Author’s Notes: Thank you to Mitch Knights for the beta read.
Charmer
“Don’t bat those baby blues at me, Devon Miles,” Maggie Flynn chided, giving the man a glare out of the corner of her eye as they hurried down the hallway toward her office.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Madame Senator.”
“Maggie.” She was getting tired of repeating that. Did he have to be so formal? But she could tell by the slight up-turn at the corners of his mouth that he knew exactly what she meant. So maybe not so formal. “I’ve been warned about you.”
“Oh really? And what, pray tell have you heard?”
“According to Former Senator Hammond, you’re something of a used car salesman.” Of course Harold hadn’t quite put it that way -- she was paraphrasing.
Devon bristled and stopped short in the hallway. “I assure you, Madame, that the Foundation for Law and Government is a reputable organization with an exemplary record of charitable works,” he sputtered, a reddish hue creeping up from under his collar.
“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” she said, waving her hand dismissively and carrying on down the hallway. “But I get the feeling that you could charm the habit off a nun.”
She glanced over her shoulder to see that he was still standing there gaping after her. She almost felt guilty. But Maggie was a firm believer that too much decorum was bad for a person, and Devon Miles was exhibit one. “You’re far too serious and I don’t have all day. Come on. You didn’t leave me all those voice mails to get scared off that easily.”
“I wasn’t ‘scared off’, Mad – er, Maggie. I simply felt that the Foundation’s reputation was being impugned.”
“Not at all. I’ve been around the block a few times. I know how the game is played. A new senator gets elected and all the special interest groups send out their lobbyists to butter her up.”
“I’m not a lobbyist. I’m the Foundation’s Executive Director.”
“I know. Why do you think I agreed to meet with you personally?”
“And here I thought it was my charming personality,” he deadpanned.
There was hope for him yet, Maggie thought as she fished in her purse for her keys. “You piqued my curiosity. Since you aren’t a lobbyist, I have to ask, what is it that you want, Devon?”
“I’d like to sit down with you and discuss the Foundation. Let you know about some of our causes. Perhaps over dinner?”
She eyed him playfully. “Is that a meeting or a date?”
“A meeting,” he said, color rising in his cheeks again.
Maggie tilted her head. “Pity.” She fitted her key into the lock and pushed open her office door.
Devon just stared after her looking like he was afraid her office was some den of iniquity. He was too easy. It wasn’t even sporting – like shooting fish in a barrel. “I’m kidding, Devon. Come in. I don’t bite.” He looked at her a bit warily. “I will throw a barb or two your way, but feel free to throw them right back.”
“Fair enough.” He didn’t exactly look convinced, but he crossed the threshold into her office anyway.
She sat behind her desk and gestured to the chair across from it. As he took a seat, she took the opportunity to size him up. He certainly wasn’t hard on the eyes. He was perhaps a few years older than she was – probably in his late fifties – and impeccably dressed. His hair was a mix of silver and sandy-brown, and his eyes were so blue they were practically criminal. It was enough to catch her attention. She’d only been trying to throw him off balance with her comment about dinner, but sitting here, she decided she wouldn’t be adverse to the idea. “So I still don’t think I quite understand what you want from me. What does a charitable foundation want with a senator?”
“We’ve worked with Senator Hammond in the past to introduce bills.”
“Oh? Which ones?”
Devon leaned forward and steeped his fingers in front of his chin. “They’re mostly related to the rights of crime victims and other issues in the realm of criminal justice.”
“I see. And you’re looking to work with me?”
“Ideally, yes.”
“I’d be happy to have my staff look over any proposals you might have.” Once she had her staff in place, that was. It had been a whirlwind since the election.
“In the past, Senator Hammond has graciously agreed to speak at some of our fundraisers and events.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Ah. And you’d like me to do the same?”
“Only if you’re comfortable with that arrangement. The Foundation was founded on the principle that one person, each person, can make a difference. That no one is above the law and everyone deserves justice. And we, I, am willing to do whatever it takes to help further that cause. Based on the way you ran your campaign, you’re also a firm believer in the rights of the people. We’ve found that it’s useful to form allegiances with others who share our aims.”
The man did his homework. And she was intrigued. Maggie liked his gumption and she was still impressed that he’d come personally – he was a cut above the slimy lobbyists who’d been sniffing around the office since she’d taken her seat in the Senate. “You’ve got my attention. I have a meeting in a few minutes, but I’d like to hear more.”
He smiled and tilted his head a little. “Then I won’t take up any more of your time today. I’ll call your assistant and set up a suitable dinner meeting.”
“You’d better not stand me up, Mr. Miles,” she warned with a grin.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Madame Senator.”
“Maggie. I look forward to it.”
He nodded his head and then rose, took her hand, and kissed it. “Good day, Maggie.”
Maggie watched as he turned and left the office. She had to actually tear her thoughts away from dinner to prepare for her meeting.
Title: All Manner of Things Thought While Lying on the Floor
Rating: PG
Author’s Notes: Thank you to Tomy for the beta!! I took a little creative license on this scene. The details aren’t precisely right. But I needed a little leeway. ;-)
All Manner of Things Thought While Lying on the Floor
Devon was lying on the floor, trying his best not to move. His eyes were closed, but he could feel the viscous, red fluid creeping along his abdomen. He could image the seeping patch of wet navy it was creating in his blue suit. He cringed at the more startling effect it was certainly having on his white shirt and the beige carpeting. The whole situation was very disconcerting – even though he knew it wasn’t real.
It was so quiet in the room that he could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock. Devon was tempted to open his eyes to see how long he’d been lying there since Michael left. But he resisted the temptation. The security cameras were not nearly good enough to pick up his eyes opening, but he was worried he’d make some inadvertent movement that could give away the game – alert LaSalle to the fact that he wasn’t, in fact, dead.
This operation had been too intricate a charade to risk endangering now.
It had been quite a dance -- getting it to appear that Michael had fallen from grace at the Foundation. They'd thought they had planned for most of the likely contingencies, but then Michael had contacted him over the emergency communications channel they’d set up. LaSalle wanted him to kill Devon as a show of loyalty. After setting up a hasty plan, it had been a rush to get everything in place. They were trying to keep as few people involved as possible, but he’d had to bring in someone from security to pull this off. He’d needed to talk to an old friend in the movie business who told him where to find the fake blood packets and ‘blanks’ for the gun. Devon had left the rubber bullets stashed on the Foundation’s grounds and sent a message to Michael. Then he’d had to pick out a sacrificial suit. He regretted that they’d had to forfeit the brand new carpet in his office, but rolling it up and taking it away would have been a bit suspicious.
Devon decided that when he had the carpet replaced, he’d have to ask Cathy to get a thicker pad. Not that he planned to make a habit of lying on it, but he was starting to get uncomfortable.
And he needed to get her to clear his schedule for the next few days. Dead men didn't typically attend meetings.
Oh, and he'd have to remember to reschedule the tour that was supposed to come through tomorrow.
So much to do that Devon hadn't been planning on.
There had been a flurry of activity this afternoon and then he’d just had to settle in to wait. He’d sent Bonnie home and had in fact been quite rude about it. He wanted her to think that he was in a foul mood. Devon didn’t want to take the chance that she’d decide to work late, see his light on, and stop by. He most definitely did not want her to happen upon him like this. She was already angry and confused about Michael leaving. They’d taken a calculated risk in not telling either her or Kitt. He and Michael had agreed that it was likely LaSalle had access to Kitt’s systems. As a result, they couldn't let Kitt know their plans. Michael had brought up the fact that it was going to be hard enough for him to deceive Kitt, even with all his intelligence training. Bonnie had none of that in her background. She tended to wear her emotions on her sleeve to begin with, and Kitt was nothing if not perceptive. He didn't like it, but for the success of the mission, both Kitt and Bonnie had been kept in the dark.
Devon was worried that that could have far reaching consequences for all of them. He worried it would affect their cohesion and ability to work together. He worried it would damage their trust. And he knew that Michael was concerned about that as well. It had taken quite a while to build the level of trust that he and Kitt now shared. Devon hated the idea that their relationship could be compromised. LaSalle was a dangerous criminal, but Devon couldn’t help wondering if the ends really justified the means.
That and he was not looking forward to telling Bonnie that he and Michael had lied to her. If she had to be told after finding him playing dead on the floor in a pool of fake blood, he’d be surprised if she didn’t have their heads on pikes by the end of the day.
Devon's thoughts were interrupted by a small popping sound. For all his attempts to lie still, he must have shifted his weight ever so slightly, causing another of the pouches strapped to his mid-section to spill its contents. He had to admit that he was glad to be distracted from his previous line of thinking, but the relief was quickly replaced by annoyance. The fake blood had picked up his body heat. It was warm, sticky, and not at all pleasant. It felt like it had the consistency of maple syrup and smelled just as sweet. He wondered how much longer he was going to have to wait.
Peter from security had said that he’d need to collect fifteen to twenty minutes of video of him lying there. Then they could feed that footage back into the system in case LaSalle was still watching. Funny how long twenty minutes seemed when one was lying on one’s floor.
At least everything had gone according to plan once Michael had arrived. They’d hurled a few insults at each other, Devon had gone for the gun in his safe, and Michael had shot him with the blanks. Perfectly executed. And Devon had to admit that that was bothering him just a bit.
They were only play acting of course, but he’d spent the first few minutes on the floor of his office feeling just the slightest bit betrayed. They’d both probably intentionally hauled out insults from real points of conflict. It was only logical. Feelings grounded in reality would have a truth to them that something entirely faked would not. But it still bothered him. Had any of the things Michael said been things he’d always wanted to say? Was he in some way relishing the opportunity to do so?
Devon certainly hoped not.
He hoped that he wasn’t alone in feeling that their issues and disagreements had been laid to rest. They may never share the same taste in music or food, but he thought – hoped -- that they did share a mutual respect. Oh they bickered and jibed at each other but it was done with affection. At least it was on his part. Somewhere along the way he’d come to see Michael and Bonnie as the children he never had. Somehow they’d managed to become family with all the good and bad that that entailed, which was probably why hearing those barbs had stung. He wondered if it bothered Michael at all.
But of course Michael was busy trying to keep up the charade for LaSalle and trying to piece together what the man was up to. He wasn’t lying on a floor killing time.
Where was that guard? Surely it had been twenty minutes by now?
Just knowing he couldn’t move was making his muscles twitchy.
It was interesting, this discomfort over exchanging heated words with Michael and lying to Bonnie. He had only the barest of reasons for viewing them as family. He hadn’t watched them grow up -- he’d only been part of their lives for a short, albeit intense, time. And yet the thought of being betrayed by one of them tore him up. The thought that they could harbor resentment over old wounds bothered him. And the memories of times that he’d treated them poorly filled him with shame. This was how he felt after a few short years. He couldn’t fathom how he’d feel about real children. He was starting to have a little more empathy for Wilton and what he must have gone through when Garthe turned his back and left for Africa. Devon knew it had been hard on his friend, but there had been little in his own experience to compare it to. Devon didn’t regret the course of his life, but there were things he’d certainly missed out on.
And right now, he was thinking that he would have liked to have missed out on the war wound that was nagging in the small of his back. He was really getting old if he couldn’t even lie on a carpeted floor for twenty minutes without all the joints and muscles in his body protesting.
There was a fumbling outside the door and Devon briefly worried that it was someone other than Peter. What a mess that would be. But the guard poked his head in.
“You’re in the clear Mr. Miles,” he said. “We’ve got a playback loop running.”
Devon slowly got to his feet and brushed himself off. It was a futile gesture given the stains on his clothing. “Thank you, Peter.”
“Anything else, just let me know,” he said and disappeared again.
Devon glanced at the grandfather clock and it had indeed only been about twenty minutes since Michael had left. He limped over to the open French door in the office and peered out before carefully shutting it. Godspeed, Michael, he thought, before turning back to his desk. He would be happy when this case was over, and his family was all back home.
-----------------------
-knightshade
December 31, 2005
Title: Phoenix
Rating: PG
Author’s Notes: Thank you to Mitch Knights for the beta read.
Phoenix
Devon pulled a handful of folders out of the file cabinet in front of him and dumped them unceremoniously atop the growing pile on the floor. It was frightening just how much one could accumulate if one wasn’t meticulous about cleaning out one’s files. The 'one' in this case, of course, being him. Devon’s office had only a couple of small cabinets – it was hard to find anything tasteful. Long ago he had appropriated a large closet to store the bulk of his files. But now he'd run out of room. Being out of sight and mind, he’d let the closet get away from him, and the day of reckoning was finally here.
Devon had left his jacket in his office, rolled up his sleeves, and loosened his tie. His fingers were covered with grayish dust and he was enveloped by the old, stale smell of aging paper. He tried not to breathe too deeply – it led to fits of sneezing.
He pulled out another stack of files, glanced at them quickly and tossed them on the pile. But something caught his attention. The words on the top tab of one of the files sputtered in his mind and then caught, causing him to stop. Devon glanced down at the pile with a bit of a frown. He stooped and fished though the papers until he found the folder. Written across the top were the words, “Project Indigo.”
What the devil was that doing here, he wondered. He thought all the files from the early days had been sent out for storage or destroyed.
Absentmindedly, Devon swept the folders off the lone chair in the room and sank down onto its corner, leafing through his find. The musty yellow pages were covered with ancient pencil scrawl -- drawings and sketches, notes and formulas, all in shaky handwriting.
Wilton's handwriting.
'Project Indigo.' Wilton Knight's first grand plan. His airplane.
Devon ran a hand over the smeared scribble of a cockpit drawing. Wilton had worked so hard, had been so driven only to see his hard work stolen. When Cameron Zachary's group swept in and absconded with Wilton's cockpit design, it’d seemed that all was lost. Wilton had done everything in his power to get the designs returned to him. He’d tried filing complaint after complaint with the authorities. He’d hired private investigators and had finally sent a whole army of lawyers after Zachary’s crew. But to no avail. Wilton had been crushed when he'd seen the patent in Zachary’s name. Devon had worried that Wilton was going to lose faith completely and retire.
But Wilton had surprised him.
One night, perhaps a month after they'd finally given up on Indigo, Devon had found Wilton in his office scribbling away with a spark of irrepressible optimism. Framed by a single small lamp, alone in his spartan office, Wilton was practically glowing with creative vigor.
And what energy it had been. It had carried Wilton through years of ups and downs, setbacks and triumphs. Devon was convinced that it was this spark that had sustained him through his long illness. It had only been after his dream had safely reached a point where it could stand on its own, that he had finally succumbed.
The plane had been a small step, creating an onboard computer that would pull together all the relevant data - navigation, avionics, instrumentation, and weather. Wilton wanted to give the pilots one convenient place to get a total picture of their aircraft. He called it a glass cockpit. What an insult that they’d even stolen the phrase he'd coined. But the glass cockpit had been a relatively simple innovation. It was nothing compared to the idea that had set him off on those late night, frenetic scribbling sessions.
The idea of a car controlled by a thinking, sentient computer, dedicated to the protection of its driver, able to do astounding things, was revolutionary. And all in the name of bringing justice to people who'd been wronged as Wilton had -- with no hope of redress, no hope of a resolution. In the ashes of a good idea was borne a beautiful, fiery dream. It had taken flight with a majesty that none of them had anticipated.
In the molting of the dull, damaged feathers of Indigo, beautiful iridescent blue plumes had flourished in their stead.
The task of cleaning forgotten, Devon reverently closed the folder, and tucked it under his arm. He decided he'd keep the file in his office. It would serve as a reminder.
Sometimes it took the death of something good to achieve something great.
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-knightshade
December 15, 2005
Title: Cerulean
Rating: PG
Author’s Notes: Thank you to Mitch Knights for the beta read.
Cerulean
Michael paused outside Devon’s office and eyed the door warily. “Does he know?” he asked Kitt over the comlink.
“I have no idea,” Kitt answered. “Maybe you should just tell him. Clear your guilty conscience.”
“Yeah, I’ll take that under advisement, pal.”
“He’ll be less angry about it that way.”
“He’ll be less angry if he never knows.” Michael broke the connection and decided that hanging around outside the door was not going to make it any easier to go in. He’d been summoned – it was a little too much like being called to the principal’s office in grade school. This was one of those times when there was reason enough for him to be in trouble, but he had no idea if Devon knew that or not.
But he wasn’t going to find out by pacing the hallway. It was time to go in and meet the beast.
“Yo, Devon,” he said as he crossed the threshold after not knocking. He couldn’t give it away by suddenly being too respectful. “How was your vacation?”
He covertly scanned Devon’s desk and saw that it wasn’t there. Damn. He must know.
“Quite lovely. Thank you for asking.” He didn’t seem angry.
“Are you gonna bore us with a slide show or anything?” Michael asked, hoping his grin would cover for him.
“I hadn’t planned on it,” Devon said with a raised brow.
“That’s good to hear.”
Devon just stared and then shook his head befuddled. “Anything unusual happen while I was gone?”
Michael’s eyes widened before he thought to guard against it. “Unusual? Ah. No.” Not really unusual. Accidents happened every day.
“Hmm.” Devon glanced down at his left hand and frowned. Then he looked back up at Michael. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Crap. “Ahhhh?” he asked trying to buy time.
“The report for the Foster case, which was due on my desk Friday, but has yet to make an appearance?”
Oh. Right. The report. The cause of this mess. “Ahhhh.”
“I take it you haven’t finished?”
“No. But I was working on it.” True. “I’ll get it to you by the end of the day.” Better than middling chance of being true.
“Michael, you really do need to keep on top of your paperwork. The board requires that we keep complete records on all of our cases,” Devon chided.
“You’re right, Devon. I’m sorry. I’ll get on it right away.”
Devon was looking at his other hand now and frowning again.
“Was that all?” Did he sound too hopeful?
Devon looked up, holding both hands awkwardly in front of him. “What? Oh, yes. Of course.”
“Something wrong, Devon?”
“No. I just seem to have gotten something on my hands.” He tilted them down and Michael’s heart jumped. There were greenish-blue smudges on his boss’s fingertips. “Ah. Looks like ink stains or something.” Sort of true.
Devon frowned more. “But I haven’t been using a pen.” He was still staring down at his fingers, turning them back and forth in the light. “And it’s not the sort of blue in most pens. It’s more green. It’s almost . . .” His head popped up and turned to look at a corner shelf. “Cerulean.”
Michael followed his gaze and saw the vase sitting on a shelf. Devon must have moved it. “Ah, I can explain,” Michael said, deciding it was time to follow his partner’s advice. Devon just stared at him. “I was going to work on my report, but I needed the form, which I knew was on your desk. So, I went looking for it and in the process, I kind of knocked over the vase.”
Devon’s eyes widened. “Do you have any idea how much that vase is worth?”
“No. But I’m sure it’s not cheap.” Oh was it ever not cheap, if the look in Devon’s eyes was any indication. “But I fixed it,” he said, charging over to the shelf and lifting it triumphantly. He hadn’t thought it was possible for Devon to look any more horrified. He was wrong. He set the vase back down.
“How?” Devon sputtered.
“How what?”
“How did you fix it?”
Michael glanced at his own hands which now were also covered in blue smudges. “Bondo and oil paint. A former girlfriend of mine mixed the color,” he said hopefully.
“Out!” Devon stood up behind his desk and pointed to the door.
“Devon, I’m really . . .”
“Out! Out! Out!”
Michael knew when to beat a retreat. “Sorry,” he said, scurrying for the door, deciding that the report would wait. Right now he was going to see if his partner had any bright ideas on how to get back into his boss’s good graces.
---------------
-knightshade
December 15, 2005
Title: Montserrat
Rating: PG
Author’s Notes: Thank you to Mitch Knights for the beta read.
Montserrat
“Take me to Montserrat someday,” Marie said wistfully in that beautiful French accent of hers. Normally it would carry him away, light as a feather, but today it just added fuel to his already morose mood. He looked up from their table at the little outdoor café and stared out across the grey banks of the Seine.
“We talked about this, Marie.” They had spent many hours talking about it last night, and the wounds were still fresh. He loved her, but his unit was being sent back out in a few days. He would be leaving the relative safety of liberated Paris and heading into the uncertainty of the occupied countryside. He’d told her that he might not come back, that his job as a spy was dangerous, and that she shouldn’t wait for him. He’d told her that he wouldn’t marry her right now because he didn’t want to make her a widow. But he still wasn’t sure if she’d heard him.
Marie rested her chin on the back of her wrist, her fingers sloping elegantly toward the table. “Don’t spoil our last few days. I want to daydream. I want to look at the sky and point out pretty fairy tales in the clouds. Let me have my fun.”
Her eyes were so sad, and what could he say to that? As long as she knew the truth, what was the harm in a little make-believe? He too was tired of letting the dreary reality of life during a war overwhelm their time together. He forced some gaiety into his voice and endeavored to play along. “Why Montserrat? What’s wrong with a holiday in Southern England?”
Her smile was sad but it was still a smile. And she had the most luminous smiles. “I do want to see your country someday too. But I suspect it’s not so different from mine. I’ve been to the seaside in Bretagne. My family went on holiday there when I was a child. But the sea’s so cold and dark.”
Devon nodded, thinking that Dover was beautiful but in a cold and standoffish way. Not very inviting.
“A classmate of mine went to Montserrat with her family. She said it was magnificent. She said all the buildings were painted in pastels. Can you imagine pink and mint green houses? They stayed in a villa overlooking the Caribbean and she said the water was the most beautiful turquoise blue - almost green. She even went swimming and said it was as warm as a bath. She showed me pictures of little lizards, palm trees, and flowers the size of hats. It must be so romantic, Devon.”
He smiled and took a sip of his tea, running a finger over the handle when he set it back on the saucer. Marie had had some very wealthy classmates. “It sounds lovely. Like paradise.”
Her eyes bore right through him with the intensity of their pleading. “Take me there someday.”
Devon felt his heart crumbling as he reached to take her hand. “Whatever your heart desires, my dear,” he said, drowning under the weight of a beautiful, turquoise-blue lie.
