the open door to his boss' office.

"Morning, Georgie." Bailey wasn't surprised to encounter him this early in the task force. George put in long hours, and yet, he was always at work bright and early.

"I don't mind a trip up to Chicago. Would the weekend be okay for them?"

"I'm sure they'll say yes. Thanks."

"Catch you later, boss." George breezed through the open area to his work station next to Grace's lab.

Bailey had been left to his own devices for two minutes when his cell phone rang. "Malone."

"It's me." Bailey recognized Casper's voice.

"Good to hear from you."

"It's nice to be appreciated. I believe I've found your... caretaker."

"When can we meet him?"

"Her. We'll be in town next week. I'll call you with the time and place." Bailey didn't bother with suggesting anything on his own. Casper, with his infinite sources, always knew when he had a moment to spare.

"Okay. Thanks."

The day was looking up, now that he knew Casper had found them to protect Wykoff. He and Sam should visit the man and inform him of the latest developments.

Bailey surveyed the main floor of the task force with a glance, and frowned when he saw Sam standing beside John and Marcus' desk. Why hadn't she come in to say hi? His frown deepened when he witnessed her positioning her trophy to stand on both desks. The action had been casual, but deliberate.

He cursed inside when his desk phone rang. It looked like he wouldn't have a moment to breathe today.

Two days later, Sam strode out of her office in a hurry. She and Bailey would meet Wykoff in thirty minutes. But when she spotted John and Marcus' desks unoccupied, she made a little detour. She casually arranged some files to a neat pile on Marcus' side before heading to the exit. Bailey had stepped out of his office, and when she made eye contact with him, he turned to walk to the elevator.

When she reached him there, she saw him observing her curiously. "What was that?" he asked, not making a big deal out of it.

She played oblivious. "What do you mean?"

"Sam."

His look didn't waver at her attempt to mislead him. "Ah. I guess the jig is up." He smiled at her turn of phrase and she was distracted for a second. That was his 'This ought to be good' grin, and when the hell had she started labelling his smiles, anyway? "Uh... Well, I'm just having a little fun," she remarked with a shrug of her shoulders.

He pondered her words for a moment. "Payback?"

"Yes." She couldn't resist glancing at him to see his reaction.

Uh oh. His 'I'm enjoying the heck out of this' smile. "Okay. Carry on."

She averted her eyes, lest she blush or worse. Like fling herself around his neck and...

Damn. She looked to the floor and let her hair hide the faint crimson shade of her face.

Deep breaths, Sam. Deep breaths.

Elliot took a step back and evaluated the canvas before him. He was adding to his collection of paintings. Thankfully Doctor Simons had seen the value of him being allowed to paint whenever he wanted to. She believed it would help his recovery, and he concurred.

His first paintings had been similar to the ones hanging in his and Diane's home. Disturbing visions of men falling into the abyss. As he'd gained mental strength and had become able to deal with the loss of his wife, he'd shifted his focus. He'd begun painting her.

There was a knock on the door. He put down his easel and brush, and opened the door. He smiled at the woman and man standing side by side and gestured them in. "Please. Very nice to see you again."

Sam offered him a real smile. "You, too. Were you painting?" she asked as she stepped in. Bailey followed her at a foot's space.

"Yes, I was inspired." He shuffled to place the painting into the corner, out of the way. He then pointed at the chairs around the table, inviting his guests to sit down. They complied, Sam sitting next to the window and Bailey next to her.

"We came to discuss your accommodation whilst you help us, Elliot," Bailey revealed.

"We assume that you're well enough to be on your own now," Sam continued.

"Yes. My agoraphobia hasn't diminished, but I can always order food and other essentials to my house."

"What about your palliative treatment? Who will be in charge of that?" Sam enquired.

Elliot's expression darkened a little. He wasn't looking forward to allowing someone he didn't know enter his life. "I haven't figured that out yet."

The two agents exchanged a look, and then Sam spoke. "I hope you won't think us high-handed, but we have been thinking of how to keep you safe. We realized that we need someone who's... equipped to deal with your unique circumstances."

"And have you found someone?"

"We have. Are you open to someone looking after you?" Bailey looked closely at him.

"You'll meet her of course, and if you say it's off, it's off," Sam hastened to add.

He considered their suggestion. He knew that he would need someone to protect him, and he trusted the agents, in spite of the brevity of his acquaintance with them.

"I would like to meet her." The agents looked relieved and shared a smile.

"We'll set it up for next week," Bailey concluded the topic.

He contemplated the pair in front of him with a fond, wistful expression. The way they were so attuned to one another... They reminded him of his love for Diane and her love for him.

The three of them chatted briefly, but before long, ran out of topics. Elliot didn't mind; he had never been one for chit chat. His gift had him living inside his head, most of the time. Only Diane had ever been able to draw him out.

The agents said their goodbyes, and started walking out, Sam leading the way. She was out of the door when Elliot was gripped by a sudden impulse to follow up on his previous insight of Bailey.

"Do you know now?" His hushed question surprised the male agent.

Bailey turned around to look at him. "Know what?" Bailey's reply wasn't hushed, and Sam stopped in her tracks, wondering what was going on.

The man didn't know yet. Elliot shook his head, glancing at Sam before focusing on the man again. "You must learn it on your own time."

Bailey was on the phone with the regional deputy director. It was getting late, and his office was only lit by his desk lamp. He heard Sam clear her throat, then say: "Malone?" The peculiar ring in her voice made him swivel his chair to face her. He nearly dropped the receiver.

The first thing he noticed were her legs. Legs that were a mile long and oh so bare and lean. A small gasp almost escaped from his lips at the sight. Then, his eyes traveled up, taking in a dark sweater that hit Sam just right: it just about covered her upper thighs. He recognised her garment. She was wearing his Bureau sweater. He forced his gaze upward, meeting her eyes which were sparkling with mirth and mischief.

She was standing eight feet from him. "Is this a bad time?" she whispered, looking innocent. At his silent "ya think?" reply, she smiled gleefully. "Good," she said under her breath. She started shimmying around the table, to him. She stopped when she was standing right in front of him. He could have touched her lean legs without reaching. He used up all his will power to refrain from doing so.

She pouted a little, then cleared some space on his desk and sat down on the edge, allowing her legs to dangle playfully for a moment. She crossed her left leg over her right one, then ran her hands over her legs a few times, keeping a close eye on his reactions. "Like what you see?" she purred. He attempted to shoot her down with a stern look. She paid no heed to his worsening predicament.

She uncrossed her legs and lifted her left foot to rest on the back desk, her knee slightly bent. He made a non-committal reply to something the deputy director had asked, too busy with drinking in the smoothness of her legs, the graceful line of her calf. Seeing that she had him captivated, she rested her left arm on her knee, leant on it and looked at him intently. A little devious smile appeared on her face. He had barely time to register her expression before he knew what had brought it about.

She wiggled her right leg inside his left pant and ran it up, biting her lip and finally finding his bare skin. Her toes felt like ice on his hot skin, but then again, he felt like he was burning up everywhere, so he probably wasn't up to discerning his current body temperature with any accuracy.

She teased him for a while, then must have decided that the little contact wasn't enough. He felt disappointed when she withdrew her toes. He grunted something as a reply on the line. She stood up, then placed her hands on the arm rests of his chair, leaning in a bit. She flashed an incorrigible grin, then placed her weight onto her hands and climbed into the chair, to sit on his thighs with her legs apart and impossibly folded.

He shot her a silent warning, which she brushed off with a flirty look. She placed her left hand on his shoulder and started tracing his face, neck, hair, ear with her right hand, gauging his reactions.

Well, intimidation hadn't made any impact, so he had to resort to pleading. His look of silent plea didn't go unnoticed, but she didn't back off. She gave him a surprisingly tender smile before placing a kiss on the side of his mouth. "Better?" she breathed out. He'd nodded before he realised it himself. Then, her eyes took on a predatory gleam. He knew he was in serious trouble.

She leant in to whisper something in his ear. He'd stopped listening to his boss a long time ago. He sensed her lips close to his ear and suppressed a shudder. He strained his mental faculties to cut out the deafening roar of his blood, and focused on understanding her words.

"Touch me."

He promptly dropped the handset.

Bailey startled in his chair, a small thump snapping him to. He blinked, looking around for any sign of Sam. His dimly-lit office was empty. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. None of that had actually happened. He felt turned on, irrationally disappointed and a little bereft. Then, he chided himself for fantasizing about his best friend. What would she think if she ever heard about this?

He groaned, rubbed his face with his hands and then bent down to pick up the phone receiver, which he'd dropped in the midst of his dream. He listened to the call. That's right, he'd been waiting for someone from his insurance company to pick up. He hung up, deciding to leave the mundane task to another day.

The best thing to do would be to forget about the dream instantly, and to be more guarded in the future. He wondered how much he could control what he dreamt about, then resolved that he had to make the effort. So, he'd put the dream and any like thoughts out of his mind. For good.

He did allow himself to reflect on one thing.

His dream had been right. He was in serious trouble.

Frances had pointed out after dinner that Bailey was unusually distant. He'd brushed it off, claiming that he was preoccupied with a work thing. In truth, his thoughts were consumed by Sam.

Spurred on by his realization earlier on in the evening, Bailey decided that enough was enough. He couldn't ignore his confusion about Sam any longer. His feelings had been heightened lately. Certainly when those feelings concerned Sam. He had to confront them.

He'd never been able to relate to Sam with a mild and polite disinterest. There was something about her that drew you in and then tethered you there. That was the case with him, anyway.

His emotions had ratcheted up considerably lately, if the display at the prison was anything to go by. And yet, he couldn't bring himself to take a step back, to view the matter dispassionately. Something inside him wouldn't yield that far.

That night in Chicago had skirted at the edges of his consciousness for a while now. There was something there. Something that he'd brushed aside then, hadn't paused to consider. He had just acknowledged something, had accepted it as the truth. The truth of his heart.

Now, faced with worry about his escalating feelings that were evidently out of control for his friend, he reminisced, searched back. Ran through his interactions with Sam on that day, hoping to find the answer.

Nothing from the flight stood out. The same with the work shops and the lunch. All of them seemed innocent enough. When he reached the dinner, his mind started to slow down. He pondered his dealings with her carefully.

Nothing from the restaurant seemed troublesome. So it could only be the end of the night. In front of the hotel. The kissing.

Then, it hit him.

His response.

"You know you love it, Malone."

"Yeah."

That had been his response.

Damn.

Then, another stray thought seized him. The stanza he'd tried to recite on that Sunday. He felt chilled and rushed to the book shelf in the living room. He grabbed cummings' collection and flipped through the pages feverishly, until he happened upon the poem in question.

The poem was one that Sam had marked, but that fact quite escaped his notice.

He skipped to the end, the blood in his veins began to rush, his beart beat echoing in his vacant mind.

His breath hitched. He stared at the words, his usually sharp mind suddenly dull.

lady through whose profound and fragile lips

the sweet small clumsy feet of April came

into the ragged meadow of my soul.

He closed his eyes and twisted the paperback in his hands.

Well, that certainly shouted out the message loud and clear.

He was in love with his best friend. Probably had been for years.

Aw, hell.

George stared at the floor of the Howard Teten federal building. He'd called Rich to let him know he'd arrived safely. He'd taken his luggage to his hotel, and then he'd headed to work. He intended to have a look at the hacker's handiwork as soon as he could. He didn't mind that he'd be burning the midnight oil. Sometimes, he was at his most productive in the wee hours of the night. A remnant of his days of both college and illicit hacking.

"Agent Fraley?"

George turned around to see a man approaching him with a pleasant smile on his face. "I'm Zach Dixon."

"Nice to meet you. It's mr Fraley, by the way. I'm not an agent."

"Oh. Well, it's very good of you to come. We surely appreciate it. This way," Dixon turned on his heels and

Having reached the fourteenth floor, the man led George to a work station. "Where do you want to start?"

"I'd like to analyze the malware first. That way, I have a better grasp of the hacker's skills."

"Okay, just let me pull up the files." Dixon punched in a few commands and then left George to it.

Ten minutes into his probing, he started to get an eerie feeling of dejá vu.

Ten minutes later, he withdrew to a corner, disregarding the surprised looks Dixon was sending his way. He started up his laptop, waited for it to boot up which seemed to take forever, and finally started opening folder upon folder.

Five minutes later, he was sure. He turned to Dixon and asked urgently: "I need a secure phone line. Can you fix me one?"

"Why?"

"I can't tell you." George's taciturn stare convinced Dixon.

"Now?"

"Now," was his resolute reply.

"I'll have to ask my on commanding officer on shift."

"You do that." George turned back to the computer screen and stared at it gravely. This could be either very good or very bad.

Bailey was en route to Sam's place. George's phone call had awakened both him and Frances. On his way out, he double checked that the security measures of his house were operating. He left his daughter to her sleep. He'd only been half asleep when George had called. Another restless night to join the previous ones.

He wondered how many sleepless nights constituted a case of insomnia. He was probably on the cusp, already.

And now he was on his way to meet the reason for his bout of sleeplessness. Sam. After his realization, he'd had a stiff drink to calm his nerves. Only Frances' presence had stopped him from chasing his unsettling thoughts away with liquor. He hadn't wanted to alarm her. So, he'd tried to present a normal front. He wasn't sure how he'd succeeded.

He turned onto her street. The traffic was quiet. Someone was walking their cat in the middle of the night. That sight had him doing a double take.

He parked in front of the fire station and strode into the house with his key. He dialled Sam's cell phone, praying that she'd left it on. The call connected, and he counted the rings before he heard her groggy voice. "Hello?"

"Sam, it's me." His voice seemed unnaturally loud in the silent, vast space. "Can you let me in from the elevator? I don't want to ring the bell."

Her response took a beat. "Uh, sure." She hung up and he stepped into the elevator box.

His heart was hammering in his chest. He took a calming breath.

The door flew open and Sam blinked, taking in his presence, as if she wasn't sure that his call had been real.

He realized that he'd begun to feel alive only after Sam had entered his life again. Like his fire had been doused for three years.

She was his spark, his light in the darkness.

And he was about to see it flicker once again.

She stepped towards him. "Bailey, what's wrong?" Her whisper betrayed her panic.

He only said one word.

"Jack."