John Smith

He had sworn he wouldn't so much as befriend her. Because they were little more than strangers, and supposed to be enemies. Because it would be better if he never saw her again. He could forget her face eventually and would be able to live with himself.

'You okay'? Rob had asked that fateful day as they'd left Greendale Mall and the wreckage of EarthOutfitters. Without looking at him John had simply said, 'You know I hate this."

He hadn't always hated his job. When he'd first joined ACT the organization had still been young. Young and full of energy. Sure it was doing what was right and sure that it could change the world for the better. A lot like John. But then things had gone wrong. Somehow. He never had figured out whether it had always been a bad idea or if it simply became one. He didn't see that it mattered so much now. The simple truth was that now, ACT probably performed as many acts of lethal intimidation and retribution as they stopped.

"You could quit, you know. Just drop out."

"So could you" he told Rob, who shook his head. "Don't like it any more than you do, Captain. But family's got to eat and with Martha's mom the way she is, ACT's the only group whose insurance policy covers that kind of thing."

"I know, Rob."

They'd had this conversation at least a hundred times in the past two years. It had long ago lost any purpose other than to fill silence and to show your partner that you still cared about him. Simple truth of the matter was, John couldn't quit. It was because of his personality. He never could just sit by on the sidelines and watch things happen. He always had to at least try to make a difference.

And now, Robbie was dead.

ACT was the only way John could make a difference: The only way he could get the information and the team together to stop a terrorist bomb from going off in a private school. The only way he could stop a shipment of Peyote root from reaching the streets and hundreds of stupid, clueless kids. The only way he could save a young woman from having to deal with both a concussion and ACT's Interrogation black site.

'Get her out of your head, John,' he had told himself on their dead-silent, tense drive back to the building. 'It's only trouble when you start remembering their faces. When you start wondering about what happens to them after you leave.'

But after everything, he couldn't forget her. He needed a chance to tell her, if possible: the truth: that he wanted to try and change things, make a difference.

McKenna had continued to press him. "What happened to that girl?"

John had lied to her easily, automatically: "I don't know."

But he'd be lying if he hadn't been glad when Jeanie called.

"I found a card with this number on it in your coat pocket. I thought you'd want your coat back. Maybe ... meet me at this bar where my cousin works?"

He told himself he would get his coat, and leave. And that would be that.

Jeanie told herself she would give him his coat, tell him thank-you, and part ways: that would be that.

Adrian Blackstone was Jeanie's cousin. The bar where Adrian worked, Feather & Smoke, was a Native-owned establishment, which was both a blessing and a curse these days: Native patrons and workers could be out past midnight without fear of being picked up for vagrancy, but the bar could be raided at any time. John's was the only white skin in the place, but, as usual, a silent and swift deference was made after he showed his ID and badge.

The faint ripple of tension in the air broke as soon as Adrian reached his hand out to John. The two men shook hands. Jeanie felt all eyes in the place on the three of them, was well aware that as polite as her cousin seemed to be, he was anxious.

The two men waited until Jeanie went back to some friends. Some girls whose equally tawny complexions, high cheekbones and fine noses, dark eyes and hair made them all look the same. With only distinguishing features and clothing to separate them. Mae and Tsia, who seemed to be Jeanie's constant companions, were among them, but there were also some young women John hadn't met.

"I'm Adrian Blackstone, as Jeanie told you. I'm her cousin."

"Right," John said, feeling awkward and that nice to meet you seemed to get stuck in his throat.

Adrian eyed John warily, as if to find a fault. His eyes were dark, and if he smiled he would be handsome, transforming his face from a stony expression. One of Adrian's smooth cheeks was pitted with scars from chickenpox, but his skin was otherwise smooth and tawny brown; tribal tattoos graced one arm, visible from beneath a rolled shirtsleeve. His intimidating, masculine bearing didn't faze John. John's eyes took in the Indian trade silver jewelry Adrian wore, and the feathers in his long hair.

Adrian made a show of ignoring John's presence and poured a customer a Scotch on the rocks and then took two more orders. When the pouring was done and the customers satisfied, he regarded John again.

"So. Jeanie tells me that you kept ACT's Interrogation unit away from her on the day of the bombing."

"I did," John said. "I couldn't let them take her in for questioning. She was unconscious. And it was just pure coincidence that I even saw her alive later. I honestly had tried to forget."

"You talk too much when you're nervous, and so then you hardly talk," Adrian tried not to smile. "How did you end up, you know, government. You ex-military?"

"Ex-cop, actually. Although, most of the men in my task force are either current or former Army."

"Hmm," Adrian made the sound in wry, grudging approval. He raised an eyebrow, let his gaze drift to his cousin. "Jeanie's mother's boyfriend is a reservation cop. He's from down in Indian Territory, but lives with her ma now up North."

Ah, Indian Territory: Since the series of violent uprisings that began in the 1960s with the seizure of Alcatraz Island, Natives had been upping the ante just to piss off the rest of the country. They renamed Alcatraz "Ohlone," and claimed that craggy patch of rock for themselves. They also rechristened Oklahoma "Indian Territory" and rammed through a series of court decisions granting the entirety as tribal lands.

Rumors were, it was like the Old West down there now: lawless, with Indians running everywhere barebacked on horses, the Comanche lording over most of it with the fierceness that had been their reputation in the old days. The Indians had supposedly quite literally chased out the oil and natural gas companies.

John mulled this over, knowing his expression was one of surprise.

"Jeanie's mother's living in sin. Left Jeanie's old man." Adrian's wry smile as he said this revealed that he had a gapped eyetooth. That smile remained, even as he glanced over at his cousin again. "It's practically a scandal back home."

"Oh. Well," John said, trying to seem as unruffled as possible as he glanced over at Jeanie. "Say, does she always wear so much black? Is she mourning her parents' marriage?" he teased.

This earned another smile and a gruff laugh from her cousin.

Jeanie stood talking quietly with her friends. She was almost entirely in black. Black denim, and over that, a slightly oversized black rollneck crew sweater. She wore the same scuffed low-top leather brown boots she'd been wearing when John had first met her. Her hair was pulled back severely. Her eyeliner matched her clothes: black.

"All that black is definitely an intense look, but I can't say I don't like it, either," John said.

Tsia added to Adrian and John's conversation. She'd sidled up to the bar and Adrian was refilling her drink with seltzer.

"We have to beg her to wear any other color. She's been wearing that eyeliner look for years. And all that black. A few weeks ago, when you met her, I'd threatened to throw out all her clothes if she didn't wear another color. Like a white shirt is a color." Tsia rolled her eyes.

The young woman rolled her eyes at him, scoffed and walked off. "Yo, Jean!" she called, "your federal friend is here!"

Adrian caught John's shocked expression at Tsia's loud forwardness. By way of explanation to Adrian, John said, "Jeanie will hardly speak to me. Can't stand the sight of me."

Adrian harrumphed and cut a glance at his cousin, who sat whispering with her friends; they whispered behind their hands like much younger girls, daring shy glances at the two men before looking away. Not for the first time, John got the impression that she was somehow sheltered.

"I wouldn't say that," Adrian said with a knowing smile. "If she hated you so much, why's she making the effort to return your coat?"

"The barest politeness, maybe," John shrugged.

"My cousin is very particular with whom she spends her time. She doesn't suffer fools. She probably sees something worthy in you."

Now that was an interesting take on things.

"You know nothing about her?" Adrian pressed, surprised, "She didn't tell you?"

"Well, don't keep me in suspense. I told you she hardly will speak to me. Seems awfully afraid of me."

"Well, why don't you go find out for yourself. Go on, get your coat."

Who was she, John wondered again as he had been for some time. She must be from a chiefly family. John suddenly wondered what sort of spouse someone with such high levels of prestige would take; raw panic that she wouldn't choose him suddenly hit him. It was absurd, really: He barely knew her and she refused to talk to him.

"Well," Adrian said after a moment, "Don't just stand there. Go talk to her."

John had no clue what Adrian was thinking. But he'd not shot him on sight, and he was at least letting the two of them talk.

Adrian was surprisingly talkative; he looked so taciturn.

"She was supposed to be my responsibility, kind of, when she moved here to Chicago. She'd been home living with her ma, but then came to Chicago because of some art program. Had tried living in Indian Territory alone, had tried living in upstate New York with her dad, then had tried living at home in Wisconsin with her ma. But Chicago seemed to stick. I wasn't as strict with her as her parents wanted, and now she lives with some friends who made their way here, too."

Adrian had walked over to her with John following behind, and Adrian and Jeanie had spoken a few words in an Indian language. Adrian introduced John to the friends he hadn't met, and they were polite enough, respectful; Tsia and Mae had the good manners to mention to the others that they'd met before.

With Adrian standing by, they watched as agent and young woman departed; John felt their eyes on him as much as on Jeanie.

The back room where Jeanie had led him had a wooden floor, a fireplace, and a billiards table. And no one else at this hour.

"So what's with the whole funeral look? Someone die?" John asked as he appraised her clothes once again.

She looked at him sharply, and a wounded look crossed her face for just an instant. "Are you insulting the way I dress?"

"No, I'm asking. I don't get it."

"Well at least I don't look like a registered republican who was president of his fraternity."

"Oh, insulting the way I dress now, are you?"

"Just observing. I don't get it," she parroted with a sneer.

"You know, I don't think this is the least bit attractive." He gestured to the multiple earlobe piercings he'd noticed for the first time.

"Why should you care what's attractive or not about me, unless you are attracted to me?"

It happened so quickly. He'd been standing next to her, and she had taken a few steps back. Her back met the wall in that empty room. He put his hands firmly against the wall on either side of her body. She could feel the warmth of his body heat and the emotional turmoil rolling inside of her like a gathering storm.

He smirked, all authority, conceited and smug, wearing privilege and money head to toe, from that sweater to his wristwatch.

Jeanie wasn't sure if she wanted to kiss him or slap him. Oh, how she wanted to kiss him. He looked like he'd walked out of a catalogue, and smelled like a subtle cologne and soap. She was surprised to find herself enjoying the fact that he was so close, it was an unmistakable thrill as he leaned in like that.

Unable to resist, she looked him over. "No weapon on you today?" it was her turn to smirk at him as she brought her gaze upward.

"Undressing me with your eyes again?"

Her cheeks burned scarlet. "Maybe we're off on the wrong foot?" she offered, "I have your coat. Over there." She pointed beyond, to the table behind them.

John eased off, and Jeanie slowly let out a breath she'd been holding. She watched him pick it up from where it was draped over a chair. He was walking away; she was losing her her nerve.

"Wait," she called, as loudly as she dared. He turned back to her, walked back to where she stood. That smug smile again; the gleaming perfect orthodontia of oppression. She would swear later that he'd drawn himself up a little taller, planted his feet a little firmer, and leaned in to be more intimidating.

He watched as she faltered. She said nothing. He watched her lower lip quiver, a muscle in her cheek twitch; the scar across her ear was still vivid, and tendrils of it wisped across her cheek. A plastic surgeon had done the job, and it would fade with time and care. She sighed, a long sigh for one so young.

But he seemed to read the question that was buried in that sigh.

"What are you afraid will happen if you decide to trust me, Jeanie?" John asked softly.

Jeanie watched him speak as much as listened. If someone was in front of her, she could hear them better. She was struggling not to fall under the spell of his good looks. How many times at night had she ached for him? In her deepest yearnings, she wanted him despite the danger, despite their screwed-up society. Despite her ugliness.

"What are you afraid of?" he said again.

""Will you please just ..." she whispered, breath bated.

"What, Miss Leclair?" he asked softly, taking in her scent: floral, spicy notes of perfume.

"I can't," she said shakily, and she pushed away from him. Started walking away. Leaving whatever request she had unspoken. But he caught up to her, took her by the arm gently. "We can level the field." He arched an eyebrow in question. "Don't be afraid. Just spend one afternoon with me," he offered.

"No."

He shrugged nonchalantly.

Jeanie felt sick with rage, sick with desire, sick with anger. Her voice felt raw, it ached with disuse.

"Any more trouble at work?" he inquired.

"No. I switched to the day shift. I couldn't handle it."

"You're still not sleeping, are you. You look very tired, Miss."

"I hardly sleep. I can't."

"That's not healthy, you know. You'll get sick that way."

"I just ... can't."

"Tried counting sheep, have you?" he teased.

"Oh, shut up," she said wearily. "It's just ... the news. The war. The curfew. The rules. My injury. Death everywhere. How is anyone supposed to ..." Jeanie blinked back angry tears and she seethed with emotions. John definitely saw it, and felt intense emotions of his own.

"Do you have a quiet place you can go to just rest? Just spend a little time with me-"

"I am," she interjected angrily, furious at him, furious at herself, barely able to get the words out. "I gave you back your stupid coat." She was dangerously close to crying in front of him, again.

"You didn't have to."

"No one would just let someone else just walk off with a nice coat like that. Now tell me what you want from me. Do you want information on my father? Do you want me?"

Her voice had risen and fallen with hysteria, desperation; she had almost choked on the last few words. Those last words: Do you want me were open to interpretation.

"What do you want?" she pleaded.

This was a huge fucking mess. John had botched everything up, again. He felt frustration and anger rising; anger at himself for being so infatuated with her, for being a horrible communicator and an even worse human being.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, "I didn't meant to upset you again, Miss Leclair. "I'm sorry," he repeated.

As he moved away from her, his too-long hair brushed against her cheek.

Jeanie

He smelled like soap and cologne. He'd only been so close to her in her dreams. But here now, in the back room of her cousin's bar, John's body so close to hers was tantalizingly virile. The fabric of his sweater brushed against hers and his hair pressed against her cheek. Very carefully, Jeanie lifted her face a fraction, met his eyes with hers.

"Please don't go," she whispered, forcing the words to come quickly now, before ... but he was leaving her alone (again).

"John, please don't go," she said a little more insistently, her voice disused, raspy, not her own. Jeanie felt her breath catch.

Breathing into the silence, they were edging toward some kind of detente, slowly and painfully.

"Tell me what you want," she said again.

"You must want something, yourself" he ventured, knowing he wasn't far off the mark. "But thank you for returning my coat. I'll leave you alone now."

He turned to leave.

"That's all you'll say to me?" she called. "You just asked me to spend time with you."

"You don't seem too interested," he replied.

There may have been an edge of sarcasm; she wished she could hear him better. Struggling through this partial deafness totally sucked. She'd woken up in the hospital, after the bombing, to find the hearing in her left ear returned but nothing in the right. And it had stayed that way. There was no guarantee anything would ever help. Now she got screamed at half the shift at the diner. Like shouting at her would help, even though she told people they just had to be patient.

She said nothing. Again. She pulled her arms around herself in a defensive posture. But only succeeded looking overwhelmed, lost.

He glanced back. "Cat got your tongue, eh?" There was no malice, no cruelty in his expression or words or attitude toward her, but ...

"I hate this!" she cried in frustration. I can't hear anything! No one knows what it's like, I'm so tired! Why should my people respect yours? You must have some ulterior motives."

"Ulterior?!" he cried in disbelief, "I don't believe this. You're that mistrustful of me? I saved your life."

"You could have left me there! Why didn't you!"

"Oh, you are an ingrate."

"Oh, fuck off! Go to hell!"

"Your words mean nothing! You think I'm afraid of you? I get real threats from savages every day."

At this she lunged at him in rage. He let his coat fall to the floor as he blocked her.

"Don't you dare strike me!" he cried.

Time stilled as the order of things shattered. Each of them was terrified of what the other might do, frozen in expectation and the horror of what have I done?

And she looked up at him with those big, dark eyes, the heat taken out of her anger, the ice and steel fading from her gaze now that he'd rendered her powerless. "If I would have hit you ..."

"I'd pity you. A scared young woman whose only response is violence."

The room was small and they were pressed as close as they'd been before. His hands on either side of her again, his presence intoxicating like a poisonous flower.

"People I love are dead!" she admitted painfully, "My life is altered. There's a chance I'll never have hearing again in my right ear and everything is so hard. I'm angry. What choice do I have?"

"You have a lot of choices," he said carefully, "and one is to keep living, give people a chance."

"And I should start with you?" Her voice rose, broke on fury, "You called me a savage!"

He scoffed. "It's not that I think you're a savage ..."

"...But just my people! Fuck off."

"It's just a word, a term, for people who are uncivilized. And I'd reconsider the use of the fuck word. Somehow, I doubt you have much familiarity."

"Don't deny that you haven't thought about it!"

Color rose in his cheeks, hearing that come from her mouth. "Your head is full of childish notions, I'm sure."

"I'm no child." Her tone was full of contempt as her whole body tensed. She was sure she was blushing as ferociously as he was, no matter her anger.

That preppy smirk from him, again. "Fine. If you're so grown up, then why not show me more respect?"

But they were unable to stop the verbal bloodletting, not just then. They kept going, hurling invective until one of them wore down.

"Apologize," she demanded finally, not once taking her eyes off of him.

"You first," John said, taken aback.

"You started it. You're close enough to either kiss me or kill me."

"Which would you prefer?" he drawled.

"Oh, you are so full of yourself!" she countered. "Now apologize to me!"

"You demanding, spoiled brat!"

"Oh, I'm a spoiled brat? This war has destroyed my family! It's shattered my life! Your kind are nothing but murdering colonizers! I don't care what you've done for me! Why didn't you leave me to die!"

"As if the war hasn't affected me and the people I love, too, you suicidal, selfish, uptight prick-tease!"

This last insult did it. Jeanie had wanted to stop fighting. But now she pushed him away with all her strength. "I hate you!" she shrieked as she shoved him. "I hate you, I hate you!" she shrieked. "I hate you!"

This was raw rage, raw grief. "I hate you," she wailed even as she hid her face in her hands, crying. But she wasn't so sure she really did hate him, and that was scarier.

He stepped away before he could do anything foolish.

Jeanie

This was such a fucking mess.

She'd cracked under pressure.

Rage: at everything, at everyone, and at herself: Her people, the Haudenosaunee, were expected to use rational discussion with enemies. Violence was reserved only for sport and war. They were expected to be stoic and unapproachable during such discussions. Not even interrupting the speaker was allowed.

But all she and John Smith done was scream and yell and hurl insults and on top of it all she couldn't stop crying. Jeanie's throat was raw and she felt completely spent. Her whole body trembled. Her breathing was uneven still, and she struggled to calm herself.

She felt like she might choke. He left; reappeared; offered her a glass of water.

"Don't have another asthma attack," he said dryly.

She didn't have the strength to tell him to shut up.

She would never be a leader: she'd shame her family; she was too much of a mess.

"I'm very sorry, Jeanie," he said softly, once she'd calmed down. Dark eyes gazed into green ones.

They seemed to come to their senses, slowly. They were as close as lovers. But also as close as assassins.

Jeanie saw a man exhausted, full of unexpressed anger at a system that was failing values he claimed to have. Was he truly just trying to understand? She could kiss him. She could take his apology and just lean in a fraction and press her lips to his. It would be so easy ...

"I'm sorry," she said, voice dropping to a whisper. She held out her hands, "Go ahead. Come on, cuff me: I struck you."

"I probably deserved it," he quipped dryly. "I'm not taking you in, Miss Leclair," he said firmly.

They felt the barest beginnings of a detente.

"Apology accepted. I'm sorry for what I said, too. You know," he offered, "the two of us don't have to fight. I'm trying to understand what is rotting the relations between our peoples."

Understand? she thought, scoffing as she wiped angrily at her tears with a tissue. He'd never understand. How could he possibly?

What was it her father had always said? "Two sides always wanted to fight." Could her father have been wrong? Problem was, Jeanie hadn't counted on someone like John Smith to walk into her life and upend her notions.

She shivered even though the room was warm.

"I won't hurt you, you know."

"You say that a lot." She looked him straight in the eyes then.

"Because you clearly doubt me. I would save your life again."

Time and space did that little thing again where they seemed to be on pause as the two of them struggled with the intensity of eye contact and the weight of John's admission just then.

"All I remember is violence, from the time I was little," she said, bewildered.

Then there was a silence that wasn't altogether that uncomfortable.

"Why don't you and I just try and start over."

"You actually think we can look past the fact that you're an FBI agent and I'm Native?"

"Would you be willing to try?"

She couldn't meet his eyes just then. "I don't know," she mumbled, suddenly preoccupied with her handful of kleenex.

He actually looked as disappointed, as crushed, as she felt and she knew it showed on her face, too.

"We're not supposed to even be talking!" she was exasperated as she finally met his eyes again. "You have all the power! You could do anything you wanted to me and no one could say one word against you!"

"Is that what you think?" he was incredulous. "You brought me onto your ground. Your cousin hasn't exactly shot me where we're standing."

"It's what I was taught to think!"

They fell into silence again at the jolt of her admission and she had a feeling he'd been taught the same. He then shook his head in amazement and chagrin. "Every time we make any progress we just fall apart again."

Despite that being quite true indeed, Jeanie felt the tiniest sliver of hope begin to take hold, the smallest sensation of calm begin to settle on her. Jeanie felt her face flush with heat. "Telling you I hate you is ... easier." Jeanie lowered her gaze from his. She stilled, her breath caught in her throat. Just kiss him! she thought to herself. "I'm not thinking clearly. Everything's so difficult now and I'm so tired."

"Then rest with me." John's offer was only half in-jest.

She heaved another sigh too heavy for one so young. "My father's the paramount chief of the Iroquois Confederacy and the chief of the Mohawks. My mother's father is the chief of the Oneidas." Another sigh. She shook her head in resignation. "And if anyone finds us ... Never mind that. I was so certain that day we met that you were looking for information on my father. How come you're not?"

"Trailing your father like a hunter's not my job, that's why. But I would like to know more about it," John said quickly, trying to deflect her mood from gloomy fatalism to something resembling hope. "I'd like to know more about you. To spend time with you," he admitted with a sheepish laugh, "Maybe, if this country had a different idea about things ..." he trailed off.

"This is not easy at all," Jeanie admitted. She didn't want him to feel embarrassed about anything he'd just confessed.

Her thoughts were jumbled.

"So ... If things were different ... how would you like to spend time with me?" She had forced the last words of that sentence out, terrifying as they were.

He shook his head, regretful. "You don't want to spend time with me. I can't force you."

"You don't know what I want," she offered, and he looked at her in surprise. His gaze as he reconsidered this, as he looked at her in a new light, didn't make her uncomfortable. She rather liked looking at him, in fact.

He spoke, finally. "How about I buy you a drink? We are at a bar."

"Eh, it might be weird, with Adrian here."

"Dinner somewhere, then?"

"I'm a vegetarian. And I have a curfew."

As she searched for excuses, John was undeterred. "Vegetarians still eat dinner, though, don't they?"