Essex

 

The cultural center of London

“What's wrong?” Mickey Smith's dark features curled in a frown as he looked over to his girlfriend.

“You don't want to know.” Rose Tyler replied accurately and honestly.

“Rose,” Mickey said tiredly. “Let it go. He left over a year ago.”

“And I can't figure why. Well nothing that makes any sense anyway.” Mickey sighed audibly. They'd had this conversation enough times for him to know what she'd meant by the remark. But walking around Trafalgar Square at 9 at night, two days before Christmas was not the place for this discussion.

“It's alright for him to be gone Rose.” was all Mickey said in response. “The rest is his problem not yours.” he added in a comforting tone. This wasn't the time to ask what he'd brought her out here to ask. But perhaps when they got back to their place and finished dinner...before she started worrying about going to her mum's for Christmas. It was never a pleasant time for either of them; Christmas with Jackie Tyler.

Rose sighed, then smiled.“Thank you.” She leaned in to kiss Mickey on the lips. “For everything.” They shared a warm smile. The year since the battle of Canary Wharf had been the happiest and most contented year of Rose Tyler's life. And Mickey had made it possible. She hoped that someday soon they could be more than just boyfriend and girlfriend, but somehow could never make herself believe it.

2113 Sterling Drive, Essex.

Sarah Jane walked into in to her son's room. The first thing she saw was the homework assignment on the wall. She beamed with pride. Luke was barely in the 10^th grade and he was already showing up his teachers. I know what you may be thinking; that such an attitude was typical tenth grade behavior. You'd be absolutely correct, if the boy's classes were tenth grade level. They weren't; they were for a masters, of physics. You may now therefore better appreciate her pride in her son...Luke was asleep, or seemed to be at any rate. And not wanting to intrude any further than she had, she turned around to leave.

“They literally don't know what they're talking about.” Luke said through closed eyelids.

“I take it you're not just being derogatory.” Sarah Jane replied gently.

“They teach relativity and quantum physics, but treat them as nothing but theories or suggestions.”

“As long as YOU know that you are right, then that's all you need to know.” She said, repeating words that she knew must sound tired to his ears by now.

“You're right I do know. But why? I mean how can I be so certain?” He sat up from the bed and swung his legs around over the mattress. “I know you know.”

“It's because of your father.” She said with a frankness that surprised her as much as it did him. “He treated these concepts as fact, even common knowledge.” She closed her eyes to push back the image in her mind. When she opened them again Luke was looking at her with concern as well as his trademark curiosity. “I guess we humans do have some form of genetic memory.” she finished coldly.

“Mom, I know you don't want to hear this but it's freaking me out and I need to tell someone.” He paused and waited for a response. No verbal reply came, but her eyes sent him a clear message 'proceed with caution but proceed'. At least that must have been his reading of it because he continued quickly. “I feel like I MISS him.” Suddenly he had no desire to keep talking. “I thought you should know.”

“It's..It's not that surprising Luke. I miss him...Sometimes.”

She walked out of the room, shutting the door gently behind her. Luke was her son, he deserved the truth. Her mind kicked into 'thousand mile' mode the instant she got back to her room. As she lay down on the sofa, almost hitting her head on the bookcase, she found herself smiling. “After all that time; who would have believed it?” It was an amusing thought, more for the fact that it was true at all than for the irony of the truth. She'd spent about half a decade gallivanting throughout the universe with a self described 'alien physician who happens to be a pacifist'. And after all that, who ended up stealing her heart? A genuine solider who even 12 years after being discharged from service, STILL carried a gun everywhere he went. Not that she had particular cause to complain about that, the pistol had saved her life; it was how they'd met in the first place. Of course thinking about how they'd met brought her the far less pleasant memory of how he'd gone. In her mind she was there again. It had been two days after Luke's third birthday. She'd come home from work to find a picture of an atom drawn in blue crayon on the table. Beside it was a note from her husband.

“I didn't know this was possible. I won't ask you to forgive me.

I only hope one day you will understand.”

...She'd fallen asleep crying that night. It hadn't occurred to her until a few days later that the 'this' in the note might refer to her son's picture of the atom. But why would that have scared Jerome off? Why would he, or any father, have felt fear instead of pride? She raised her head from the sofa. She'd put the question off long enough and she needed to figure this out. The answer came in 3/8ths of a second. “It was literally because of him.” she said in a low voice, but letting anger seep through anyway.

Myraid Whovian Adventures

 So finally finally FINALLY getting abck into writing. This was my... well this is my more traditional fare. Not Camelot, not Superhero.

Martha Jones sat quietly in her chair. A beautiful lunch had been set by her guide and traveling companion. She was hungry and some of her favorite foods were set out: ginger noodles and crisp green beans, things of that sort. The problem was she was hungrier for explanations than she was for sustenance. It had been a long time since Smith had agreed to sit and eat with her, just sharing a meal as friends. And while he had joined her at the table, he hadn't said a word.

“Is this a goodbye meal?” She asked eventually. “Is that why everything's so nice?”

“Neither of us expected this would last forever.” Smith replied stoically. “Which honestly is a welcome change.” He continued in a softer voice.

“What do you mean?” Martha queried.

“Most of my companions lately had this feeling or sensation that they and I would go on and on like this forever. Bouncing around in time, exploring both space and cultures, getting stuck in the middle of major problems, finding genius and risky ways out of them. The last time I believed that, my friend was killed. I haven't made that mistake since.” He stopped staring at his hand and looked Martha straight in the eyes. “If I don't say goodbye to you soon, I'll be weeping over letting you die. I prefer the perception of being a pratt than being a...whatever you call someone who leaves a trail of corpses in their wake.”

Martha Jones stared at her friend. Her mouth was firmly closed, to prevent looking like any more of a fool than she already felt. “I'm sorry Doctor.” She whispered. “I understand a bit now...What was her name?”

Smith looked confused. “HIS name. It wasn't a romantic relationship. In fact I didn't think much of him most of the time we traveled together. He'd been a con-man most of his life and I thought he should have been grateful I wasn't the time-cop he took me for. But dying in a hail of Dalek laser beams, just so I could finish my work? It changed my mind pretty quickly...Of course I never got the chance to tell him.”

“You know,” Martha began after a few moments of quiet. “You're right. It is time we parted ways. As long as we do so on good terms, I don't see a problem. But can you do something for me?”

“I'll do my best.” Smith admitted gently.

“Set me down in the United Kingdom, but not in England?” Martha responded easily. “I want to explore just a little bit, without feeling like a total lost kid.”

“Cardiff Wales alright?” Smith asked at once. “We're heading there anyway; a pit stop for what the TARDIS uses as fuel.” Martha nodded slowly. A few minutes of peaceful quiet later they heard the gears grind and then quiet down. They had landed.

Martha stood up, shouldered her backpack and smiled faintly. “It was good though wasn't it?” She suggested. “Everything we saw, every nook and cranny of different celebrated legends?” Smith gave one of his rare, genuine smiles, and nodded in return. “Come back sometime if you want.” Martha breathed. “We can't run forever, not in a huge stretch like that. But this goodbye doens't have to last forever either.”

“I''ll...see what I can do.” Doctor John Smith answered in a voice barely above a whisper.

As she walked out of the Tardis and into the clear blue air of what she judged to be a day in early autmun, Martha wasn't sure how she felt. She had known for a while she was living in someone else's shadow. That it was out of sorrow, not romantic love didn't change the distance she'd sensed from her friend. Was it enough to finally have an explanation for the hidden emotions nad half-answers? She decided it was.

“Excuse me miss, are you lost?” A male voice stated from a short distance to her left. She turned and saw a man in his late thirty's with dark hair and a very concerned expression walking up to her. He stopped a few feet from her and didn't say another word.

“Not lost, no.” Martha responded quietly. “I never know where I'm headed so I can't really lose my way, not in the traditional sense anyway.”

“A wanderer.” The man responded calmly. “Listen, I realize how weird this sounds but, are you traveling with anyone?”

“Not anymore.” Martha answered honestly. “It's going to take some time for me to get over it. And we might as well introduce ourselves. I'm Martha Jones.” She extended her right hand.

“Captain Jack Harkness.” The man replied, clasping her hand firmly in his own. “I uh...I'm not sure what to do now.”

“Meaning what?”

“I'm tempted to take you below to show you more of my life. The problem is...no one is supposed to see that. The alternative being getting a coffee around the corner, but that might be more exposure.”

“I hope you don't take this wrong but you're sounding like a Torchwood agent.” Jack's face flushed. “I know about them. I had a cousin who worked at canary Wharf. She told me more than she probably should have. So I wasn't too surprised at what happened there.”

“Now I have a lot less reluctance bringing you downstairs. Btu do us both a favor and follow me directly up to my office when we get there?”

“I'm fine with that.”

It was in silent confidence she followed her host down the elevator and through a couple of corridors before coming into a wide space filled with lots of technology and scanning equipment. True to her word she didn't say anything to the two men she passed as she followed Captain Harkness up some metal stairs to his office. There wasn't much to say. It wasn't til Jack had closed the door to his fairly-organized office and reached out a mug of coffee in one hand, a mug of tea in the other that she even found anything worth breaking silence.

“I'm seriously hoping one of these isn't drugged.” She quipped, only half-joking.

“Well, I will take whichever one you don't. I just never know coffee versus tea people as quickly as I probably should.” The man replied with a smile.

“If it's caffeinated, I'll take the tea.” She did and they sat down. For a few moments they just sipped their mugs and stared at each-other.

“Why me?” Martha asked bluntly. “Why did you come up from the down under to say hello to me?”

“I didn't.” Jack admitted haply. “I thought an old friend of mine had shown up finally. I thought I'd find some answers from him. Apparently either my scanner still needs some tuning or I missed him by about 30 seconds yet again.”

“My thought is the latter.” Martha quipped easily. “

“Why do you say that?” Jack inquired shortly.

“Two reasons. One: You're Torchwood. You're entire organization was designed and brought together to protect Earth against alien incursions like Smith. It makes sense you'd know how to track alien technology like his ship. The other is...I don't want to sound like an intelligence agent.”

“You mean you don't want to be a Quisling. You know the Doctor and don't want to give him up to his enemies. Well, I have no way to convince you things have changed in this organization since the battle of Canary Wharf. But my personal motivations are different than those of my superiors. I don't wish him harm. And the questions I have for him...probably couldn't go on any official report anyway.”

“If I told you I've spent months of my life traipsing around the known and unknown universe with an alien who never speaks his feelings and has a binary cardio-vascular system...you wouldn't be floored?”

“That's the Doctor alright. And yes, I can track the TARDIS. I spent some time inside it actually, if you can believe that.” Jack added casually. “Actually, something is a little off here. The Doctor was one of the most passionate people I ever knew. The destruction of his home-planet might have had something to do with that. But he never hid his sorrow or anger very well at all. I don't suppose he told you how old he is?”

“He's ancient and forever.” Martha droned. “He's seen the universe grow old and never goes back to see how far we've come...You meant if he's older or younger as I know him than when you knew him.” She realized. Jack nodded slowly. “Jack, if you are who I think you are...he is definitely older now.”

“How can I confirm your suspicion without breaking his faith in me?” Jack Harkness pressed.

“Did you die in a blaze of Dalek laser beams?” Martha responded bluntly. Jack looked stunned. “I'll take that as a yes.” Jack nodded slowly. After a moment he found his voice, weak though it was.

“It's the last thing I remember, before the accident. I've been waiting for him to come back with some genius, half-cocked explanation for...whatever happened. Hence being sorrowful when I missed him again.”

“This all is pretty new to me.” Martha posed. “He and I had already decided to part ways when I found my answer, straight from his fairly unguarded heart. I guess I'm not making sense? I learned minutes ago that Smith plays things so close to the vest because the last time he trusted someone with his feelings, he basically lost control...or was devastated from the loss. I still can't read him all that well. I guess he decided it's better not to risk trust and friendship, if people are just going to leave you behind or die on you.”

“Martha, that doesn't make any sense.” Jack insisted. “You're making it sound like he's mourning the death of an old friend.” His mouth dropped open as the implication of Martha's words slowly reached from his ears to his brain. “He doesn't know I survived?” He breathed finally.

“Is there a reason he should believe that?” Martha returned with feeling and desire in her words.”I've met the Daleks myself. Nothing survives their weapons. Nothing that isn't one of them avoids their hit list.”

“It's just...I always thought he was the one who brought me back. Kind of a going away present and an 'I'm sorry' all in one. Which is why I was so confused that I've lived a century here on Earth without hearing from him. You're telling me I got that all deeply wrong?”

“It must have been something or someone else to bring you back to life. Trust me Jack: He thinks you're dead. From what he said right ebfore he dropped me off here, he's chosen this cold and detached life to avoid being hurt by the death of a friend. Once I figured that out, I was a lot more 'OK' with leaving him.” The pair sat in silence for a few moments.

A young woman with straight dark hair and a police badge walked up the steps. She tapped on the clear glass door and waited. Jack waved her in. “We'd like to talk with you downstairs if you have a minute.” The woman said meekly. “Nothing really is going on, and hopefully it won't...But we need to talk.”

“I'll be right down.” Jack replied instantly and honestly. “Gwen Cooper, this is Martha Jones. She's set me straight on a few things. For once I'll be willing to listen.”

Gwen smiled and walked out the door and down the steps again.

Martha Jones waited. “I imagine you have a lot of questions about that?” Jack postulated.

“Let's get to your team. I get the feeling you'll have as much to say to them as to me.” Martha replied.

“With the exception of the use of one word, you are perfectly right.” Jack replied evasively.

Jack Harkness walked into the very middle of the room, with Martha Jones a little behind him. Gwen Cooper was on his immediate left. Two men, both fairly well-built and stone faced were right in front their leader. It looked strangely like the trial of a prisoner. The slightly stockier man, who clearly had no overabundance of patience, stepped forward.

“I won't beat around the bush. You are our leader when it comes to this work, you should not be our director when it comes to our lives.” He spoke as though he'd finally come to a conclusion, and looked away as if he expected a hammer to fall.

“Hopefully eventually I'll be able to drop that perception.” Jack muttered quickly.

“It's not a perception, it's a reality.” The other man stated in a small voice. “Even according this company, you're not supposed to have this much control over things not directly affecting our mission.”

“That's not what I mean Ianto.” Jack replied in a rush. “I don't want to be seen as a director anymore. And I'm not just saying that because we have company. I'd like to continue to be a leader. I was a solider most of my life and I know how to inspire both confidence and action. That's the point. I want to inspire confidence, and eventually loyalty...not demand it. I know I have a lot to do to convince you, of all this, especially you, Owen. But I promise, if you give me a chance, I will find a way to prove my intentions.”

“Uh, not saying we're not glad to hear that, but I have to ask...” The man referred to as Owen stated.

“It wasn't for regulations that I ran this place with near-military standards and extreme detachment.” Jack Harkness began quietly.” He seemed to realize Martha would have no context for his words. He turned to his guest and began.“I hope you understand I really am different than my superiors. As far as how we treat aliens anyway. I just wish I had treated my own staff with the same consideration.”

“Okay, I'm very lost right now.” Martha Jones admitted.

“I go against policy as far as how to deal with the threats my team discovers and deals with. I don't see potential enemies every time I meet an extra-terrestrial. I've made the same mistake with my team the last year as you just described from as Smith: keeping everyone at arms length. It's more understandable for us here, more natural I should say. We're a regimented and efficient organization for the most part. I've never seen a reason to make an exception...Until just now.”

“Because now you see where that choice leads.” Martha replied in a small voice.

“Well yeah. But also because you've shown me how wrong I was about him to begin with.” Jack said with a small laugh.

“I hate to admit it but I'm confused.” Ianto put forth easily.

“Join the club.” Owen responded.

“Torchwood was originally designed to protect the entire Earth from alien threats like Doctor John Smith.” Jack recited. “Actually let's sit down for all of this back in the conference room.”

“Hell with that let's sit down right here.” Gwen insisted. Everyone sat on the floor right where they stood, even Captain Jack.

“I traveled with this same Doctor Smith for a brief time. His binary cardio-vascular system and the fact that he carries a sonic tool better fit to build things than to kill things suit him well. He loves leading with the emotional heart and fixing things rather than attacking them. Something eventually cracked the shell that was holding back what his enemies referred to as 'the oncoming storm'. I was a few rooms down from him when flames shot up from all over. 'Electrical lightning in very small stripes both blue and red' would probably be a better description. What's weird is I had already been shot by the Daleks. I guessed that Smith had somehow brought me back to life. I've spent the last one hundred and forty-nine years wondering why someone who cares enough about me to restore me to life, wouldn't care enough to come back to see me again. Or explain why I can't die anymore.”

“And this woman set you straight on that?” Ianto queried.

“I'm Martha Jones. Smith just dropped me off a few minutes ago. And as I knew him...he still thinks your Captain Harkness died in that blast.”

Riding the Sky with Spencer

The quickest of one shots. Also some of my earliest work. So much so I don't even remember writing it! 

I’ve seen some funny things in my time, but this takes the cake.

Is it a puzzle for us to solve, or simply an ancient riddle from some bygone era?

I’m definitely hoping the latter, but I don’t know.

“True, I myself would prefer it if there were no direct connection to us, but my experiences to date seem to indicate otherwise. Since joining Starfleet I have seen..”

You’re a member of Starfleet?”

“I am. Why does that surprise you?”

Your uniform is not exactly Starfleet issue.”

“Strange. I Was just thinking yours was somewhat dated. That it is remarkably similar to the late 22nd century standard uniform.”

That’s where I’m from genius!

“I did not intend offense sir. I was simply attempting an objective assessment.”

(more slowly) Why do you talk like that?

Are you referring to my formal intonations sir? (Trip nods)“My programming does not allow for elisions…I am an android.”

what do they call you?

My name is Data. But it is self-chosen.

Gentleman, don’t you see what this means?

‘I am afraid not sir.”

We are all Starfleet from different times. Although I don’t think Data and I are from such different eras. The people that brought us here must be very deliberate in their actions, which would indicate that this post here is intended for us specifically. (to Data) How long have you been here anyway?

“prior to the commander’s arrival, 23 minutes 11 seconds.”

and we’ve been chatting for..?

“Approximately 7 and ½ minutes.”

There must be a reason for this. I mean I have never doubted that there was some reason for anything that ever happened. I guess I mean motivation. What was my motivation in moving here. This is a small apartment, I need no other. Yet I cannot help but feel I am missing something. I chose to be alone, on the fringes as Jake would say. I still laugh at such slang. Now, as I said, . I don’t usually have a reason for keeping track of the time, but I should probably try to keep track of the days.

There is very little left to us, but we learn to make do.

I remember traveling. It was fun, exhilarating and for the most part, quite a ride. It was also a distraction, a respite and a misguided adventure. I no longer need the distraction, writing is a respite, and life is as great an adventure as I can handle right now. There is a lot going on in the here and now, and I’d better get used to living in the here and now. That’s not to say I don’t travel. I still drift off into the olden times. But it’s very brief and I no longer invest quite so much energy into them. They are brief and versatile, as they were at the start.

Came the reply from the thin and very pale young man who came out of the male washroom. The almost worried look on this agent's face quickly turned into a huge grin as he recognized the visitor. “Jonas!”

“Yeah.” Came the soft reply. “I hope I'm not interrupting anything?”

“How'd you know to find me here?” Spencer Reid asked as he motioned to a chair at the front work station. Jonas sat down as indicated then sat up equally quickly. The chair was too low to the floor for his long legs. Noticing this Spencer motioned his friend to a room up another flight of stairs. Jonas walked up the steps, with Spencer at his heels.

“What brings you here?” Spencer asked as he closed the door to the conference room.

“You do.” Jonas replied as he seated himself in the chair closest to the screen, furthest from the door. “I thought I'd check and see how you were getting along and really didn't want to check in over the phone.”

“Are you kidding me?” Spencer asked in a slow, dead serious voice.

“Nope.” Jonas replied quickly and a moment later he frowned. “Why should I kid about something like that? And why does it surprise you?”

“It's just the phone number you left me went straight to voice-mail each time I called.” Spencer stated in a tone of voice of which Jonas could make nothing. “I honestly thought you'd returned to Kelowna.”

“I did, Spencer. Council's out of session now so I took some days off. And as always I would prefer not getting into that any more than I have to.”

Spencer did not reply to that right away. And when he did it was in a slow, deliberate voice. “Jonas, I don't want to say this, but that doesn't make sense.”

“Does Kelowna not have lay councilmen?” Jonas replied stiffly.

“I don't see how working with the USAF and working as a councilman in Canada can go together.”

“Well, they don't. I was considered a deserter when I first came to be at Cheyenne Mountain. When that exile was rescinded I came home to bring...an understanding to a very gridlocked council. They don't really go hand in hand.” Jonas looked up to see a troubled expression on his friend's face.

“Alright maybe I'm imagining it but you seem to have something specific that brought you here.”

“You did Spencer. I'm not kidding about it. I had some notion of clearing up a particular past confusion ...or inaccuracy if you like that better.”

“You refer to the simple question of which 'Kelowna' you're actually from, I take it?” Reid stated with a small, forced smile.

“Well yes. But verifying any of it would require Hammond's approval. So I don't know if we even should get into this at all.”

“I uh, think I'll repeat my original question and ask how you knew to find me here?”

“General Hammond looked you up. You did say you worked with the BAU. And that organization stems from this building...It wasn't very hard after that.” Jonas Quinn's face had turned pink. Whether from embarrassment or amusement, Reid couldn't really tell. He quickly decided it wouldn't matter.

“No, I guess it wouldn't be.” Spencer admitted slowly. “Jonas, I'm not going to let you off the hook. When we first met, you were a murder suspect and a stranger, to this country if not to me. Last time we were surrounded by the rest of my team and I could understand not spilling your mind right then. And I will ask later if that was more for my sake or yours. But please, I can't go blind like this.”

“More than reasonable Spencer. And I suppose I can tell you all this without Hammond's approval...As long as I can later claim it was a fictional story or just one possible explanation. But we both should be sitting down for this.” Jonas stated, motioning Reid to a nearby chair.

Reid sat down right next to Jonas and stared at him, expectantly.

“Long story short and we go from there okay?” Jonas asked of his friend, who simply nodded. “I'm not from Canada. I'm from another planet, and a country called Kelowna. I'm as human as you are but I wasn't raised around here at all. 'Cheyenne Mountain' is known as 'Stargate Command' by my team.”

“I hate to say it but my first thought really is 'can you verify any of this?” Reid responded in a breath.

“Not without showing you the star-gate itself, which again I can't do without General Hammond's approval. And don't look at me like that. As I indicated, right now I could just be spinning a tale to gain your trust or making up a good story to explain away my idiosyncrasies. Once you're presented with proof of them it becomes, as Doctor Jackson would say 'a whole different ball game'.”

“That isn't why you're here is it...I mean you didn't come all the way from home just to explain where home is...Did you?!”

“Spencer for the last time I came to check up on you. I didn't have your contact information. This is the only way I knew to make sure you were alright. You been okay lately? You sound kind of raspy.”

“It's just I didn't really expect to see you again. And even less did I anticipate actually doubting your words. You understand the dilemma?”

Jonas took a mental look back over the two encounters he'd had with this genius. “I didn't know you'd actually meant it: I'm one of your closest friends.” He said at length. Reid's features softened a bit at this admission but his eyes remained coldly fixed on the traveler.

“You do realize it's kind of extra-ordinary what you're asking me to believe.” Reid said in a breath.

“You can accept it or not, it doesn't matter to me. I just wanted to make SURE you'd gotten better from the last time we talked. I mean the first time.” Reid gave Jonas a confused look. Jonas Quinn put his left arm straight out in front of himself and touched the inside of his left elbow with his right pointer finger. “I didn't know at the time what it really signified. I saw the marks at the Denver station and I only later learned the- interpretation for lack of another word. You looked so pale at the karaoke bar I was afraid it withered you.”

“I've pretty much kicked the habit.” Reid replied in as calm and controlled a voice as he could manage. “And I appreciate your concern.” He added solemnly.

Jonas Quinn smiled slightly and the pair stood up.

“You won't tell anyone else will you?” Jonas asked as they walked down the stairs to the bullpen.

“Anyone who would bother already knows.” Spencer replied thoughtlessly.

“I mean my own claim as to my origins.” Jonas insisted through a forced smile.

“Only as a fanciful story used to pass the time. Much like Hotchner's account of Smith is held now.”

Jonas shivered. “Do you honestly not have a winter coat?”

“It's not winter where I'm from.” Jonas replied simply. “And it was good to talk with you 'soul to soul' again Spencer. I'll miss it when I go back to the council.”

“Jonas please do me a favor and not mention the council again? It sounds like you're making it up!”

“Oh alright. But why is that the part that's making you so uncomfortable? I would think it would be the SGC...ah nevermind.”

“You have no idea how easy I find it to ignore that statement.” Spencer replied, a little shortly. “But enough of this mess. What say we go up to Alexandria, more specifically Murphy's Grand Irish Pub, get some bangers and mash?”

“Reid I get the impression you're trying a little bit more than what is usual for you, to be colloquial and congenial. I assure you it's not needful.” Jonas said with a strained face. “But if you don't mind driving us out there, I could use some vittles.”

“I can honestly say I never expected word games to come out of your mouth.” Reid said in response, obviously trying not to smile. “But sure, let's get out of here.”

The drive to Alexandria Washington took a little over 30 minutes and wasn't really anything to talk about. In fact Jonas seemed to be having trouble talking about anything at all. They were just entering the heart of the suburb when Reid pulled into a parking lot and shut off the engine.

“What's wrong?” Jonas asked in a voice as filled with trepidation as sincere concern.

“Oh I thought my phone was going off.” Jonas didn't reply except to raise an eyebrow. “It would mean we had a case and I was needed back at Quantico.” Reid explained softly. “But as it isn't really ringing, let me take this opportunity to remind you, or is it 'inform you' that you are one of my closest friends, no matter where you really come from. And there's other things to chat about than origins and explanations. It's time to be ourselves. However guarded or relaxed that means.”

“I have absolutely no trouble accepting that. I'm just glad you feel the same.”

Reid engaged the engine and exited the hotel parking lot in one smooth turn. “So what are the other members of the SGC like?” He asked his friend and soon to be messmate.

“O'Neill is a genuine solider type and a little on the sarcastic side of friendly.” Quinn replied without thinking. “Samantha Carter seemed to be a scientist first and a Major in the Army second. Teal'c was even less well educated in what is normal than I am...But he'd been around here longer than I had and still managed to teach me a thing or two about what he referred to as 'probable explanations'.”

“And Doctor Jackson?” Spencer pressed.

“I didn't know him that well.” Jonas admitted a little sadly. “I replaced him on the team when he went on medical leave. I was only able to go home when...right after...he came back.”

“Hence your desire to prove yourself when we first met you. And your general affability now. You've proven yourself to yourself...as it were.”

“Yeah, that's pretty much it.” Jonas replied with ghost of a smile.

Two minutes later they pulled into the restaurant parking lot and Jonas smiled warmly. He was certain no matter what this meal and conversation consisted of, he'd thoroughly enjoy it.

Literally everything about me

 This is not a story. it is a declaration and a open introduction.

"I don't care." It's the single most confusing and difficult statement for me to force out of my mouth. What most people mean when they say that is 'It doesn't bother me.' That's true. I'm not bothered by what I hear. Divergence or dissonance or anti-normal behaviors, none of that bothers me. But I do CARE. I care more than most people would and more than a lot of my friends would believe. Why do we so easily confuse 'It doesn't matter to me one way or another' with 'I acknowledge and I support it, it doesn't trouble me'. I first read this in the 6th grade. "Don't you guys care --Of course we care --No mean doesn't it bother you? -- No, why should it?" Because I was reading a book for fun in middle school, I assume most adults are at least familiar with the concept. My life the past 7 years taught me how wrong I was. People actually still need to be introduced to the difference between the negative and inclusive applications of “I don't care”.

I can take the alcohol just fine. I don't dilute my drinks to dilute the alcohol. Some people, if their stomachs can take it they'd drink straight vodka or straight whiskey. if diluting the drink means more gulps in the glass...so much the better. There's another difference between everyone I know who drinks regularly and myself. Between what everyone thinks of me/how they interpret my behavior. and what my behavior actually is. That is the difference between what they have learned and what I am. My taste buds are sensitive. I would not want the punch that comes from the FLAVOR of straight whiskey or straight alcohol..no matter the ABV or the gin v rum thing. I have sensitive taste buds and when I get 'hit' with anything I drink, it's the taste, not the proof that hits me. I know it's not the ABV because it's true with fruit juices and tea. I'm with my cousin Miriam WD on this one: I love corn, no seasoning, I love mild foods for the same reason. When I drink mild drinks it isn't because I'm a lightweight with alcohol, it's because I'm sensitive to sugar and because my Tongue had more receptors than most people. Everyone thinks and speak and hears in ABV in 'getting drunk' and the alcohol messing with your stomach. My stomach gets messed with plenty...because of my STOMACH, not my LIVER. And all anyone hears is what they were raised with. Or at least taken in the context they hear all the damn time. So they never know what I'm actually trying to say.

I don't identify myself as autistic. But I know that how I am mirrors autism. And if people know how to interact with a person on the spectrum, they know how to interact with me. the result of my life, my medication and my upbringing in general has created a kind of mute, careful, taking things literal easily put down person that I can totally see why autism was suspected or why people think I'm high functioning autism. the reason I don't correct them is because one: the end result is the same. And two: I still need someone to talk to me 'on my level' and take things into account. If you know how to talk to an autisitic or schziophrenic person than you know how to talk to me. But while I was diagnosed as a schizophrenic for 16 years and believed I was schizophrenic for so long and was raised with that as my reality. It fairly recently tuned out not to be true. Autism was the other suspected cause or condition, the 'on hand' fall back and the only other thing that made sense. It would have been a misdiagnosis if anyone had actually tested me for it. I am a reflection of 'on the spectrum'. The same (intrapersonal) treatments would work. As far as therapy and medication goes the treatments for autism wouldn't have worked any better than for ADHD or OCD. and I've been on meds for them too!

To clarify. I said 'I am a reflection of 'on the spectrum'. Meaning I mirror it or am mistaken for it. What people see in me is a false-positive in thier minds for autism. As far as I know I am not on the spectrum. And the reason I don't get tested is because what they are looking at is survival and conditioned responses from years of shit I shouldn't have been expected to deal with and never shared with anyone until it was way too late. I am neruodivergent. I am a-typical. But I'm no more autistic than I am schizophrenic.

'I am a reflection of 'on the spectrum'. Meaning I mirror it or am mistaken for it. What people see in me is a false-positive for autism. As far as I know I am not on the spectrum. The reason I don't get tested is because what they are looking at makes more sense than what was thought. I am neuro-divergent. I am A-typical. I am saying this because I spent 16 years on 2 categories of meds 'A-typical antipsychotics' and SNRI's. I am no more autistic than I am schizophrenic. It's just people actually have a reason to think I'm autistic and I never had the visual and auditory hallucinations people were trying to use those meds to get rid of for SIXTEEN YEARS. As I repeatedly stated I don't see them as I see you or hear them. They are just in my mind's eye. They are imaginary characters that never got turned off. (I said like this back when I still had them) It was based solely on these 'visual and auditory hallucinations' that I didn't have and *told them I didn't have I was diagnosed and treated for schizophrenia in the first place. I have a hell of a lot of anger that not only were they trying to fix the wrong thing about me, but I was never like that in the first place and I was raised believing the wrong thing about myself, with the wrong image of myself *as my reality* just because no one would listen to me.

Ultimately my point is I was diagnosed and medicated for a condition that if anyone had listened it could have been seen I didn't have. For 16 years people tried to remove these 'visual and auditory hallucinations' from me. That was regarded and listed as one of my primary symptoms. Even though I repeatedly said that I didn't see them as I see you, or hear them, they 'are' strictly in my mind's eye. I had real, visual cues or whatever to suggest I might be autistic and no one picked up on it or seriously considered it. One shrink I had early in my college years said it was 'extremely unlikely for me to be on the autistic spectrum because schizophrenic conditions and autistic disorders rarely coincide'. I am verbatem quoting her. Turns out I'm NOT schizophrenic. I only learned that for myself, for certain 5 years ago. If people hadn't been so convinced certain I was schizophrenic, enough to convince ME I was for so many years, they might have considered the other slightly more possible explanation. The medications I was put on to fight this phantom condition would never have messed me up like they have. This fits the definition of ironic, painful, even *tragic* in my book.

Lt Non and Henshaw

 

“Whatever I did to make an enemy of your person, punish me not her!”

“You have done nothing to me Henshaw. This is for those aliens you've despised and tortured all these years.”

“Damn it Nikita IS an alien! She's also the most peaceful person I know. Whatever you want from me, I implore you, don't make her suffer. There's nothing she could have done to deserve this. On that I would stake my life. You want to interrogate or torture me, that's fine. Just please don't make her watch.”

“I admit I did not anticipate this. You showing concern for an alien's life.”

“If she's here, it's because you knew she was under my command. It follows you would know that I feel responsible for her.” Hank said with a slightly tensed jaw.

Non looked like someone had slammed his face with an Nth metal 2x4. “This goes above duty to a friend Henshaw. This is...selfless concern. What makes her different?”

“Her father...the closest thing to a father she has known on this Earth is dead because of me. When he died I swore I would not fail him twice by letting any harm come to her. It's been a little over three years since that day. And she has never failed to keep me safe and to keep me sane. As a courtesy and a favor: Let me keep her safe.”

“Her father served under your command?” The woman's voice echoed.

“Jeremiah freed me from the D.E.O.” Nikita said wearily. “He served under Hank for almost 6 years without once disobeying orders...that I knew of. But he could see I didn't belong there, and couldn't turn away. He was the closest to what a father should be that I have ever known.”

“And I expect that as a fellow solider, you can appreciate my duty, Non.”

“That, I can do.” He waved his hand to a pale, mottle-skinned alien with 3 obsidian eyes. “Take that one to crew quarters. And make sure the walls are sound proof.” The alien scientist half led, half carried Nikita out of the room. “Do not ask further favors. You will receive none.”

“I shall not. Unless by some miracle you get me to plead for mercy.”

“That would be a miraculous sight indeed.” Non replied simply. An icon on Non's control board lit up. “Nikita is safe. Now, to the business at hand.” He pressed a button on his control console and a metal coil wrapped itself around Hank's neck.

“Non__Thank you.” Hank sighed heavily. “Now let's get down to it.”

“I can almost promise I will hear you scream before you sit up again.”

“I can promise that you best not be suffering from what humans call 'mission creep'. That would be disappointing.”

Non adjusted a dial. “Yes it would. Considering what this is going to be like for you.”

“We are here to get Kara back and find out what happened when they landed. NOT to wage war with the humans nor for your personal satisfaction, Non.”

“That doesn't mean I'm not allowed to take satisfaction in making him talk.”

“Why is Nikita protected?” Hank asked of his inquisitors.

“I'm sorry?” Non replied briskly.

“I look after her because I owe her a debt. You treat her as if she's politically immune to interrogation. I was just wondering why.”

“She is.” Non answered begrudgingly. “There are few powers in the galaxies that could use her discomfort to force the truth out of another persons lips. If I had something against her as an individual I could do my liking to obtain satisfaction.”

“Xavallen.” Hank realized softly. “That's what she meant. She wasn't just telling me she was different from Enkarens.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I once had an Enkaren woman in my charge. Half-Enkaren; her name was Elana. She was native to Earth and not an intentional threat, so we released her from out custody. Nikita was...a lot less forth-coming. There was no torture but I could not understand the..significance of a lot of things she said. I didn't know what Xavallens were. She didn't seem to know either, which I thought was really odd if she remembered her home planet at all.”

“Xavallens don't have a home-world.” General Astra shot. “Not one that is their own. They are the majority population on exactly zero planets in the 16 galaxies.”

“So Nikita's home-world...” Hank began.

“Planet of origin.” Non interrupted. Hank looked at him, his face displaying his confusion. “Is Earth her home or is this other place?”

“She speaks of Earth as her home.” Hank replied, uncertainly.

“Then say 'planet of origin'. It matters to her people as well as Enkarens.”

“She ran away from home__her planet of origin, when she was almost an adult. She's lived on Earth for 40 years. And Xavallens are...protected...in the galaxies?”

“For 16 of the 23 major powers in the galaxies Xavallens are considered innocents that do not keep secrets and should not be mistreated. If I had something against her, personally. If I felt she had wronged me, we could settle it as individuals. But to cause her pain because of another individuals transgressions__is frowned upon to say the least.”

“And that's why she let me interrogate her. Why she never fought back, or even resisted. Because it involved her as an individual. And she could sense that I simply wanted answers.”

“You're getting quite an education HANK.” Lieutenant Non said shortly.

“It's been an interesting 4 years.”

“You have our attention.” Astra said, leaning in.

“Jeremiah. The man who died under my command. There's more to it than that. He died saving my life. Nikita says he 'gave his life to save mine'. I never knew the kind of man he was... until died protecting me, from a Martian solider. At that point I made it my mission not to misjudge anybody quite as badly as I did Jeremiah Danvers. And to listen to Nikita when she told me who to be on-guard around and who to deal respectfully with, which alien races were like her own, happy and normal by human standards. The weak innocents.”

“A fellow solider died saving your life. That would shift one's perspective.”

Castiel is Tom Canty

After being arrested for trying to steal a loaf of bread (not sure if that's more Aladdin or Les Miserables) Castiel was brought before King Dean for his punishment. This is what happened next. A million thanks and praises to the original author. To give the reader a bit of grounding, I'm adding the last page of the original story. Otherwise one would be so completely lost!

The room Cas entered, was as big as the hut he and his sisters and brothers lived in. The furniture inside was the same expensive looking strong wood than the door was made of. There was a dresser on one side, overlooking a window to the courtyard. The bed was in the centre of the room with curtains on a rail around it, currently tied back. The bed itself could probably have fit four grown men on it, comfortably, It was draped with crimson coloured sheets and pillows which made a small sigh escape Castiel’s mouth. When was the last time he had laid a head on a soft surface? In the space between the dresser on the far right side and the centre, where the bed was, there was a recliner with a rug – also the same crimson colour. Beyond the bed, Castiel’s eyes bugged upon seeing a stage where sure enough King Dean was making his way to sit on the grandiose throne. Castiel swallowed. Scared was an understatement. His mouth was dry and he wished he would just melt into the floor. What had he deserved to be punished by the King himself?
“So thief, what were you trying to steal?”
Castiel’s heart galloped. The King was speaking to him. He was speaking to him. Panic was setting in, closing in and he thought he would die - but then a sharp command sliced through the fog in his head.
“Come here, kneel.”
He could do that. Castiel moved and found himself kneeling in front of the stage, facing the King but looking at his feet. “I’ll ask you again, and this time I require an answer.”
“Bread,” Cas whispered.
“Speak up, thief!” The King’s voice came out harsh, as if he was loosing patience. That was not good, the longer the King kept talking to him the further away his punishment would be. Castiel mustered as much courage as he could and spoke a decibel louder.
“Bread,” he uttered and watched as the King’s frown deepened. “I’m sorry,” he said, the apology tumbling out of his mouth without his consent.
“Just bread?”
…
Dean frowned, confused. Bread? Sure, stealing bread was a crime but people stole bread all the time. They were whipped by someone in the royal guard and that was the end of it. Why was he summoned to manage this particular thief?
“Just bread?” he inquired, leaning forward and watching the perplexity surround the boy.
“I-I-I, N-No, I m-mean, y-yes,” the boy stammered.
Dean raised an eyebrow at the boy and watched as once again the boy looked away. But now Dean was getting annoyed. Sam only came to visit a few times in the year and now this thief – whose only crime was to steal bread, probably judging by his figure, because he was hungry – had interrupted him and couldn’t even fess up without stammering. Dean decided a different tack, one he hoped would elicit some response from the boy.
“I’m going to punish you now, boy. Stealing won’t be tolerated in this Kingdom.” As predicted, the boy’s head shot up but instead of anger in his azure eyes, there were tears. But it was the first time the boy had looked directly at him and in his entire life, Dean had not felt so moved. A strangled sob shocked Dean out of his gaze and he remembered who the little boy really was. A thief – albeit just bread.
“No point in crying now. Take your punishment and we can forget this incident.” The boy’s whole body seemed to sag. That wasn’t acceptable. Punishment was a form of toughening up and strangely he almost wished that the boy had been tough enough to overthrow his captors and actually manage to steal the damn bread. Time to start the toughening act now. “Address me properly when I speak to you.” He barked out, and begin rising from his throne. Hoping that the boy wouldn’t disobey, but blessedly he heard a gasped ‘Yes, your majesty,’ in the space between him and the kneeling boy.
“Good,” he said smoothly and went to stand behind the boy. “I am glad that you are not a disobedient thief. One crime is bad enough.”
“Yes, your majesty,” a slight break in the voice.
“What is your name, thief”
“It is Castiel, your majesty”
Castiel. Strange name for a strange thief. Dean shook his head and resisted the sudden unsettling urge he had to envelope the boy in a soothing embrace.
“Stand up, Castiel. It is time for your punishment. A whipping should suffice.”
Dean moved back as Castiel began standing, the shaking of his limbs obvious and quite alarming.
In a manner very unlike that of a King, Dean reached out an arm and steadied the shaking boy. “Breathe. Easy now, its just a whipping. You’ve had worse, I’m sure.”
At that Castiel’s eyes met his and for a moment neither spoke. Then Castiel looked away, his shaking worsened as he replied, “No, your majesty, I have not.”
Once again, wrong footed and slightly unsettled, Dean replied in his normal authoritative voice.
“Well, there’s always a first time for everything.

Without prompting Castiel grabbed the edge of his tunic and pulled it over his head. Now bare-chested, he waited for directions from the king.
“Over the arms of the recliner, I suppose.”
Castiel nodded his head deeply, grateful he hadn't had to ask aloud.
King Dean delivered ten straight smooth strokes against the thief's back. No teasing, no questions, no words. Then he stepped back.
Sensing his punishment was over Castiel righted himself. He turned his head away, refusing to look the king in the face. “Forgive me, I have failed you.”
“How did you fail me? I'd say you bore that well.” The king replied immediately. Castiel did not respond. Indeed he gave no sign he had even heard the prince. He kept his sad eyes to the floor.
“Wait.” King Dean began, realization blooming. “Who are you talking about?” The thief shook his head in quick, jerking movements. Dean's sharp voice returned, although a little softer. “Castiel I insist upon being answered. Who are you apologizing to?”
“My sister, Adorabelle.” He raised his head, looking near the top Dean's chest. “She's sick. She is home. Alone. Sick.” Castiel applied force to every word. It was such a stark contrast to the soft, weak tones he'd used up tot hat point that for a moment the king stared at him, completely dumbfounded. “She needs me. Everything I do is for her. I can't help thinking it would have been kinder if you had thrown me in shackles. At least then I wouldn't have to face her.”
“The bread you were trying to steal, it was for her.”
Castiel did not answer, not verbally. Instead he looked his king directly in the eyes.
“Please you majesty, let me bring back *something* for her. I don't care what the cost, you can *whip* me again if you wish. How could I look her in the face knowing I had failed her?”
“Put your shirt back on, and sit by the stage.” The king ordered. He all but slammed a summoning bell with its hammer. When the servant rushed in, eyes forward, head titled down, she barely had time to curtsy before Dean barked his order. “A large, fine meal in 20 minutes. And a launderer's basket. Or better, a of hunters bag.” The servant girl bowed and withdrew.
Castiel sat beside the stage as instructed by his king, who it seemed was making a concentrated effort to ignore him. He was far too confused to speak.
The meal was delivered on a serving cart and for the first time in what seemed like hours, the King turned to look at his miscreant guest.
“Come here. Come.” He commanded sharply. Castiel hurriedly obeyed. Choose what you want.” Castiel pulled his hand over his mouth. Figuring he couldn't fault the man for his reaction, Dean began selecting fruits, various cuts of meat and at least 2 small loaves of bread from the table. Placing them in the hunters sacks he pulled from the underside of the cart.
“Here.” he held the sack full of food out to Castiel. “Take this to your sister. Share it with her. And don't let me catch you in the palace again unless it is as a guest.”
Castiel threw himself to his knees. He pulled took the king's hand and kissed it, three times. “Thank you your Majesty.” He cried, tears of joy rather than sorrow flowing down his cheeks. “By God thank you.”

Castiel knew the way home. He did his best not to run every step. He knew running would make him look like a thief. And who exactly could believe he hadn't stolen the food he now carried slung over his shoulder? He imagined his sisters face when he showed her what the prince had given them. And wondered if he could bring himself to tell her it was from the prince.