An Ordinary Day in Arcadia: Part Deux

[Dewey]

((quick scenes, because I feel my brain power decreasing haha))


An Ordinary Day in Arcadia: Part Deux


"Searlait, my dear, I'm beginning to suspect you have a few misgivings concernings your new partner."

Charles Hainsworth was rarely seen outside his luxurious office at NSA/FDS headquarters. Today, he'd ventured far enough to catch a cup of coffee with his second favorite agent at the cafeteria on the first floor.

Searlait stirred her mildly caffeinated hot drink and added a packet of Sweet & Low to the liquid. "I would speak amiss if I said otherwise."

"Why are you so troubled by him?"

"I simply have difficulty trusting him, Charles."

"Has he given you due reason for this?" He raised his thick white eyebrows and watched Searlait. As much trouble as he gave her, the thirty-three-year old woman was like a daughter to him. He'd watched her grow up alongside Felix, and always kept her best interest at heart, even if she didn't believe it.

"Not neccessarily, but--"

"Searlait, it's always been in your very nature to distrust everyone you meet. That isn't a healthy outlook to maintain when you work in an agency such as ours. You need to be able to trust your partner. Your lives are in each other's hands."

Searlait knew that all too well, of course. She didn't trust Reid Lamton until her life had literally depended on him. "I know, Charles." She sighed. "I will try."

"Perhaps you feel I favor him more than I should."

She looked at him, taken aback by the words, despite how correct they were.

"You aren't always so secretive when it comes to your feelings, Searlait. I've seen your reactions to my more...outlandish comments concerning Kostya. You're absolutely livid that I'm allowing him to shadow Reid."

She took a few moments to measure her words. "I simply can't comprehend why a first-year agent would be given such an opportunity. These are borderline faucon du soir assignments, Charles. He is a lower-rung NSA agent. He simply has no business partaking of Faucon-related, highly-classified cases."

"Why are you worried about it, Searlait? Are you worried you have been replaced?"

That certainly caught her off guard. She gave him another look of surprise.

Charles only chuckled. "I let you get away with many things, Searlait."

"That isn't true..."

"Oh it's very true. If it weren't for your being Felix's daughter, I may very well had fired you years ago because of your...opinionated ways."

"My opinionated ways? Charles, I'm merely reiterating faucon du soir protocol, which clearly st--"

"If not for that attitude. I hope you don't speak to your husband in that manner."

At this, she blushed. "Charles, please. I wish you would take me seriously. I'm simply expressing concern. Why have we hired someone from Russia? There are many qualified people right here in France who will submit their resumes to the applicant pool in January."

"I have my reasons. I cannot disclose them at this time, but the senior council has approved our advance into Russian territory. He will be an asset to the agency. It may not be clear why at this time, but I ask that you trust my judgment, Searlait. And the judgment of your father."

She sighed and looked back into her coffee.

"In the meanwhile, if you feel you simply need a case.." He opened the briefcase he had set on the chair beside him, and slipped out a manilla folder, setting it in front of her. "A little test for your partner."

Searlait opened the folder. Inside were secrets she had obtained from the USSR during her own assignment years ago, encrypted codes which contained information about weapons of warefare, the military hierarchy, and relations with other countries. "I don't understand."

"You are uneasy because Kostya is from Russia. You feel he may have an agenda, I'm sure. I want you to give him these encryptions, and have him break the codes. Be sure to inform him they concern the Russian government."

"But Charles, these codes were already broken by the Cryptology Department years ago. We have the information we need from these files. This case was closed, I thought."

"Oh, it was. Which makes your part easier." He smiled. "When Kostya returns the answers to you, you'll know if he gave you the correct ones. If he has, then you've nothing to worry about, have you? A man willing to betray his native government's secrets, clearly hasn't their best interest at heart. However, if your intuition serves you right, and there are errors in the code-breaking, then the Senior Council will reconsider his employment."

Searlait watched him, and then glanced back toward the files. "I see. In that case, I will contact him this evening, then."

"Don't get your hopes up, Searlait. I do truly believe Agent Denisov is quite legitimate."

She brought her cup of coffee to her lips and smirked just slightly. "We shall see, Charles."

* * * * *

"Sydney Miller?"

Sakura Moriarty smiled shly from the doorway of Jamie's office and gave a small nod. "The receptionist sent me back." She tucked a lock of hair behind an ear and bit her bottom lip. All apart of the act.

Jamie was about six feet tall. A slender man, possibly hispanic, with dark hair and a gotee. He had colored tattoos that encompassed both his arms, and several piercings on his ears, including lobe holders the size of quarters. When he stood up with a smile to say hello, Sakura noticed the gold on his front teeth, and the small ring pierced into his lip.

She shook hands with him and then took a seat when he asked her to, resting her backpack onto her lap.

"What can I do for you?"

"I found this design online and was hoping you could do it for me." She handed him the computer printout of the nototious dragon insignia that had haunted her nightmares for the past few nights. "The receptionist told me you actually had this drawing in your portfolio. How crazy is that, right?"

"Wild! You found this online, you said? Where?"

"Uhm, oh, I don't know. I was looking through so many tattoo websites."

He laughed. "Well, yeah, I can do this. Where'd you want it?"

"I'm not sure yet."

"Do you have tattoos already?"

"Yeah, a few. Lower back, hands..."

"Is that the reason for the gloves?" He smiled and nodded toward the fingerless gloves she currently wore.

Sakura looked down at her hands.

"Why do you hide those?" For the slightest moment, he appeared to hesitate after posing the question. He quickly recovered. "Well, I mean, I'm sure that's not the reason you wear the gloves."

She suddenly felt uncomfortable, and rubbed her thumb across the back of her left hand..."

- - -

Seventeen-year-old Sakura Moriarty sat upon the ripped leather of a doctor's chair as a tattoo designer hovered above her left hand, preparing her skin for the Black Widow drawing. He was the biker sort, with black bandanda tied over his bald head, a brown handlebar mustache, and Harley Davidson paraphernalia like none other.

"You draw this yourself?"

Sakura nodded. She hadn't spoken no more than ten words since entering the sketchy parlor on 16th and Luther.

"Nice. Real nice." He started to gather the neccessary tools. "This black widow sh!t is getting popular. People talking about some psycho b!tch who killed her boyfriend and his friends a few weeks ago. Callin' her the Black Widow. I can't tell you how many women have come in here to get a spider tattoo, hopin' their boyfriend stop beating the sh!t out of them."

Sakura inwardly smirked. The Black Widow.

The first time she'd heard it was when some teenaged prostitue approached her at a club, frantic. "You're the Black Widow, right?"

"The f-ing what?"

"The Black Widow. It's what everyone's calling you. Haven't you heard?"

The tattoo designer watched Sakura during her daydream. "You in the same boat, huh?" He shook his head. "Can't be lettin' some n*gger or sp*ck push you around. If you want my opinion, I say buy yourself a gun. When he's passed out drunk on the bed one night, just pull that trigger. No one's got to know."

Sakura finally spoke up. "I think that's a good idea."

- - -

Now, in Jamie's office, she hesitated. "You know what, I just remembered I have this other appointment." She stood and shouldered her backpack. "It was nice meeting you. Uhm.. I'll like.. give you a call or something."

Jamie didn't move at all. He only watched her, a slight smirk on his lips. "Of course. You have my business card. Just give me a call." His eyes followed her as she hurried out the door. When it clicked shut, he opened his desk drawer and rummaged through its contents for a few moments. Finally, his fingers came upon the 3x5 mugshot of a teenaged girl brought into the APD years ago for some petty crime...underaged drinking or shoplifting. She had been 16. Green eyes, platinum blonde hair. A year later, it was rumored she was seen with a black widow on the back of her left hand, in keeping with the name the streets had given her.

Jamie's smirk grew devious. "Gotchya."

* * * * *

"Lady, look. I've got people who've been complaining nonstop about your kid's crying. Either you shut him up real quick, or you find another place."

Yasmin Parveen carried a wailing Roshan in her arms as the landlord spoke with her in her apartment's doorway. She rocked him from side to side, rubbing her hand across his back in quick motions, trying to soothe him as best she could. "I.. I.. so.. sorry. He.. is.. very.. sick."

The landlord shook his head. "Then take the d@mn kid to the doctor, lady." From his back pocket he produced a weathered wallet, and fishesd through its insides before finding what he wanted. He handed her a wrinkled business card. "That guy there? A doctor at a small joint not too far from here. Works out payment with his people. Go see him."

Yasmin nodded. She hadn't understood most of his words, but she did recognized the letters 'M.D' on the business card. "..Thank y--"

"Yeah yeah yeah. Just get the problem taken care of, got it?"

The doctor was located on east 26th street, in a rundown three-story walkup. A convenice store and small bakery were on either side of the building.

"Mommy," Roshan said, in Persian, "I want to lay down."

"I know, my love. We're going to see a doctor now. He will help you feel better, okay?" She entered the building. The foyer was dark, and smelled of decaying wood. The doors on the first floor looked to be private residences, so she ascended the staircase slowly, looking around Roshan's body, who she carried in her arms, lest she missed a step. In a corner of the plateau between two flights, she glimpsed a large black rat, quietly nibbling at some crumbs. She was used to see the creatures in her own apartment building, but they still made her uneasy. She quickly ascended the rest of the stairs.

The second floor was better lit, probably because of the sunlight poring in through the thick tiled window at the front. She saw a tempered glass door with the doctor's name on it and breathed a sigh of relief as she knocked, and then entered. The "office" was no more than a redone home. A sitting room served as the waiting room. It was simply furnished, with an oriental rug at the center, and fifteen to twenty folding chairs situated along the walls. Right now, a fragile old man with a horrendous cough and an obese black woman with a walker before her were the only patients.

Suddenly, a man in a white doctor's coat came out. He seemed to be in his fifties, with a big round head and equally big round glasses. He was about to call one of the individuals in his waiting room, but noticed Yasmin. "Can I help you?"

Yasmin simply handed him the business card her landlord had given her. "My son.. he.. is.. very sick."

The doctor noddedm and then turned back to his current patients. "Mr. Bennet, I'll be with you in just a moment. Let me take a look at this little boy. He might have the flu."

The old man parted his mouth to reveal tooth-less gums and simply uttered a sound, nodding slowly.

"Follow me," the doctor said to Yasmin, leading her through the home's hallway to a room in the back. "Set him on the table." She remained standing where she was though, and realizing she most likely didn't understand his English, he isntead simply took Roshan from her and placed him on the table himself.

For the next few minutes, he examined Roshan. Then, he exited the room with Yasmin and spoke with her just outside the closed door. His words were slow. "He may have the flu. Do you have money?"

Money. She recognized that word well enough. She shook her head.

The doctor watched her. He moistened his lips and then gently traced his hands down her right arm. "I accept many forms of payment, Miss Parveen."

Yasmin felt a cold dread in her heart. The same feeling she got whenever men at the clubs pulled her aside, wanting more than a dance. She slowly pulled her arm away and shook her head. "Please, my son.."

"No money. No treatment." He brought his hand to her face this time, running his thumb across her jawline before combing some of her raven-black wavy hair behind an ear. "Like I said, though, we might be able to work something out."

Yasmin jerked away from him. "What..are you.. doing!" She dodged past him and hurried back into the room where Roshan waited. Quickly collecting him in her arms, she picked him up off the table and turned around.

"Think of your son, Miss Parveen. A small price to pay, if you ask me!"

Ignoring him, she pushed past the doctor, rushed out the door, and didn't stop hurrying away until she was blocks from the building. She snuck into an alley, advancing far enough to hide from the passersby on the sidewalk, and slinked against a brick wall, sliding down until she was sitting down. Once the tears came, they would not stop.

Roshan, still in his mother's arms, frowned and watched her cries. He snaked his little arms around her neck. "It's okay, mommy..."

* * * * *

Nadya Voronova was sleeping on the couch, a romance novel parted halfway and at rest upon her stomach, when she heard the knock at the door. At first, she thought it was her dream, but it persisted, growing in intensity. Finally, her eyes opened and she realized someone was even calling through the door. With a frown, she hurried to her feet and opened it.

"Yasmin!"

"Nadya, hello. Is Nataliya here?"

"No she's not. What's wrong? Are you okay?" The girl glanced to Roshan, who appeared more laidback than usual. "What happened?"

"Roshan is sick," Yasmin said, stepping into the apartment. "A doctor mentioned the flu. I don't have the money for medicine. I can't miss rent again, or the landlord will put us out in the cold. I don't know what to do." She sat upon the couch, situating Roshan onto her lap.

Nadya joined her and rubbed her back softly. "I'm sorry. We have no money, either."

"I can't take him to work like this. I've asked if a neighbor could watch him, but no one will. They rather see us gone. He kept everyone up last night with his crying. But he's sick! can't they understand that?"

"I'm sorry, Yasmin.."

"I've tried to keep him healthy and well to avoid this.."

"It's not your fault. He could've gotten the flu from anything. It's so easy. Don't blame yourself." She thought for a moment. "Perhaps I can give you the money for our groceries. We can eat in the club's kitchen, quickly so the managers don't see."

Yasmin shook her head. "I can't ask you to do that.."

"But Roshan needs the medicine. It's okay. I like the kitchen food better anyway!" She smiled some.

"They will fire you if they catch you having a burger again, Naddy."

She shrugged. "So I'll go somewhere else. I hate it there anyway. The boys backstage are so mean."

Yasmin looked at her. "They haven't.. hurt you, have they?"

Nadya looked down at her hands, and then glanced at Roshan. She smiled and played with his hair a little. "Poor little Roshie. I hope he doesn't have the flu. Do you want me to get you the money?"

"No no," Yasmin said, sighing. "I will try to get some. Perhaps you can watch him tonight though, while I work?"

Nadya frowned. "Aw, I wish I could, but all three of us work tonight, too. I'm so sorry.."

"No, it's okay." Yasmin sighed and hugged Roshan close. "I think someone may be able to help..."

[Dewey]

It was while reading the Global News section of the Arcadia Times that Searlait Beaumont experienced deep suspicions. Despite wanting to put the matter of Agent Denisov to rest, and going so far as to apologize to Chief-in-Command Charles Hainsworth for her misgivings, her distrust remained. She couldn't stop thinking about how quickly Agent Denisov cracked the Russian encryption last night, and more so, the fact that a majority of his answers were correct. However, therein was the problem, and it bothered here. Why couldn't he crack the entire code?

She knew from brief partnerships with NSA's Department of Cryptology that a single agent very rarely cracked 100% of a code. But this was Kostya's native country. Seeing those pieces of Slavic languages (she had recognized Ukranian, Belarusian, and the Old Novgorod dialect among them) were probably like seeing the numbers 1 through 10 for Kostya. Perhaps she didn't know enough about encryption methods, and perhaps Russia's were more complicated than what she was familiar with...but if he could crack over half of the code, why the mistakes for the rest?

Was something simply amiss in NSA's own deciphering? Had they missed a vital caveat? Were the codes not neccessarily uniform throughout an entire file? Did they change?

Searlait frowned and set the newspaper aside. Perhaps Reid would be able to assist her. She preferred not discussing the matter with Charles, because she felt as if Charles unreasonably favored Kostya and would go out of his way to shrug the matter off. Why, Searlait still did not know. Yes, if all proved to be legitimate, Kostya would prove a formidable ally. But what if her suspicions were correct? Reid, as Chief Executive of Homeland Security, could provide a refreshing viewpoint. He would not be partial in his judgment, and quite frankly, the situation most definitely fell within his purview.

Standing up, she walked to her office, and opened on her laptop a copy of the files she had obtained while working undercover with the Russian government. It had been one of the biggest breaches in NSA history. Strictly speaking, she wasn't supposed to possess her own copy of such highly classified material, but Charles Hainsworth often let her get away with many things. She printed out a hard copy and then set it upon her desk, side by side with Kostya's version.

She had delayed this for long enough. She was ready to see for herself just exactly what the glaring differences in these documents were.

She was astounded by what she discovered.

Grabbing both copies, she instantly hurried to Reid's office.

* * * * *

Sakura was driving home from work in her black mustang when, upon turning down Hollow Ridge Court, she found a block of road blocked by a growing crowd, police barricades, and a fire engine.

"What the f-..."

She pulled down a side street and parking alonsgside a curb before getting out to see what the trouble was.

"All I want to f-ing do is take a nap, and now I've got to deal with this sh--"

She stopped short, gaping at the sight before her. No... She shoved her way through the crowds, ignoring the remarks she received as a result. When she was finally at the front of the masses, she wanted nothing more than what she saw to be the fragment of a nightmare.

The small one-story white-paneled house at 1475 Hollow Ridge Court was charred. Fire long gone, firemen still shot blasts of water at the house, trying to dispel the monstrous clouds of gray smoke still rising from the structure.

Sakura felt breathless.

It was her childhood home.

Suddenly feeling quite exposed, she slowly looked to the crowds on either side of her, searching for a familiar face, for someone possibly watching her. She pulled a hat from her backpack, slipped it onto her head, and then quickly turned on her heels to shove through the mass of people once more, eyes down, a hand up against her forehead as a visor.

Once she made it to Nicolas's house, she slammed the door shut, put on all its locks, and had no intention of ever leaving again.

* * * * *

Roshan Parveen followed his young mother through the aisles of the Goodwill secondhand store on 14th Street and Paramour, wondering when they would have lunch. Lately, he’d felt hungry more often than usual. His mother told him it was because his sickness had taken a lot out of him and he needed to make up for it. He’d wanted cheeseburgers from a restaurant they had passed earlier called Johnny Rocket’s, but one look at the menu’s prices ended that desire quickly.

“Don’t worry, Roshie,” his mother, Yasmin, said to him. “We will cook something better.”

“Can I have a popsicle, too?”

“A popsicle?”

“Yeah. Kostya told me not to tell you, but he gave me a popsicle yesterday and it was yummy! Don’t tell him I told you, mommy!”

Yasmin smirked slightly. “I won’t, love. How did you like staying with Kostya?”

“It was fun! He let me watch cartoons!”

“That was nice of him. I hope you let him get some work done as well.”

“Uh-huh. That lady and him were working on a paper with a lot of letters on it, and they kept saying it was something called a code and --”

Yasmin instantly turned toward her son and gently placed her fingers onto his lips. Then, crouching down before him, her expression became serious. “Roshan, you mustn’t speak of those things when we’re in public.”

“Why not?”

She whispered to him softly. “Because Kostya could get in trouble if we talk about his work with anyone.” She thought for a moment. “It’s like a secret. Can you keep a secret, Roshan?”

The boy’s blue eyes lighted up and he nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah!”

“Good,” she said, smiling. She kissed his forehead and then stood up. “I don’t see any monkey costumes here, love. We could make you a costume, though. Wouldn’t you like to go as a pirate?”

“Mommy, can Kostya go trick or treating with us?”

“I don’t think so, Roshan. Kostya might be very busy with work.”

“But Halloween’s on Friday! He works on a Friday?” He scrunched up his little nose, as if the very idea disgusted him.

Yasmin couldn’t help but laugh softly at this. “I suppose we could ask if he’d like to come with us. It might be safer for him to come along anyway.”

“I’m going to be a pirate and he can be…”

“Your first mate.”

“Yeah!” Roshan started to fence with an invisible sword. “We’ll get lots of candy!”

Yasmin looked from one piece of fabric to the next, trying to pick out something that was both inexpensive and befitting of Roshan’s costume choice. “Don’t forget that after dinner, we’ll practice our English, okay? We’ll practice for one hour, and then you can watch cartoons.”

“Can we eat with Kostya?”

Yasmin smiled. Roshan clearly adored Kostya, and she was glad that he finally had a male figure in his life. “We mustn’t be a burden to Kostya, Roshan. He’s been very kind to us, but it’s important to give others space.”

“Why?”

“Well…” How could she explain the facets of overstaying one’s welcome to a five year old?

“Can’t we stay where he lives, mommy? I like that apartment better. There aren’t rats. And there’s hot water!”

“Roshan, please…”

“And he has lots of food! How come we don’t have that much food, mommy?”

“Roshan…”

“Mommy, can we please please please live with Kostya?”

Yasmin briefly recalled Kostya’s offer: the spare bedroom in his apartment. Then she thought about all the things wrong with her current living situation. Roshan was not exaggerating. Yes, there were rats. And no, there wasn’t hot water. Their landlord was cruel, their neighbors were uncaring, and something always broke every week, whether it was the toilet or a floorboard or the heater. The neighborhood wasn’t necessarily the best around, either.

But she simply couldn’t ask Kostya for that much. He was helping them out enough as it were. She’d feel guilty to continue asking favors.

“No, Roshan, and that’s the last time I will say it, okay?”

The little boy sighed, not understanding his mother at all.

[Dewey]

((correction: in my thanksgiving with the conelli's story, tobias says something like "your first thanksgiving since you've been back and we're already putting gray hairs on your head".. lol, but i realized it was actually his 2nd, since he came back in december 06 not 07. oops!))



Wait.

That seemed to be all Yasmin Parveen did these days. Wait in the posh apartment of her close friend, Kostya Denisov, who'd been apprehended by the French government just weeks ago. Why was it taking so long for him to return? What was going on? Before his departure, Kostya had mentioned his lawyer. Was is that bad? Would he have to stand guilty in a trial? What would his punishment be if the accusations were proven true?

Yasmin stared down at the piece of paper in her hands. It was wrinkled and weathered now, from her constant handling. She took it with her wherever she went, but had yet to dial the phone number written on the paper. Kostya had given it to her for a reason, yes, but she didn't know when would be the right time to call. Was she supposed to have called as soon as he was gone? Was it an S.O.S. on his part, a way to get the wheels in motion for some grand escape plan? Or was this simply a family friend, who could take care of Yasmin and Roshan in Kostya's absence?

Even after being arrested, Kostya was still thoughtful of her and her son. The thought put a sad smile on her face. If only there was a way she could help him in return. She had known the risks Kostya was taking by infiltrating the French government on behalf of Russia. She never suspected those risks would be realized.

It was disheartening to come home to the empty apartment every day. She always expected to see him sitting in the living room, waiting for her and Roshan with a triumphant smile. She knew how Roshan would react. He'd bolt toward his idol with arms outstretched, ready to be lifted up and hugged. He'd then proceed to ask Kostya question after question, and excitedly relate his own adventures. Yasmin would laugh , grateful for his return and for the return of Roshan's happiness--how sad he'd been lately. She would slip her arms around Kostya and hug him close, as if to confirm it really was him, and not an illusion.

"Mommy, when is Kostya coming back?"

Yasmin blinked away her reverie and turned to face her five-year-old son, Roshan. He had slept in this morning, and was just waking up, dark hair disheveled and eyes still dreamy. Her heart warmed at the sight, and she smiled at him. "I don't know, Roshan. Perhaps today he will."

"Why did they take him?"

"I don't know, my love. They think he did something wrong, but he did not. Friends from Russia will come and prove that Kostya did nothing wrong."

Roshan closed the distance between himself and his mother, and climbed onto her lap. "I miss him."

She rubbed his back soothingly. "I do, too."

* * * * *

"Alfonso! More shopping?"

Upon hearing the Rossi estate's front doorbell, Lunetta Rossi took leave of her lunch preparations to answer it, surprised to find her husband surrounded by a dozen giant shopping bags.

"Lunetta, it's only my third Christmas with you and the kids since I've returned. You can't blame me for going overboard." He laughed, quite merrily, and started to relocate the bags from the doorstep to the living room.

"What is all this? Not more TV's, is it?" Alfonso's definition for overboard far exceeded the definition maintained by most households. As an early Christmas present to his family, he'd had 32-inch flat panel Vizio TV's installed in every occupied bedroom.

Alfonso chuckled again. "No, no. How many more TV's do you want, Lunetta?" He returned to the doorstep to grab a few more bags. "Just little things."

"How little?"

"A new laptop for Mickey, with plenty of educational games. I didn't realize how slow that desktop in his room is. Marisol wanted a video ipod and an apple iphone. Bella wanted the four-book collector's edition of some Twilight series. Let's see.." He peeked inside one bag to spark his memory. "Some things for you, of course, and for our parents. I bought Vincenzo and Rosetta cruise tickets to the Mediterranean. Do you think they'll enjoy that."

"Alfonso! Do I need to send you shopping with an accountant?" She smiled, though, and took a seat on the arm of a recliner. "I know you enjoy the holidays, mio amore, but you're worst than a teenaged girl at a mall with her father's credit card!"

Alfonso laughed. "Nonsense. Tis the season, Lunetta. Don't think of it as so much spending in one month. Think of it as... the culmination of a year."

She scanned over the gift bags, now strewn across the living room furniture. "The culimnation of ten years!"

"What do you think about getting Ramona a car? Not paying for it in full, but putting a down payment on one? We can take her to a car dealer and let her pick one out, and then surprise her with the news that we're actually getting it for her for Christmas."

"She'll love that, of course. And she has a job now, so I'm sure she'll be able to manage monthly payments."

"I don't know about the boys."

"I'd hate to buy only baby things for Tobias," Lunetta confessed. "Carmine might appreciate something fruitful for the pizzeria. And Rafael.. I'm not sure. The car is already fully restored, so I guess he doesn't need any more parts."

"We'll think of something."

* * * * *

"So, what are you getting me for Christmas, bel ragazzo?"

Rafael looked up from the bowl of Cheerios he was hunched over and smirked at his older brother Tobias. "What is that, my new nickname? 'Pretty boy'?"

Tobias foraged through the fridge before recovering a wine cooler hidden in the very back. "There you are," he said, as he grabbed the chilled glass and brought it forth. He turned to face Rafael as he popped the bottle open. "What, you don't like it?"

"Not really, no." He nodded toward the wine cooler. "Nice. Somehow doesn't fit my image of you, but nice."

"Yeah yeah, laugh it up. So you didn't answer my question."

"I haven't really done my Christmas shoppnig yet, Tobias. I don't kow. A crib?"

Tobias rolled his eyes. "Real cute."

"What are you getting me?"

"A pair."

"A pair of w-- ?" Rafael trailed off, belatedly getting the joke. Ugh! "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You should've given Anthony an uppercut when you had the chance," the elder replied, taking a swig of his wine cooler. "I mean, he'd probably beat the sh!t out of you, to be honest, but still. Defend yourself, Rafael. You're too chickensh!t sometimes."

"Whatever." Rafael stood up, unfinished with his breakfast, and carried his bowl to the sink to pour out its contents.

"Don't get mad at me. I'm not the one raggin' on you all the time. If you were half as defensive with Anthony as you are with me, maybe he wouldn't walk all over you all the time."

"Tobias, you don't know what you're talking about."

"Why? You think you gotta let that happen just because you're dating Gabi? F- Gabi. This is--"

"Hey, don't ever say that again, all right?"

Tobias shook his head. "You are so whipped!"

"Hey, at least I have a girlfriend. With you, you either slap them around or have kids with them!"

There was silence.

Rafael instantly regretted his words and turned to offer an apology. "Tobias, I didn't--"

But Tobias only laughed. "That was good! See? You have it in you. I know you hate Anthony, so just go off on him, man! I know you have it in you. If you want, I'll go with you as backup. You know he wants this just as bad as you do."

"I don't want to fight Anthony. We're not in grade school, Tobias."

"This has nothign to do with grade school! He's messing up your rep!"

"Anthony just likes to hear himself talk. I don't care. Let him blow off his steam."

"Let me take care of him, then."

"Tobias, no. Just.. let it go. Like Dad said."

"Come on, let it be my Christmas present to you. And yours to me."

"What, to beat Anthony Iaconelli up?"

"Of course not," Tobias said, talking smoothly now, using the tone he did when he wanted to persuade a sibling to do something. "I'll just talk to him. Or send a message. There will be no violence."

Rafael raised a brow at him. "Are you even capable of a no violence policy?"

"Come on. Just a message. I won't even talk to him in person."

"What kind of message?"

"A handwritten note, how about that? Just to scare him off."

Rafael frowned in thought as he scrubbed the bowl clean. What harm could a few sentences do? Tobias had promised no violence and no conversations. Who knew, maybe it'd actually work. So long as... "And no death threats, Tobias. And no profanity."

"You're killing me, kid. Are we agreed then?"

Rafael sighed. "All right, fine."

* * * * *

[Dewey]

((so the puppies apparently arrived in august 07, and that's when murph moved out ha.. i think ill change it to aug 08 instead.. that way the puppies are still small, and that way murph hasn't been living with the conelli's for over a year haha))


Murphy Montgomery stepped past the threshold of his new apartment's doorway and exhaled a sigh. Finally. A home. For almost five months, the young man had been an extended guest in the home of his best friend's family. The Conelli's. He knew they hadn't minded in the slightest. They were those type of people. The ones who jumped at the chance to accomodate others.

For a moment, Murphy reflected on the events that had led up to his once-nomad life. Greg Montgomery, his 'father' for all intents and purposes, had worn no smile this past summer, when Murphy had at long last come home (for the last time) from active duty with the marines. His four year commitment to the military was finally paid off. At twenty-five, he was free to take advantage of his $2500-a-month GI Bill, and he knew exactly what he wanted to do with it. He wanted to attend a firefighting academy.

His father was not pleased. Truth be had, he'd suspected a lapse of reason on his son's behalf. He'd expected Murphy to splurge the money on a new "damn truck", or on parties with his "dead-end friends". But firefighting school? That was out of the question.

"You've already wasted four years of your life marauding around the world," he'd said. "What you need to do is get a college education. Not that crap they teach you at Halifax. Something useful. A degree that will get you a career."

As usual, Murphy had ignored him. As bookish as his father claimed to be, he was pretty uninformed about many things. For one, firefighting was a career. A career Murphy had always considered growing up, after the local station visited his class in fourth grade. Second, the starting salary for someone with a degree from Halifax Academy would probably fall between 55 and 65 thousand dollars a year. And third, it was hands down what he wanted to do--and that fact alone should've been the end of the story.

But Murphy and Greg had never really seen eye to eye on things. Murphy hated the businessman image: Wall Street Journal, a cup of cofeee, and a business suit. Meanwhile, Greg felt the marines were for high school dropouts who couldn't even manage to get a burger-flipping job if they wanted to. He didnt understand the pride and honor of active duty. As far as he was concerned, his only son was simply livnig out some rebellious streak, looking for whatever job would give him adrenaline rushes, short-lived high's, and close encounters with death.

There'd been a lot of yelling that day. Mostly on Greg's part. He had a short temper. Cindy Montgomery, loving wife and mother, simply remained detached from the argument. As usual. She never opened her mouth once. She just watched on, anxiously. It had been an hour, maybe two, when Murphy had had enough.

"FINE! Then I'll move out, all right?"

"Don't threaten us, Murphy," was his father's stern reply.

"Oh, I'm not threatening. Trust me. I'm tired of this crap." He was already in his room at this point, snatching clothes from his closet and drawers, stuffing them into boxes and duffel bags and backpacks. "You want me gone, then fine, I'm gone!"

Cindy finally spoke. "Murphy, please don't do this to us. Why don't you just listen to your father."

"And what? Become a kiss-@ss stockbroker who hates his job??"

"Hey!" Greg pointed a finger at his son. "Don't you dare speak to your mother like that, you understand me?"

Murphy moved quicker now. Every minute that passed was another degree of sanity that he lost. He'd never thought it'd be like this. Moving out in a fury, with his dad breathing down his back. But he couldn't honestly say he was surprised, either. "Whatever. I'm leaving, all right? That's what you want, isn't it? Since I'm... ruining your life or whatever? Then fine. I'm gone. Get off my back already."

"Who are you going to run to, Murphy? Those dead-end friends of yours? That...girl?"

"Her name is Amy. All right?" He shouldered his duffel bag and grabbed a few other bags. "And those friends of mine are more family to me than you've ever been."

"Twenty five years old and you're throwing your life away."

"You know, dad, some guys would be proud that their son was in the marines. Defending Auvernha, fighting for our freedom, working hand in hand with America to stop terrorism in the world. If it wasn't for the marines and the rest of the military, you wouldn't even have your little stock market. A little appreciation would be nice."

"You want me to show you appreciation, Murphy? Why? So I can encourage this marine lifestyle of yours? Of touring the world and getting drunk and acting like high school boys?"

Murphy threw down the bags and closed the distance between himself and his father, fuming now. And shouting. "I've taken bullets for this country! I've watched friends die for this country! I've been stuck in trenches in the rain, in the sun, and in a shower of bullets for this country! So don't stand here and tell me I'm wasting my life on things that don't matter. This is what matters. What our veterans have done, and what the kids overseas are doing right now, and what the 4,119 who've died since this war started did! So if you want to rag on me for this or that, go ahead. But don’t you DARE say a damn word about the marines.”

He stared into his father’s eyes a moment longer, before snatching his bags from the ground, and swiftly turning around to storm out.

“That was some crazy sh!t, Dakota.” Murphy looked down at the red Siberian Husky who had joined him in the doorway of the apartment. She sat on her haunches with a yawn and then looked up at him with twitching ears. Behind her, a four month old carbon copy of her named Tex wrestled with a silver and white husky named Montana. They were siblings; offspring of Dakota.

“And three mouths to feed. How do you like that?” He shook his head and furthered into the apartment, setting the box he carried under his arm onto a kitchen counter.

“Well, welcome home, everyone.”