Title: Philosopher King

Author: Bluehaven4220

SummaryFIESTA Trying to get her to cry was like trying to move an iceberg. Trying to get him to express himself was like trying to resurrect the Titanic. Just how much do we know about the woman with a past we can't define and the detective whose blue eyes tell the story of a man haunted by grief?

Reviews: Seeing as this is my first attempt at a Fiesta fic, reviews are very much appreciated.

Disclaimer: Speak to either Anthony Zuiker, Carol Mendelshon, Ann Donahue, or Jerry Bruikheimer.

Dedicated to my betas justlikewedo, Quicksliver, and feverant Fiesta shipper foxdvd. :)

---

It was mornings like this that he cherished.

Her hair spread out over the pillow, the fact that he could watch her breathing, her chest heaving up and down, up and down, the goosebumps on her bare shoulders as she'd neglected to cover them with the blanket the night before.

It was times like these, when he could roll over and touch her without waking her that he was glad to be alive.

When the alarms had gone off in the lab three months before, he hadn't been able to see where she was. Was she across the street, getting coffee perhaps? Was she just lost in the crowd huddling outside to keep out of the wind? Had she even made it out?

He couldn't find her, she was like a needle in a haystack.

Until suddenly there was an explosion. Shards of glass, framing, fibreglass, insulation, almost anything and everything came crashing down toward him. Just as he had managed to jump out of the way, the front doors opened, and out she ran.

He got up and brushed himself off, just long enough to see her scanning the crowd. Was she looking for him as badly as he was for her?

And now there she was. She was absolutely soaked from the sprinklers going off, her hair dripping (it retained water like nothing he'd seen before), her t-shirt sticking to her skin.

Yet she had never looked so beautiful.

Or at that moment so unintentionally provocative.

No, no, now is not the time to be a pig.

And within a moment, she had disappeared.

No! No no no no no no no no no! Why didn't you go up those steps and hug her? You could've reassured her, let her know you cared. What the hell are you doing?

It wasn't until later that night that he lay awake, watching the shadows crawl across the ceiling. The house was eerily quiet, his little girl (who'd he'd picked up from his mother's place after she agreed to babysit that day), lay sleeping in the next room, but it was still too quiet for his liking. Everything seemed magnified when something was barren.

It was so quiet that when someone knocked on the door the sound traveled through each room like a bullet moving in slow motion.

When he got out of bed and pulled a robe around himself, he suddenly became awake of how cold it was in the small space. The heating was on the fritz again, damn it! When he looked through the peephole, she was standing outside.

Oh no, no, not a good time, not now! What was she doing here, and here right now?

Opening the door, she stood in front of him, shivering and wet. Raining, again. What else was new? All it seemed to do these days was rain.

“Hi,” she managed as her teeth chattered.

“What are you doing out here? Come in, come in,” he quickly ushered her inside.

“Oh, it's chilly in here,” she breathed.

“I know, I'm sorry Stell,” he told her. “The heating's malfunctioning again.”

“Why can't you get someone to fix it?”

“I have, the earliest they can get here is tomorrow morning,” he turned the kettle on. “The water heater is still working, so you get into a hot shower, alright?”

She nodded, going into the bathroom and closing the door. As he heard the water running he supported himself against the kitchen counter.

It was the nights when it rained when all the memories from two years before came flooding back. The rain, the slippery roads, the streetlights... everything came back. It was the night he'd lost almost everything that was important to him.

His sister, Michelle had been driving toward his Manhatten townhouse with his niece Megan in the backseat, still strapped into her carseat. Michelle had just recently divorced her husband, Ian, soon after a fight which resulted in her getting a fractured wrist and a black eye. She'd alson won full legal custody of Megan, not allowing Ian near their daughter. She'd come to Manhatten from Albany looking for a fresh start.

The odds had been against them from the beginning, and it wasn't just the rain. Michelle's car had collided with a transport truck, killing her instantly. Megan. at one year old, had survived the crash, suddenly making Don Flack a father. He was named Megan's legal guardian, the only father she'd ever known.

“Daddy?” he heard Megan's small voice radiate throughout the room.

“Meggie,” Don went toward her and picked her up, hugging her close. “What are you doing up?”

“Too noisy.”

“The water's too noisy?” he repeated. “Okay, sweetie, what do you say to having a glass of warm milk to help you go back to sleep?”

“Milk,” she repeated.

“Okay,” Don carried her into the kitchen and reached into the cupboard. “Let's get your pink cup here...”

“Want green cup!” she insisted.

“Okay,” he nodded, replacing the offensive pink cup with the favoured green one. Suddenly the water stopped running. Stella would be finishing up in the bathroom soon, if he didn't get Megan back to bed she'd still be awake when Stella came out to the living room, raising awkward questions.

Setting the toddler on the couch, he went back to the kitchen as the microwave beeped, signaling that Megan's drink was ready. He brought the cup to her and sat down on the couch. “There you go, sweetie.”

“Kiss kiss,” she smiled, leaning toward her father.

He offered her his cheek, and smiled as the little girl kissed him and climbed into his lap. “Story, Daddy?”

“You want me to tell you a story?”

She nodded.

“But I don't know any good stories.”

“Princess story?”

“A princess story? Oh dear, I forget how that one goes.”

Megan drank the rest of her milk and snuggled deeper into Don's lap. She looked up at him, her green eyes wide.

“Oh alright,” he sank deeper into the couch. “Once upon a time, there was a princess, and her name was Megan. Megan was a very pretty little girl, with brown hair and very big green eyes.”

“Just like me!”

“That's right, just like you,” Don flicked the bridge of her nose. “Princess Megan in the kingdom of New York, with her daddy and her grandma. Her grandma lived in a village in the kingdom, called Yonkers, so most of the time she lived with her daddy, and her daddy loved her very much...”

Soon both Don and Megan were so caught up in the story they didn't even notice Stella coming out of the bathroom, drying her hair in a towel. She watched and waited as the little girl's eyes slowly began to close and she drifted off to sleep once again.

She waited still as Don carried the little girl from the living room to her bedroom, her feet safely encased in her feetie pajamas. As she tucked her into bed and closed her door, Stella folded her arms against her chest.

“So Don, did I miss something here?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

“Who's the little girl?”

It was then that Don Flack realized he could no longer hide. He trusted Stella Bonasera...

But would he be able to trust her with something as big as his having a three year old daughter?