Title: "Things You Can Tell Just By Looking at Her"

Author: Stephanie A. (ofiles19@aol.com)

Rating: PG-13/R (bad language, some innuendo, situations)

Category: J/J/other

Disclaimer: No infringement intended.

Distribution: If they want it: To Canis, Crossroads, PFFMLA, Cafe Rocket, Musashi,

Hope Springs, Romantic~Interlude, and Salon Roquet. All else with

permission only, please.

Summary: What starts out as a normal, jealous challenge....

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"This is stupid, James."

She remembered saying it because she said it so clearly, so distinctly that morning, and he had winced as if the harsh clip of her words had stung him. He knew it was true, maybe, but it hurt.

"I know, Jess, but I have to do it."

They were riding in a car, not driving it, sitting in the back-seat and watching the nameless land roll on all sides, front and back and to the left and right of them.

There was a driver up front; they couldn't see him.

"I thought you said you never wanted to go back" she argued blandly, as if there was something to be done about it, some way to run, screaming, from that vehicle, and head into the woods surrounding. Wasn't that how they lived most comfortably, anyway?

"I didn't" was all he answered. He was staring, moodily out the window, and the delicate features of his face were in profile to her probing eyes. That was all he was going to say.

They were going back to his home, now really his, where he had lived as a child. His mother, having done with her short, hysterical existence, had joined his father in whatever happened after death, and there were matters of inheritance to be dealt with. James being the only child, there wasn't much dealing to be done- grab the mansion keys, sign the papers, and imprint the shape of your ass into the ancestral seat.

Why had she come along?

Because he asked you to, she reasoned, and because he said he couldn't deal with it without you around, he'd go crazy, it was something to do for a change.

He was withdrawn, sullen, not grieving, just disappointed, that's all. Upset he had to open up the freshly closed wound of the past, rub a bit of salt in it, and lick it pitifully in the shadow of the knife?

James associated his childhood with loud noises- the bustle of servants, the giggle of housemaids, the bark of a beloved childhood pet, the ceaseless droning on of parental "advice," the whining screech of a Southern drawl.

Jessie knows these things, too.

The last one is the real reason she wouldn't let him go back alone.

**************************************************************************************************

The hired chauffeur came to a sleek, silent stop at the great gates of the estate, as he had been specifically ordered to do, lest he drop them at the door a mile up and offend the drivers who lived there. Politics, of course.

God only knew how many people both lived off of and maintained that godforsaken palace.

He had no sooner opened the door, widened and squinted his eyes in the strident sunlight, and offered his hand to her to help her out that she made her presence known. Jessie was miserable in her socially acceptable, subdued black linen suit, hell for traveling and now as wrinkled as a Growlie's gullet, and James took one agitated pace in his wilted suit. It was summertime.

"Helllllooo, dahlings!"

That dulcet, throaty yowl cut through the haze of their pouting, and sent a bolt of ice right into Jessie's heart.

She would be there fifteen minutes early, as ever, perfect as a fragrant, fragile flower, mounted on a creature as beautiful and bored looking as she.

"James, dear" Jessibelle drawled. "It's been too long. And in such a tragic occasion. Your sainted mama, God bless her soul, it would do her good to see you now."

He smiled wanly at her, and Jessie could feel her heart slowly sliding down the hot, stocking-encased length of her legs and into the depths of her leather shoes.

"And you are a dream, as ever, dear" Jessibelle condescended to her. "You must be *dying* to freshen up."

"Oh, of course" Jessie snapped back, not bothering to sweeten her annoyance. The Other Woman tossed her unbelievable curls, and preened beneath the delicious cool veneer of her burgundy riding habit. A coral tie with a tiny jade bead trembled at her throat when she laughed, and the thick white feather in her cap danced when she tossed her head.

She would have relished killing her.

Two grooms with dark, lovely mounts were stationary behind the buoyant, effervescent character she exuded with an expensive, sensual cologne, and she offered them with a careless hand.

"Do mind your skirt when you ride, dear" Jessibelle told her with a scarlet-rouged smirk. "Pity, my mind's all occupied with this sudden trip... I plum forgot a sidesaddle!"

Tinkly laughter.

The bitch couldn't have imagined the secret smile it gave Jess to admit she had never rode before, and would have to go behind James, clasping his about the waist so she wouldn't fall off on the plodding trail up to the great house.

**************************************************************************************************

The lawyers were brisk and short and viciously effective, nearly yanking them off the horses and into the formal drawing room where the ink on the newly drawn papers was barely dry.

"Miss Jessibelle has been named executor, and I think we all agree that we'd like this done as soon as possible" they simpered, like so many automatons in unison. Only one spoke, actually, an unctuous little bugger who had apparently been named their official delegate, but the others reinforced and repeated that idea so much, you'd think they timed it at random intervals.

If it bothered him that she had been chosen to preside over the arrangements, he didn't betray it on his face. She smiled like a nesting hen, and ruffled the papers with a terrible air of self-importance, while the brace of attorneys his father had specially appointed pre-mortem (which explained succinctly why they were such assholes) babbled on about wills and unsettled liens and the funeral, which, of course, would *have* to be a huge, blown-out affair.

James said coolly that he hadn't gone to his father's memorial service, he didn't see why he should have to attend his mother's.

"Because" Jessibelle told him caressingly, clasping her cool, white hand over his. "Dahling, you weren't set to come into a fortune just then."

There was something about the way she said that that made Jessie extremely uneasy.

She wondered if the other woman was just talking about the family millions just then.

**************************************************************************************************

He, of course, had made his way up to his old bedroom, it being the only place he knew in that big, foreboding place. He moved through the halls as if stuck in surreality, among the rooms with all the furniture covered in plastic, like he was living with ghosts.

After his father died two years before, his mother had pretty much closed off the whole west side of the house, afraid she'd just rattle around. She was already sickly then, and the constant, noisy bustle of cotillions and debut balls and socials that had once kept the mansion that went on forever had died out. The party had moved on, leaving the nooks, the crannies where laughter had once resounded echoing with only their own silence.

His room was in that wing. The only arrangements he settled before he went to bed early were that Jessie was to occupy the Rose room, right across from his.

Jessibelle was in a snit because she had ordered the enormous wait staff to prepare an elegant sit-down dinner he didn't touch. Downstairs three flights, and on the other end of the floor, the musicians serenaded the stragglers at the abortive dinner party with sweet violin sonatas, and Jessie, Jessibelle, and the lawyers supped on all kinds of weird-tasting delicacies whose names Jessie couldn't pronounce to save her life.

"Men" she sniped politely at Jessie's ducked head as she speared a minuscule sliver of filet mignon. "How very rude."

"How very" Jessie deadpanned in agreement.

Jessibelle smiled coyly.

"Jessica, dearest" she said very elegantly. "You just placed the elbow of your dress in your gravy. Would you care for another napkin, perhaps?"

**************************************************************************************************

He was standing at the huge window, wide open the way Mother would never allow him to:

*James, that moonlight will just ruin the upholstery!*

*That's sunlight, mother.*

*Boy, don't talk back to your mother!*

And as he did it, he could see the abandoned kennel where Growly had lived.

Dear Sir, the note had said. It wasn't on the good, black-stamped stationary they kept for death announcements, rather, the same paper as the grocery list. We thought you might like to know that your beloved pet Growlithe died last Sunday. Our condolences.

Pick up some tender veal, a few eggs, and the remains of his heart on your way past the refrigerated goods case.

That was one memorial service he would have actually attended.

She found him that way, staring silently, his nose almost pressed to the glass, leaving small smudges on the pane. The doors to the room slipped shut behind her, and she waited while her eyes adjusted to the dark. Then:

"It's getting late. They will be reading the will tomorrow at eight, and there's the funeral to plan... Jessibelle..."

"Jess" he cut her off with that one word, and it occurred to her that he had never sounded quite so *tired* in all the time he had known her. "Not tonight."

"All right" she said, furrowing her forehead.

He turned to face her, his arms crossed over his chest.

"How long has it been?" he wondered. "Five years? Six?"

"I think so" she replied, sitting down on the long lounge chair, resting her wrists on the ornately carved lip of one side.

"It's like I never left" he said. "All this time, and they're gone, and it's like I never freaking left."

As abruptly as she had sat down, she stood again, as if to go over to him, and he held a hand up, to keep her back.

"I'm fine" he insisted. "Really."

He sat down on the bed, and hesitantly, she sat on the far edge, and thought better of it, moving closer.

"James..." she murmured.

"Shh..." he said.

And she was right beside him, and he just sort of rolled his head around on his neck and rested it on her shoulder, tilting his chin so he looked up at her.

"Damn this" he said fondly. "What've we got, eight days until we go back for winter workout at the base?"

"Yup" she answered, afraid that if she spoke for too long, her lips might come that much closer to his.

"Seems so long" he muttered. "Gotta get through this."

"You will" she assured him.

At that moment, she felt so close to him, so secure in what they had, that she lifted one finger a fraction of an inch, and ran it over his fine hair.

"She still has her hooks in you" she whispered.

He didn't answer.

James got up, lifted himself to his full height, and, as she watched, stretched his arms high above his head.

"Bedtime" he said carefully. "Like you said, long day tomorrow."

**************************************************************************************************

The drawing room had severe black curtains made for mourning, and someone had drawn them aside to reveal the timid windows underneath, but no sunlight could penetrate the fearful hollow of that room.

It had cold, hard floors that made echoing tapping noises with the women's heels on them, and high, plain chairs around an angular table. It had no comforting curves, no soft lines. It was stiff, and someone had forgotten to turn the heat on.

The head lawyer introduced himself as Bohrer, an asshole if ever one lived, and he smiled oilily at them as they sat down uncomfortably.

Jessibelle wafted to a stop in the chair right besides James', between him and the lawyer, with an acid smile at Jessie and a sweater over her pretty shoulders.

"We'd like to get on with this" Bohrer announced. "Arrangements have to be made."

He snapped his pudgy fingers, and one of his lackeys unfurled a piece of thick paper. The slimy one read it himself, and out of the corner of her eye, Jessie could see James blanching. The fact that he was hearing his father's words, combined with that voice...

"It's highly irregular that Mr. Kojiro's will would be read this long after his death" one of the lawyers sniffed.

"He made the provision that he wanted his wife to pass before the estate was settled" one of the more tactful replied. "To spare her the trauma..."

Cold hearted bitch. Like anything could ever move her.

Bohrer "ahem"-ed under his spectacles, and the room fell silent.

"My friends, companions, and son" it read. "By this time, I have gone on, and of course, you all want to know where my millions will go.."

The other ones laughed at a fellow rich bastard's pathetic excuse of a joke.

James held his breath.

"I have decided that my much beloved son, being my only heir, is to inherit the whole thing. The land, the money, the house, the titles, the property in St. Croix and Valencia Island..."

Jessie titled her head back against the chair and sighed inaudibly. If Jessibelle's eyes could be made to glow any brighter, they'd explode, she decided.

The lawyer took a tactful pause.

"Given that he will apparently never make anything of himself, I figure that he can manage to lose all the money and the family pride within a year or so..."

James didn't even flinch, but his face looked like that of a man who'd been shot in the back. What more could he expect, anyway?

"Excuse me" he said thickly, rising to his feet. "I... I need to be excused."

He stumbled from the room as they watched, with expressions that scaled from amused to perplexed to sympathetic to horrified.

"You idiots!" Jessibelle scolded them. "Now did you have to go and mention that part?" She stood up, and ducked her chin disapprovingly at him.

It took Jessie a stunned second to realize she was going after him. And that only *she* could be the one to comfort him.

**************************************************************************************************

"James, dear" Jessie heard the stridently cool hush of her voice floating. "Now you know it isn't proper to cower on the floor like that... how about you just let me make you a nice julep, dear, and we can sort all this out..."

He was sunk on the floor, looking for all the world like a whipped puppy, and Jessie couldn't help it- her first instinct was to get to him.

"Excuse me" she said quietly to Jessibelle's back.

"Dear..." the other woman continued to simper.

Jessie got frustrated, realizing she was *deliberately* ignoring her, and without thinking grabbed her wrist, pulling her away harshly. A thick dose of heady perfume rushed by her nose.

"Can't you see that you are just causing more harm than good?" she hissed.

Jessibelle backed up, highly offended.

"I will thank you to keep you hands off me, Jessica" she said haughtily.

"Get away from him, you silly cow" Jessie told her. "Go powder your nose."

"He needs to be *talked* to" she retorted, blazing as red as her hair. "And if we are discussing members of the bovine family..."

They trailed off, as if they had suddenly realized how quickly and violently their defenses had gone up, and that the object of their worry was staring up at them both, hurt, from the floor.

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"We need to talk" Jessibelle had huffed at her, dragging her unwillingly by the wrists back into the now-deserted drawing room.

"I don't know what's to talk about" Jessie countered, airily in spite of the fact that she was completely pissed off. "All that's to say is that *you* aren't making this any easier for James by being constantly in his face."

"Are we jealous, Jessica?" Jessibelle smirked, passing a creamy smooth hand over her immaculate coif.

"Never" she answered, just as placidly. "I don't see where I would need to be, do you?"

Facing the direct challenge, the would-be belle shrugged daintily.

"It's no secret that you... how can I put this delicately? My... you have *feelings* for him, do you not?"

If that statement had any effect at all on the other woman, she hid it behind a constantly brightening red anger spot on her left temple.

"Feelings? Like... would I perhaps be provoked to run screaming like a maniac trying to tie him up and cart him down the aisle?" she asked sweetly.

"James and I have *history*" Jessibelle enunciated carefully, making sure Jessie realized every implication behind that word. "I have known him since he was an itty-bitty thing.." she made a hand motion. "And frankly, dear, I don't think you are quite able to give him what he needs."

"What does he *need*?" Jessie asked her. "A shrew to be united with in blissful holy matrimony?"

Jessibelle paused for a moment.

"Jessica" she said. "James and I... we are like one another." She took a seat gingerly, folding her voluminous layered skirts around her legs. "You see, dear, the way you are raised- and this has nothing, absolutely nothing to do with finances, honey, so don't get your feathers ruffled- impacts the rest of your life. Who you are, what you do, how you *relate* to people."

Jessie was giving her the Evil Eye.

"James is in a period of transition right now" she declared at last. "Sooner of later, dahling, you are going to have to accept that he's going to tire of this silly Astronaut..."

"Team Rocket" Jessie corrected her from between gritted teeth.

"Anyway" Jessibelle went on uninterrupted. "And then, when that day comes, he will have to come back to from whence he came." Her features automatically composed themselves in a cordial smile, lovely to look upon, and she tilted her head as if sipping from a china teacup. "That's all there is."

Jessie nodded, so enraged she couldn't find curses vengeful enough. She wanted to spit in that stupid doll's face, but...

"What you *think* you have with James and *our* day to day life- every one of them for the last ten years" she said. "Are two different things, bitch."

The pleasing smile dropped from Jessibelle's mouth like a weight.

"I have had just about enough of you calling me that" she snapped.

Jessie pursed her lip.

"Shall I call you Jessibelle?" she asked. "Jessibelle. Jezebel. Sounds a lot like a whore's name, doesn't it?"

She, who stood just as tall and exactly in proportion, bit her tongue in a burst of pure wrath, and pulled her hand back to slap Jessie's face, but she caught her hand quickly.

"Uh uh uh" Jessie taunted. "Wouldn't be ladylike, honey."

"You are showing your station" Jessibelle seethed.

"Better than what you show" Jessie flipped back. "And get over it, Jessibelle- the Civil War is over."

She turned her back, and prepared to leave, but something stopped her.

"I have a deal for you."

She turned around, mystified.

"What?"

Jessibelle didn't waste any time on formalities.

"You listen to me, now" she said. "This estate thing isn't over. James will need to come back here. Now, the day after tomorrow, you two go off to your little training camp thing, and that lasts a week. Afterwards, he will surely need to come back here for at least that long to make final arrangements."

Her eyes glittered, and Jessie didn't trust her any more than she could understand what she was talking about.

"I propose a switch" Jessibelle whispered.

"What?" Jessie repeated.

"A change" Jessibelle clarified. "Double dare. Switcharoo." She held her breath, and gave Jessie a cold once-over. "God help me, we *do* look an awful lot alike."

"So you're saying that I'd be you for a week..." Jessie started.

"...And I get the benefit of being with James as *you* during your training. And vice versa the week after." Jessibelle beamed with self-satisfaction. "It's perfect."

"How do you figure?" Jessie demanded. "It sounds pretty idiotic to me."

"You don't understand" Jessibelle said. "You say you two have something. Well, I realize that a few years ago, perhaps I acted a bit unseemly, and maybe he doesn't currently have the best impression of me..."

Jessie snorted, and Jessibelle, to her credit, let it slide.

"If he cares for you so much" she said, finally. "You shouldn't be worried, should you? He'll surely see through it."

Jessie blinked. Once. Twice. Was she willing to do that- to gamble their *life* on a chance she hadn't ever really decided she wanted to take? By acting like... her?

"I could never be you for a week" she said, finally.

"I have a feeling you're a *very* good actress when you want to be, Jessica" Jessibelle said.

**************************************************************************************************

She felt like the criminal she was stepping into what Jessibelle referred to in all seriousness as "the ladies' boudoir." The air was saturated with thick perfume, and the room was steeped in rose petals, caught up in silvery thread sachets at the corners, and the heavy carpet was strewn with casually splayed with velvet upholstered furniture, in the palest shade of shell pink.

"I don't trust you with those hairpins" was the first thing Jessie told her, shakily, upon being sat in front of her mirror. She stared into the glass, and saw the blue eyes looking back, sizing her up, and not her own.

"Come, now, Jessica" Jessibelle replied brusquely. "I have my maid do my own every day."

Jessie pivoted on the chair, and faced her.

"Take your hair down" she told her coolly.

Jessibelle rolled her eyes heavenward, but obliged, and with a swift yank, withdrew seven or eight sharp-pointed mother-of-pearl pins from her elegant chignon, and shook her head slightly as the red waterfall of her hair cascaded down her back.

Jessie looked back at her, and gaped.

Over her shoulder, Jessibelle could see the mirror.

"Dear, wipe off that dreadful lipstick you've got on" she ordered absently.

Too mystified to snap back, Jessie obliged.

Jessibelle turned her back on her.

"Unzip my dress" she said.

"I'm not your maid."

"Just do it, Jessica."

The voluminous yards of topaz-colored silk ballooned and settled into a puddle on the floor, and Jessibelle stood before her in a plain white chemise similar to the one she had given Jessie to wear.

Staring into the looking glass the whole time, she went to sit down, and gave Jessie a little shove to move over. Getting the point, Jessie, trancelike, gave her room.

As if rehearsed, they looked up.

It was like the mirror had split in two and reflected itself.

Two lovely white faces, made paler by surprise, four wide open eyes, two partially hanging red mouths, above two pairs of slim shoulders, covered in fragile cotton prints that were barely lighter than the skin round them.

"We could be twins" Jessibelle mused, putting one hand up tentatively to her hair. Their hair. Jessie's was just a bit shorter, but when wet, it fell in the same style, long and wavy and over their arms and down their backs, as bright as the sunlight.

"Jesus freaking Christ" Jessie replied, less eloquently.

"Can you not *pretend* to speak the King's English?" Jessibelle sniped.

"Which one, dahhhhling?" Jessie drawled sweetly.

Just then, Leilei, the maid, came in humming softly, carrying a load of freshly laundered sheets, when she looked up, and saw double. She screamed, just a little bit, dropped what she was carrying, and fumbled, embarrassed, for what had fallen.

"Miss" she said, her eyes darting nervously from one to the other. "I'm sorry. It's just.."

"It's all right, dear" the one on her left said soothingly. "I was just about to comb Miss Jessica's hair for her. Funny, the way the eyes play tricks on you?"

Leilei ducked her head.

"Right. I'm leaving now, Miss Jessibelle. Miss Jessica" she acknowledged the one still sitting. "I'll be back if you need me."

The standing one, the one who had addressed her, waited until the skittish maid had shut the door behind her to speak, archly.

"Jessibelle, dear" she trilled. "I do believe that *you* had better work on losing your knowledge of the King's English."

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Later that morning, she stood before her.

One of them wore a Rocket training uniform- gray drawstring pants, a tight T-shirt emblazoned with the ubiquitous red "R" in the center, and a pair of black sneakers.

The other one, who resembled a china doll, resplendent in a sea of gem-colored crepe and faux chiffon roses, arched her head despite the weight of the pile of hair coiled up there, and, when she was sure no one was looking, whispered:

"What's the lesson of the day? Hmm... pants suck, huh?"

Jessibelle hissed at her, and bit her lip, struggling to find her newfound "street rat" nomenclature, which sounded like she had a permanent cold. All her 'r' sounds came out forced: 'Go parrrrk the carrrr,' since she wasn't used to using them, but all in all it was good.

"Bite your tongue" she snapped. "That's not proper."

"What's not proper is the way you are standing" Jessie told her loftily. "Feet in a perfect second position, held up, hands behind the back... well, I guess if you *want* everyone to figure out what the hell we're trying to do..."

Jessibelle, with some effort, pushed her legs wider apart, and, with a supreme sigh of torment, slumped her shoulders.

"Who would have thought that there are such rules to govern *your* type" she commented acidly.

"They are not rules" Jessie said prissily, in the other woman's voice. "It's called being a *natural human being*" she paused for effect. "Jessica, dahling."

"I'll thank you... please don't completely ruin my image" Jessibelle asked her angrily, remembering at the last second that "street rats" didn't say: 'I'll thank you kindly.'

"I'll keep yours if you keep mine" Jessie replied just as unrelentingly.

Jessibelle snorted: "What's to remember about being you?"

"Well. For one thing, I'm not *nearly* as easy as you are. See, I like to wait for the guy to ask *me* to marry him."

The displaced belle fumed.

Jessie swished her skirts, and continued.

"Anyway, it's terribly easy to be you" she divulged. "I'll just run around saying 'It's not proper!' a million times a day."

Jessibelle's eyes, perfect doubles of hers, stared at her coldly.

"Remember that this is a competition, Jessica" she said. "Not a costume ball."

"May the best woman win" Jessie answered her challenge. She held out her hand.

At that point, James, dressed similarly to Jessibelle, walked in with two duffel bags slung over his shoulder... and saw the two enemies shaking hands.

"Ooookay" he drawled nervously, slinging the smaller of the two bags onto the floor. "I think it's definitely time to go, now."

Jessibelle moved towards him, and it was only then that Jessie realized the impact of the situation. This wasn't a game. Not at all.

"James" she said, stepping forward quickly. The voice was *hers*, and he looked at her weirdly, and Jessibelle glared. "Dear" she remedied almost without thinking. She struggled to compose herself, and looked up into his eyes. He was looking at her the same way he looked at *her.* It was like a knife in her heart.

"What shall I do around this place while you are gone?" she asked lightly.

James shrugged, and stared up into the cathedral ceiling, the vaulted dome where the chandelier hung, getting dusty.

"Don't bother going back to the Run" he said, at last. "Just stay here, I guess, and keep things in order while I'm gone... I'll be back in a week."

With that he turned his back on her, and headed for the door, but "Jessie" stayed a moment, glancing back at the impostor in her dress so she could see if she felt what it was like to be on the receiving end of that good-bye.

**************************************************************************************************

The Rocket training complex was many things, but primarily it was cold, wet, and hard around the edges. All the things Jessibelle was not, and she was feeling it within three hours of setting foot in the camp. It was a novel idea of Giovanni's- twice a year, in cycles, every single Rocket would have to enter those gates twice, and endure a week-long boot camp-style workout designed to boost morale and team fitness and beat the living shit out of the slackers.

To James, it was a welcome respite. To her, it was hell.

There was a barbed-wire horizontal fence, stretching for a furlong in either direction from the center, the only free point in the whole mess, that they were expected to crawl under on their bellies, dragging their faces through the mud.

Naturally, 'Jessie' loved it.

The very first day she was to try it, amid the hoots and whistles of her companions, she tripped over the edge of the wire, and twisted her ankle, tearing herself up pretty badly in the process.

She burst out crying.

James, bewildered, kept waiting for her to get back up and brush herself up, make a lame joke about her own clumsiness, and walk off the sprain. It didn't happen.

"Rocket James" the embarrassed sergeant muttered. "How about you take your partner back to the barracks and clean her up?"

"Jess" he whispered, very quietly, as if the whole camp weren't already staring at them. "Are you OK?"

A choked sob was his reply.

James bit his lip, and, to the amused catcalls of all present, scooped her up in his arms, and headed back to the encampment.

**************************************************************************************************

He deposited her awkwardly on the bed in their cabin, which they shared with ten other Rockets, and she sniffled pathetically, batting a hand across her teary eyes.

"What happened out there, Jess?" he teased gently. "Come on... what's a hurt ankle? I mean, compared to a burning air balloon falling thousands of feet from the sky..."

He realized his pale attempts at humor weren't getting anywhere, and he just smiled wanly, disturbed, and indicated for her to lie back on the bed. The lower half of her T-shirt was torn nearly to shreds by the wire, and below, a nasty series of cuts traced angry lines on her stomach.

"Lift up" he said softly, and she obliged. Not wincing at her wounds, he made his way to the small cabinet that kept the first aid supplied, hydrogen peroxide and gauze, tape and scissors. He dabbed a bit on the worst gashes, and she squealed, and he got slowly more and more confused as he neatly shaped a bandage, and affixed it to her belly.

"When did you turn into such a baby?" he jested.

*Since I all but rip my stomach apart and no one could care less* she thought furiously. *Since she may well be Superwoman, but this hurts, damn it!*

He leaned over the flat plane of her stomach and blew gently, to alleviate the stinging burn of the peroxide.

"I'm tired" she complained, tilting her head back. The constant attention she had to devote to maintaining the torturous accent was wearing on her last nerve, and he looked so handsome right there, his lips still pursed, his big eyes looking at her.

*That girl doesn't know what she is missing* she thought.

Because then, in spite of the ceaseless complaining, the torment she had inflicted on him all day, he smiled, wanting to believe that that was all, she was just tired. He loosed the braid she had coiled her hair into (not caring if Jessica had the