The Agency

The annoying thing about working for an organization like the SA, which has about 100 employees who all live together, is that word gets around. If you sneeze in your own shower at 8am, by 8:15 at least five people will ask how your cold is.

And if you shoot yourself in the foot, well, fuck it all. You're doomed.

"I'm telling you," I said, step-thumping over to the chair and sitting down, "she said it wasn't loaded."

SA-7 was a consummate professional, but his eyes glinted. Apparently schadenfreude is as popular among the undead as the living. "And you didn't double-check."

"Why would Beck lie to me?"

"That's not the point," he replied sharply. "It wasn't a can of spray cheese, Sara, it was a .45. When you're handling something that can kill you, you double check. You check the bullets, you check the safety, and you don't point it at anything you don't want to see dead. Including your foot. You could have blown it off completely."

"Well, I've learned my lesson," I said, my irritation deflating into humiliation. I'd warned him, and I'd warned Beck, that I was going to suck at this. My second month of training and I had seriously screwed up.

"I hope so," Jason said. His tone was still harsh, and there was ice in his gaze now that the humor had faded. He seemed a lot less patient with me lately. I didn't blame him. Thank god he didn't know about me and Rowan; as far as I knew nobody did.

"I expect to see significant improvement by the end of next week," he informed me, making a notation in my file.

"Yes, sir."

"Now, aside from your ineptitude in weapons, you're doing passably well in everything else. Carlos says your stamina and strength are both improving quickly and that you've got promise in martial arts. He did recommend that you join the staff yoga class twice a week to work on your flexibility."

"I have no idea how I'm going to fit that in with everything else," I said, trying not to whine. "I barely have time to sleep as it is."

"So I hear," he said without looking at me.

A cold hand gripped my stomach.

He knew. Oh shit, he knew.

"It's up to you to manage your time," he went on. "If this is too much for you, you can always go back to Admin."

Was he trying to get rid of me? Surely not. I was being paranoid. He was an Agent, and over a century old. He had to be above that kind of pettiness. "No, I'll handle it. I'm just venting."

"Fine. Obviously with your injury you'll have to scale back on your workouts for a couple of weeks--I'll speak to Carlos. For now we'll stick with three weapons sessions per week, but if you don't start hitting the target by next week we'll up it to five. You still have your psionics sessions as well; hopefully we can start you with Tanya in dispatch before long. SA-5 has been…pleased with your progress…thus far."

I felt like I was going to throw up. How had he found out? And if he was as in love with Rowan as I knew he was, why wasn't he saying anything? I didn't want to hurt him, or anyone else. If he'd ask, I would tell him what was really going on. God knew I could have used someone to talk to about it…although Jason probably wasn't the best choice of confidante in this situation.

"Now, if you don't have any questions or concerns, I'll see you again in two weeks."

I was dismissed. I limped out of the office, feeling…ashamed, and alone. Intellectually I knew I wasn't doing anything wrong. It wasn't my fault that Jason and Rowan were both too blind to see they belonged together, or that Rowan was so broken inside that the thought of being with the one he really loved terrified him beyond all reason.

If Jason had any idea what we were going through, he wouldn't envy me at all.

Sad how the best sex of my life was also the worst.

Nothing about this place was turning out to be what I'd expected, or hoped for. I had hoped I'd have some kind of aptitude for being an Agent, but so far I was only good at the psychic side of things. Everything else was proving harder than I had thought possible, and I was exhausted most of the time, barely able to stay awake while the Policies and Procedures instructor droned on and on about this Code and that Occult Act.

I wanted desperately to go to my quarters and go straight to bed, but I'd said I would check in on Rowan first, and I wasn't about to start breaking my word to him. I took the long hallway to his place, thanking every god I could think of that tomorrow was Saturday and at the very least I didn't have to get up early.

I sighed and ran my badge over the door scanner; we were allowed to have up to three additional IDs programmed into our locks, and there were of course security overrides. So far I only had one. Frog hadn't asked yet, and truth be told I barely saw him anymore except about once a week for a quick breakfast before I dragged myself to the gym to get bitched at by a muscle-bound Agent who believed in things like wheat germ and spirulina.

Then there were endless hours in classes, learning about the inner workings of the Agency, and even longer hours with an impatient female vampire who, for whatever reason, seemed to have decided not to like me, and who may have been a great Agent but was a terrible teacher.

Although now that I knew Jason was onto us, I was pretty sure I knew why Beck looked at me like I was some sort of plague rat.

My body was being worked more, and harder, than it ever had been in my life…and that was before I got off duty.

The door swung open, and the second I saw the Elf dozing on the sofa, I forgot everything--the aches in all my muscles, the pain and embarrassment of my stupid foot, my frustration, everything. The whole world dissolved into a puddle of rainwater and dried up in the sun.

It turned out that Elven pheromones, once unleashed, were a force of nature that no human resolve could defeat.

We'd discussed the matter and agreed that this was certainly not love, at least, not in the romantic sense. This was probably the least romantic relationship I'd ever had, and yet…

I closed the door behind me and went over to the couch, kneeling beside my sleeping lover, who didn't stir, a testament to how exhausted we both were--after years of resting at half-attention with ears primed for the sound of footsteps, he was a light sleeper, often starting alert when the air conditioner clicked on or off.

Even in sleep, he didn't lose his pain, as dreams darker and more horrific than I could even imagine played through the theater of his mind, reliving moments he had buried or forgotten in a haze of endless misery. We shared a lot, but I was grateful we didn't share memories, at least not so far. I was teetering perilously on the edge of sanity already.

One hand hung over the side of the couch, and I took it gingerly in my own, kissing the palm. In spite of it all, just being here, watching him sleep…I felt warmth and serenity whispering through me, the quiet beauty of his presence, and again my resolve strengthened. He needed me, and I was happy to be needed…I just wished it didn't have to be so awful, for either of us. I wished we could just have mind-blowing sex and curl up watching movies and talking about mythology and philosophy, without everything else, without my having to watch him suffer, or having to shoot him full of drugs just because he'd fucked me. Celibacy seemed the kinder alternative, but we both knew that, in the long run, this was the right thing.

He murmured something in his sleep in Elvish, and his eyes fluttered open. I noticed that tonight their deep green had just the slightest tint of brown. If it weren't for him I would have no idea what season it was, outside. My whole universe was indoors and underground.

"You need to get out more," he said with a smile, and I smiled back, tsk-ing at him.

"Get out of my head," I admonished, not meaning it.

"I'm serious." He turned onto his side so he could look at me squarely. "You're a Witch, Sara. You need to be outside. The people here will forget that. They forget everything that isn't related to work."

"Yeah."

"Maybe next week we can have our sessions up in the labyrinth again."

I chuckled, tracing the lines of his palm with my index finger. "You mean instead of coming here and having sex?"

"We've been working," he insisted. "You're…very good at absorbing knowledge as long as your mind is open, and clearly, the best way to keep it open is--"

"With your head between my legs, I know," I interrupted with a laugh. "I'm not arguing. I'm just wondering what the powers that be would say if they knew about your unorthodox teaching methods."

We hadn't really talked about that, and I instantly regretted bringing it up. His face clouded, and he looked away, levity fading.

"This is the most unethical thing I've ever done," he said tiredly, putting his free hand over his eyes. "I'm abusing my authority and taking advantage of you."

"As I recall, Agent 5, this was my idea."

A spark of humor returned. "And all of your ideas are such good ones."

"Come on," I said. "Let's go to bed. We both need sleep."

He grunted his assent and let me pull him up off the couch by his arm. "How's your foot?" he asked.

"Hurts like a motherbear. And I'm not exactly getting sympathy from the masses."

He paused in the doorway of the bedroom, looking thoughtful. "I wonder…"

"What?"

"I might be able to help you now. Help you heal faster. We've made a lot of progress--"

"No," I shook my head. "I'll be fine. It's my own fault. Besides, if all of a sudden I start healing faster than a normal human people will start asking questions."

"I want to do something for you, Sara. I owe you so much already."

I waved the comment away, going over to straighten the sheets where we'd left them in a tangle that morning. "You don't owe me anything."

He didn't agree, but didn't press the issue. I always won the argument, but I always got the feeling like he was humoring me; there were times when, in the midst of one of my passionate diatribes about something or another, I would catch him looking at me in a way that reminded me very solidly that this person I was sleeping with, who made me scream and claw the sheets and left me soaked and sore and feeling like the most cherished creature on Earth, was not human, had never been. He was 420 years old, and in heart even older than that. It shouldn't have been so easy to forget. I only had to look in his eyes, or at his ears or hair or the deceptive slenderness of his body, to see the difference.

Nights like tonight, we undressed and fell into bed together without any attempt on either of our parts toward anything more. I was spoiled, even after a few weeks, to the warmth and safety of him next to me. I had been a restless sleeper, tossing and turning, but now my body was content to twine itself around him like ivy with his face buried in my neck and his hands--god, those hands--curved around my hip and arm.

The only thing that still bothered me despite all his insistences that it had nothing to do with me, personally, was that I didn't get him hard, at least not involuntarily. He was always ready when the time came, but that was an act of will.

Every man I'd ever slept with had woken me up jabbing me in the ass, grinding into me in his sleep (or so he claimed), or had pressed against me when we danced. Rowan had complete conscious control over his entire body dating back centuries. He rarely made any demands on me for his own pleasure; in fact, he only seemed to care at all because I cared. The tit-for-tat approach to sex was a human thing, he said, but in his line of work it was all about the client.

He could control his body, but not his power; it still went rogue with alarming frequency when we were together. At least I knew from the empathic link between us that he did find me attractive, despite evidence to the contrary. Still, it wasn't terribly good for my ego.

It had always been a point of pride with me that I'd been good in bed. Chubby girls usually are, after all, and not out of some pathetic form of gratitude, but almost out of spite. It's a shake of the fist, so to speak, in the face of all the men who ignore and belittle us. I knew I was good, and I had always had plenty of takers; not necessarily to my taste, perhaps, but offers abounded, especially from other Pagans, who tend to be more open sexually than their mainstream counterparts. I'd been going through a dry spell when I moved to Austin, but that was rare for me. I'd made men thrash and curse and beg, and I couldn't even get so much as a quiver out of Rowan.

I lay facing him, the two of us settling in for the night with sighs and murmurs, arms seeking each other out until we were wrapped tightly.

"Hipbones," he said.

"Huh?"

He squeezed my side. "I keep finding new muscles and bones where there was softness before."

"I imagine so, since all I ever do is work out and try to shoot things. Is that good or bad?"

"I will think you're beautiful no matter what," he told me, and I knew it was true. "I did like you rounded off at the corners, though. Elven women are a bit pointy compared to humans. It's something I've always appreciated about your race."

I looked at him, taking in the subtle differences between his body and that of a human male's--nothing immediately obvious, in fact I hadn't noticed it at all the first time we'd had sex, but there were little distinctions. He had no body hair, for one thing. The line of his body was almost serpentine, curving just a little more than a man's would, but not enough to be feminine exactly. He was thin, but not skinny; someone his size should have looked frailer, but there was hard muscle there, flat like a dancer's. He moved like a deer, all careful steps and perked ears, and if I had to sum him up in one word, that word would be "grace."

There was also the fact that the first time I'd seen him naked I had thought he was a eunuch--after everything he'd been through it wouldn't have surprised me--but it turned out that male Elves had internal testicles. The difference in body temperature was one of the things that made our species incompatible when it came to breeding. In a natural setting his sperm would die the second they hit my uterus. Theoretically, if combined in a lab, the incompatibilities could be overcome, but so far experiments had yet to result in an actual baby, just embryos that died within a few weeks.

It had taken some getting used to, and I'd expressed puzzlement over the idea--if part of the plumbing was indoor, why not all of it, like other animals?

"Where would be the fun in that?" he had asked with a mischievous grin. "It's a mystery of our evolution. We also have two fewer vertebrae than a human, no tailbone, and our gestational period is a full year instead of nine months. There's a whole constellation of differences, but the theory most researchers subscribe to is that where humans evolved from a common ancestor with other primates, Elves are a completely different kind of animal. There aren't enough of us left to do extensive studies, but the SA research center in DC has my x-rays and so forth in their library."

That was the most he'd really spoken about his people since we'd met, so I didn't push; I was trying to encourage the good memories, but I had to be careful. He'd lived 400 years in peace and only 10 in slavery, but those 10 had caused so much damage it was as if there was no amount of happiness that could outweigh them. I hoped that eventually we could tip the scales, if I could keep him from going completely batfuck insane.

Or myself, at this rate.

"Tell me about being a rethla," I said, keeping my voice down in the quiet, dark room. It always took him about half an hour to drift off once we were in bed, and it was either steer the conversation or venture into dangerous territory with his brooding.

He didn't sound at all bothered by the request, which was a good sign. "What do you want to know?"

"How did you become one?"

He nuzzled my ear, and his voice was low and almost a purr, a sign that he was feeling comparatively well and had probably had a good, if long, day. The sound brought heat rushing through me, but I ignored it.

"At the age of thirteen every Elf is sent to a House--a college, more or less, where they learn whatever calling they were born to. There's a ritual, a sort of divination, that identifies that calling, but usually by the time we come of age it's pretty clear what we're suited for. Every House has its own requirements for graduation. Ours was an eight year training program followed by a two-year novitiate."

"You started learning how to get people off when you were 13?"

"Not exactly. We started with basic magical techniques, energy work, learning our own bodies. After a year we moved into our erotic education, but even then we didn't lay a hand on another until we were sixteen."

"So what happens if someone decides she doesn't want to be something? Are you allowed to change your mind?"

A bit surprised by the question, he paused, then said, "You know, I don't think that's ever happened."

"That's too bad."

"Why do you say that?"

"Well…are you going to want to go back to your old life, once this is all over? You said that rethla don't have life partners or even real relationships, that you live for those you serve but aren't monogamous. Where does that leave you?"

"I don't know. Honestly I'm trying not to think about it. There's not much of a precedent for a rethla falling in love, if that's what it is."

"Oh, it is," I informed him. "Trust me, I'm psychic."

"Are you? I had no idea."

I flicked him in the shoulder, and he nipped my ear good-naturedly. "I don't know," he repeated, starting to sound like he was about to slide into sleep. "I'm not really sure what I am anymore."

I stroked his hair, guiding his head to my shoulder. "You're Rowan. The rest, we'll figure out."

A sigh, and he murmured, "Good night, anama."

I smiled into his hair. We hadn't exactly been having Elvish lessons, but I had picked up a few phrases from him, and that particular term was one I loved: it was one of their seven words for "friend," and the one that held the connotation of two people connected at the spirit, something between "friend" and "soul mate." The other word he used for me, fedela, was more like "friend with benefits."

No matter how bad things got and no matter how drained I was by my weird new life, that made it all worthwhile…for now.

*****

Of course, it was hard to remember the contentment of wandering off into dreams with one's lover when standing up for the third hour in a row, gigantic headphones covering my ears and shatterproof goggles over my eyes, with my foot throbbing dully and my arms practically shrieking in pain, trying yet again to get a small lead projectile to actually hit a target and not the wall.

On weekends the shooting range was open to anyone who wanted to practice, or to special sessions above and beyond the schedule. That Sunday I'd gotten a mad whim to come see what I could do without a vampire breathing down my neck, and so far, the answer was "absolute dick."

I was getting angry, which even I knew was a sign I shouldn't be in here anymore.

Beck had tried me out on a variety of guns, but the one I really needed to learn on was the standard-issue SA handgun, a 9-millimeter semiautomatic something-or-other. I knew I was supposed to remember the specifics, as there were at least a dozen different varieties of firearm I'd have to at least practice on, but Beck had been mildly comforting when she had told me that when I got out in the field, being a psychic Agent I'd most likely only have to carry this one, and even then I probably wouldn't have to use it except in a dire emergency. Psychics didn't go out alone, and it was considered the responsibility of their team to protect them.

"Think of it this way," she'd said. "You've actually already shot more people than most Agents ever do."

Very funny. I still, however, had to pass the course and the test.

That wasn't looking terribly likely at this point.

I looked at the gun in my hand, still baffled that I was holding a piece of equipment that could, with one squeeze of the trigger, end a life. I'd heard a lot of people talk about how powerful they felt using one of these, and in movies whoever had the guns was the one in charge. Was it having power over life and death? Was it having an extension of the penis metaphor, all very Freudian? Was it the societally-encoded sense of authority and danger given to anyone who could kill so easily, so thoughtlessly? It always looked so effortless on film. Hell, it even looked effortless when Beck pumped bullets into a target.

But it wasn't like that, not for me. I felt wrong, like an impostor. And the truth was, Jason was right--if I couldn't pull the trigger I had no business in the field. This was law enforcement, not a video game. These were real bullets, and chances were one of these days that human-shaped target at the far end of the range was going to be a living, breathing person, or at least a demon.

My eyes moved from the gun down to my bandaged foot. Real blood, real pain. I'd barely even hit myself, too--a bad graze, with the bullet ricocheting off the wall and lodging itself in the door. Beck had been livid, but had also laughed her ass off at me hopping around crying, as she hit the emergency button and summoned the medical staff. Even something as ridiculous as shooting oneself in the foot got full attention down here. There were incident reports filed by me, Beck, and Dr. Nava, and signed off on by my counselor. Every round fired from every weapon registered to the SA had to be accounted for.

Real blood. And next time it might not be a graze, or my foot, or even me.

I set the gun down on the bar in front of me and pulled off the protective gear, suddenly fighting back tears. It was all too much. Any semblance of a normal life had been sucked out of me, but I wasn't fit for anything extraordinary--the best I could hope for was to end up in dispatch instead of Admin. A couple of months ago that would have been enough for me, but now, I was as confused about myself as Rowan was.

Add to that, the night before had been bad, worse than I was ready to deal with after the calm of Friday night. I'd had to give him a double dose of morphine to fight off the pain, and even then he'd shaken and cried out, not recognizing me or anything around us, lost in flashbacks and searing agony. I hadn't slept. It had been a stupid idea to come here, but I was restless and unhappy and needed something to do, and unless it was an emergency there was a 12-hour waiting period on off-base passes.

The last couple of people in the range had left, and I was alone, just me and a gun in a long narrow lane with a still-untouched target at the end. I leaned back against the wall, wiping sweat off my forehead with a trembling hand, and before I knew it I was sinking, sliding down to the cold concrete floor, crying into my arms, leaning on my knees.

I don't know how long I was there before I heard the door open, but I started and looked up through my tears, feeling my heart sink even lower.

SA-7, still in full uniform complete with coat and weaponry, stood in the doorway, watching me impassively, as if he stumbled across weeping women every day.

We stared at each other for a long moment, and I expected him to reprimand me or at least tell me smugly to get up and go cry in my quarters, but instead, he walked up to the bar and picked up the gun I'd been shooting, looking it over.

I saw him smile, and he looked over at me, holding up the gun in one hand and the clip in the other. "You unloaded it."

I nodded, confused. "So?"

"So, you're learning."

I shrugged. "Not enough. I'm sorry. I just don't think I can do this."

"Come here."

I forced myself to my feet, and over to his side, where he took the ear protectors and put them back on my head, then the goggles. He lay the gun back down where it was, then moved to stand behind me; I felt his hands on my shoulders, light but strong.

There was a sort of tap at the back of my mind, and I realized he had opened a telepathic channel to me; I was too astonished not to reciprocate, and his voice, commanding but somehow soothing, filled my mind.

[Pick it up.]

I frowned. "Don't you need protective stuff too?"

[You can't damage a vampire's hearing. Now pick it up.]

I obeyed, and loaded it, not sure where he was going with this but frankly amazed that he was a) touching me, b) allowing me close enough to even hear him mind-to-mind, and c) being nice to me, sort of.

[Now. When you raise energy and move it, how does it work?]

I didn't put it into words, but the images were easy enough to show him. Raising energy was as natural to me as grounding, but worked in the opposite direction--grounding, I anchored myself to the Earth, whereas what he wanted me to show him was how I brought energy out of myself and into the universe to work magic.

[But it still starts with grounding,] he pointed out, displaying a familiarity with energy work that I wouldn't have expected. [So ground, Witch.]

Easier said than done with a vampire less than a foot from my throat, but I wasn't an amateur at this; I brought my awareness back to my breath, and let it calm me, following it in and out. Within moments my tears and anger had dropped to a manageable level. It was a bit embarrassing that I'd let it get so out of hand.

[Good. Now follow my lead, and breathe.]

Images and sensations flowed into me, implanting knowledge the same way Rowan did, but this wasn't some rarefied psychic discipline taught through my body, it was a purely physical lesson taught through the mind. I'd had no idea Jason was so powerful.

I let his mind wrap around mine, and partially surrendered control of my body. My stance changed, relaxed; I turned slightly sideways to the target; I breathed slowly and deeply, and on the outbreath squeezed the trigger; and before I could even spare a single concrete thought, a half-dozen tiny explosions erupted through my arm, and I was staring at a human shape with six holes in it.

"Oh my god."

[Again. Seek your ground, and from there, breathe and release.]

I did it again.

And again.

And again, this time without him prompting me.

They weren't excellent shots, by any means, but they all hit the target. My heart was in my throat, and I was sweating buckets from maintaining the contact, but I was fighting off tears again, this time of relief.

"I'm not hopeless," I panted. "I don't believe it."

He took the gun from me, and without even looking at the target, held out his arm sideways and fired a single shot through the center of its forehead.

I gulped.

He smiled. "Eventually you'll be able to do that. But for now, work with what you've learned today. You had a mental block against this and it should have been addressed. Hopefully now that the basics are in your mind you'll be able to come to terms with this part of the job. You're focusing too much on the negative aspects and not on what you're really doing: protecting innocent people from those who would harm or exploit them. Believe me, Sara, if there's a way to avoid shooting someone, we find it. Well, most of us do."

"Why didn't Beck teach me that way?"

"Beck is not a powerful telepath. She can receive, as from the Ears, but her projection is weak without technological backup. She wasn't trying to make life hard for you--if I'd known you were having this kind of trouble I would have stepped in earlier."

"Would you have?"

Again, our eyes met, and I sensed a challenge, one I wasn't stupid enough to rise to. I looked away first.

"What you do in your private time is not my business," he said flatly.

"But it's not like that," I insisted. "I swear."

"I'll leave you to sign out; I'm sure you know the procedure by now."

He turned to walk away, and I grabbed his arm, not thinking until it was too late that that might not be the brightest idea in the world.

He looked down at his arm and my hand, then up at my face, and his blue eyes were ringed with silver. Oh, that had to be a bad, bad sign. "Let go," he said, and though he was perfectly calm, there was frost in his voice.

"Please, just listen to me. Please."

I dropped his wrist and stepped back, and he glared at me for a moment before crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. "All right."

I found that, with him standing there, waiting for an explanation, I had no idea what to say. The brief moment of shared purpose between us had vanished, and the wall had slammed back down. I was facing an alien creature, a stranger.

"It's not what you think. It's not love. I mean, it is, but not that kind. I don't even really know what to call it, but…god, I'm saying this wrong." I sounded like an idiot, and worst of all, my eyes were burning again. A hot tear, and another, ran down my cheek, and I knew I was turning red--it was even more humiliating than shooting myself in the fucking foot. Here I was, a grown woman, trying to defend my sex life to an armed man old enough to be my great-grandparent.

I broke down again, turning away, balling up my fists and pressing them into my closed eyes. "You don't understand," I managed. "It hurts. It hurts so much and I'm so tired, and everyone hates me, and there's nobody I can tell. And you're probably going to fire me now anyway and you know, I'm starting to think that's a good idea, because I'm just fucking it all up, and…and I don't even know if I'm really helping him. It's so awful. I'm so tired. I'm sorry."

All of that came out in halting gasps between sobs, and I waited for derisive laughter or impatience, wishing the ground would swallow me, or at least that I had the guts to pick up the 9-millimeter and stick it in my mouth. How long had I wanted a place to belong? And now that I'd found something to be a part of, it turned out I wasn't good enough. It was the same story I'd written for myself half a dozen times since I ran away from home, and I knew how it was going to end.

I wish I could describe how shocked I was when I felt his arms around me, but there really aren't words. The smell of sweat and smoke and wool, along with something beneath it that was impossible to define but very old, hit me with the force of a brick wall, and I clung, desperate, burying my face in the cool skin of his neck and bawling like an abandoned toddler. I felt something cold and hard jab into my hip, and my brain vaguely assured me it was in fact a pistol and not a penis, which would have been funny if I could have laughed.

I cried, and cried, and he simply stood there holding me, arms and coat both wrapped around me like protective wings. I hadn't known what to say, but as it turned out I didn't need to--I only had to let him see.

Understanding dawned, and the arms tightened almost fiercely.

Finally, finally, I caught my breath, but I simply didn't have the strength to drag myself back to calm. Again, I felt the mental touch, and something else unexpected happened: warm, liquid relaxation poured into me, the same as that first night I'd been brought here, but with a different flavor. Rowan's energy was vibrant and gentle, touched with water and the taste of fresh-turned earth; Jason's was dark and sweet, like old wine kissed with fire. I felt myself tumbling from consciousness, and I might have fought it, but the relief was so intense that I surrendered, my body going limp, caught and lifted up and carried into the welcoming dark.

*****

I woke in my own bed, and the first thing I saw was Jason, sitting in the chair in the corner with Pywacket curled up and purring loudly in his lap. There were candles burning, as well as a stick of incense on my dresser. The Agent was still in uniform and even as odd as the juxtaposition was between him and the scene, he was almost unbearably attractive, at home in his body in a way I could never be.

"I owe you an apology," he said.

I sat up, pulling the comforter around me. I was in a pair of sweats and a tank top--he'd changed me at some point. That thought was far less disturbing than it would have been if I'd thought for a minute he cared one way or the other. I shrugged.

"I didn't think I was the jealous type," he went on, "but apparently I am. It was unprofessional of me."

My eyes hurt. In fact I hurt pretty much all over, and my foot was killing me. Dr. Nava had prescribed some Vicodin but I had avoided them for the most part since they made me groggy. Right now a bit of grog might be just what the doctor ordered.

Jason inclined his head toward the bedside table, and I saw he'd found my prescription bottle and set it there along with a glass of water. I cast him a grateful look and fumbled the bottle open.

He watched, and I sensed he was fighting with himself about what to say or not to say to me, but after a pause he said, "I'm in love with Rowan. You know that."

I smiled a little. "I know."

"Then you probably figured out that he was the Elf I told you about that evening in my office."

"Yeah."

"So I'm well aware of what he's been through. I've seen it. I'm not a strong empathy, but I felt it. And I know that I can't help him, not the way you can."

I nodded. "Not yet. He's so afraid. Right now, I don't think he could handle being with a man, even if it was someone he loved, like you."

Jason stared at me, eyes widening, and I realized what I'd said.

"Shit," I sighed. "I can't seem to do anything right, can I." Seeing the absolute and utter shock on his face, I couldn't help but giggle. It wasn't really an expression that one would anticipate ever seeing in an immortal. On Jason it was nothing short of hysterically funny--he looked like someone had hit him in the back of the head with a fencepost.

"Well, it's just dumb for you two not to know anyway. It's so cliché, kind of soap-opera with a bit of Shakespearean comedy-of-errors thrown in. But you're both already hurting enough over each other. I'm not going to make it worse. He loves you. Completely. But the problem is…okay, one problem is…his kind aren't supposed to get involved one on one; they're supposed to love everyone equally and serve everyone equally."

"His…his kind?" Jason could barely speak, but the need to know the truth was far too pressing.

"Yes. Among his people he's some sort of courtesan/healer type thing, a--"

"Rethla," he finished for me, nodding to himself as if the pieces of a puzzle had just fallen into place. "Of course…god, I should have seen it before."

"You know what rethla are?"

"After the SA sent Rowan here to Austin with Dr. Nava, I did some research on the Elven race. I'd heard of them but never seen a real one before, so I was curious. The archives didn't have much, but they did mention the rethla."

"So did you get transferred here on purpose because of Rowan?"

"No, I got transferred here because they lost their top two Agents and needed someone of my level to take over. Plus I'd been wanting to work here for years; Austin has a reputation as the best branch of the entire Agency." A slightly sheepish smile flickered on his lips. "The fact that he was here just made it that much more attractive."

I ran my hands through my hair, wondering what I looked like--probably like a tumbleweed who'd lost a fight with a porcupine. "So what happens now?"

Jason considered that, absently scratching Py's chin; the cat was in heaven. "I'm giving you 48 hours' leave to get yourself together. I'll file it with Nava; we can blame it on your foot if you like. I'd recommend that you get the hell out of this building. I'll notify Personnel that I've approved a pass for you. Go into town, see a movie, go to the park. Anything to get you away from all the responsibility you've quite foolishly shouldered at a time when you already had enough on your plate."

"You would do the same thing," I pointed out, "if you could."

"Of course I would. But I'm older than you, and stronger, physically."

"Not just physically."

Another smile, and was it affection I saw, or at least appreciation? "Don't underestimate yourself, Sara. But you still shouldn't be doing this alone."

"Dr. Nava knows," I said, rubbing my eyes wearily. "She's been giving us drugs. When he has an…episode, there's really intense nerve pain, and it was hard for them to find stuff that works on Elves."

"All right. So we should consult with her on this, and possibly with Dr. Cunningham; she's one of the psychologists on staff, and an expert in PTSD. I can arrange for you to talk with her yourself, too, whenever you feel overwhelmed and need someone. It's important that our Agents maintain their emotional and mental balance."

"So what are we now, Team Punani? I don't know how Rowan's going to feel about so many people knowing what's going on, like he's some sort of science project."

"He doesn't have to know."

"Have you ever tried to keep a secret from someone you're empathically linked to?"

"If anyone can manage it, you can."

He tipped Pywacket out of his lap and stood up, brushing off the mat of cat hair that had formed. Py made an exasperated noise and walked away with his tail in the air.

Jason reached into his coat and fished out something that turned out to be a small notepad with a pen attached. He scribbled something down, then ripped the top sheet off and handed it to me: his apartment number, cell phone number, and private office extension. For some reason it surprised me that he had such fine penmanship.

"You'll need this eventually," he said. "If things get out of hand, or there's some kind of emergency with him, or if…if you need anything at all."

I nodded, not quite able to process one more surprise on a heap of surprises. "Thank you."

"Keep me updated on your progress," he instructed. "Here and elsewhere."

He started to leave, but I asked hesitantly, "Are you sure you're going to be all right…with this? I know it can't be easy, knowing we're…"

He bowed his head. "This isn't about what I want. It's about Rowan, and I know in the end it's for the best."

"I don't think anyone is that selfless, immortal or otherwise," I said, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, I fully intend to drink myself to sleep tonight," he replied matter-of-factly. "And I imagine it will happen a lot for a while. Despite my reputation I am not, in fact, made of stone. I can't guarantee I won't act like an ass. But perhaps…perhaps since there are two of us now, you and I, it will be easier."

"What will?"

"Loving him," Jason answered with a smile that showed every last minute of his age. "Now go to sleep, Sara Larson."

Between one breath and the next, he had vanished, and I heard the door close quietly in his wake.

*****

"My brother says that I should be nicer to you," Beck informed me as she laid out the weapons and ammo for our session three days later. "He says, in fact, that if he weren't up to his ears in casework right now, he'd take over your training himself."

"He said that?" I asked in amazement.

"Yeah."

"And you don't believe him. About being nice to me."

"Look," she said, snapping a clip into her own gun almost viciously. "People who hurt my stupid brother tend to end up wishing they hadn't. Usually with a few broken bones for their trouble. You come sashaying in here with your gorgeous tits and those big innocent eyes and start boning the guy he's all twitterpated over, and I have this funny urge to break my foot off in your ass."

"I know," I began, but she kept right on talking like she hadn't heard me.

"So he says, leave the girl alone, she's trying to help, and I know that underneath all those guns and that cast iron shield he's got a heart like butter, and I don't really believe him. He's a moron and I love him. Same with Rowan. So if you know what's good for you, you won't fuck this up."

I looked away, down the range, at the target. "I don't want to. I want them to be together. And I'm…I'm scared that I am going to fuck it up, Beck. But when someone needs my help so badly, what else can I do?"

"Right. I bet you'd be a lot more inclined to delegate if this wasn't getting you laid."

She handed me the ear protectors, and I held them a moment, staring at them, before replying. "Have you ever had sex with someone, and afterward, they started screaming in pain?"

Beck stared at me, her blue eyes hard, and she sounded almost hesitant as she asked, "Does that really happen?"

"Yeah. You can ask Dr. Nava. The people that hurt him screwed him up permanently. He may not ever be able to make love without it hurting. But he says he has to get past the emotional trauma, has to be able to stand the physical pain, because…"

"Because he wants to be with someone," Beck said, and for just a second I saw the glimmer of actual emotion in her eyes. "He doesn't want to be alone."

"Because he loves your stupid brother," I corrected gently.

Now she looked away. "God damn it. I really didn't want to like you."

"You don't have to." I shrugged. "As long as we can get along. But I can't help it--I like you."

"That's because I'm awesome," Beck pointed out, as if the point were self-evident. I guess it was.

I grinned. "Exactly."

"This is just twisted and fucked up," she observed, watching critically as I put on the protective gear. She handed me the 9-millimeter and its bullets, and I loaded it. "You're fucking my brother's not-quite-boyfriend, and not only am I supposed to cheer you on, I'm also supposed to teach you how to aim."

I bit my lip, turned my head toward the target, raised the gun, and fired.

Beck's eyes went wide.

"I'm learning," I said, and smiled.