The Greens of Jericho

Different Circumstances: Part 14F of ? by Marzee Doats


Author's Note: I think I can safely claim to be back in the writing groove.  I can't imagine that I will be updating more often than every five or six weeks, but stranger things have happened.  I'm not one to demand feedback, but I will admit that it stokes the writing furnace, even if you just let me know that you're still reading and enjoying this "little" romance/drama, I would appreciate it... and I might just write a little faster!

Warnings: Bad smells, eavesdropping, and really, really cold showers ahead.

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

Saturday, December 30, three months after the bombs
 

"So, what do we do?" Jake asked once the marine imposters had faded into the night. It had taken them less than a minute to disappear, out on the highway with the only light for miles around thrown off by the headlamps on the tank.

Johnston glanced at his son. "We soldier on," he told him.

"Okay," Jake shrugged, "But what do we do with that?" he inquired, pointing at the tank.

"Oh!" Johnston declared, feeling a little foolish now that he finally understood his son's question. They hadn't really had a choice when it came to the tank – they'd had to confiscate it – but this X factor conspiracy wasn't going to get very far if they left it where it was in the middle of I-70. "Well," he decided, "Stanley, you got room in your barn?"

"Seriously?" Stanley yelped.

Johnston shrugged. "Why not? Never know when you might need a tank. Besides," he continued, "You take the tank, Gray has to negotiate with you."

"That's a helluva insurance policy," Jake snorted, his arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing a sweatshirt with the hood up – and gloves – but he didn't have a coat, and it made Johnston feel cold just looking at him. "For all of us," Jake added, exhaling deeply. "And we may need it."

"Okay then," Stanley agreed, "But how do we do this?"

"Well, how 'bout I go back to town with Brett and Zack, talk to Clyde and Shannon, and then I'll get the truck and come out to your place, pick Jake and Mike up?" Johnston suggested. "That should give you three enough time to get the tank out there and put away."

"Sounds good," Stanley agreed. "But Mimi and Bonnie are still back there," he said, pointing toward Jericho. "And, I've got the keys," he added, fishing them out of his pocket. "So, can you get these to Mimi? Tell her I'll explain everything when they get home?"

"Will do," Johnston acknowledged, accepting the keys from Stanley.  He glanced at the Davis brothers. "We should get goin', boys."

"Why do we hafta go back to town?" Zack complained to his older brother, already moving toward Jericho. "I'd like to try drivin' a tank." Even Michael, whose thoughts were still concentrated on what was likely happening some ways down the road, found himself relieved by the proof that Zack Davis really was fifteen years old.

"So, Jake?" Stanley prompted, his expression expectant.

"Me?" Jake returned, clearly surprised. "Why you think I'm gonna drive? It's your tank."

"Yeah, I guess," his friend muttered. "But you fly airplanes, you drive semis. How different can a tank be?"

"You drive tractors," Jake countered.

"A tractor," Stanley emphasized, "The same one for – forever." He looked his friend up and down then, realizing that Jake was barely holding it together. No wonder he didn't want to drive, he'd almost died four days earlier, and it didn't matter what he'd been telling people all day, Jake wasn't fully recovered.

Stanley glanced over at Michael who squinted back, his expression clearly dubious. "Don't look at me. I never even drove an ambulance. That's a whole 'nother test I never bothered to take."

"Fine, whatever," Stanley grumbled, marching over to the tank. "Hand me in all this crap, okay?" he requested, pointing at the marine squad's weapons and then starting to climb up the side. Jake and Michael watched as Stanley lowered himself into the vehicle through the turret, popping back up not even five seconds later. "Oh God, it is so rank in here," he complained, gagging.

"Well, they've probably been living in there awhile," Jake guessed, reaching for the assault rifle that Maggie had left behind.

"Since there was a food riot at their refugee camp," Michael admitted, "Who knows, coulda been the one we read about at Black Jack." He reached for another of the phony marines' weapons then thought better of it, and withdrew his hand. "I don't – I don't know what you're supposed to do with one of these. How you do it."

"Well, first we need to make sure they're empty," Jake explained, demonstrating how to check the magazine. He showed Michael the clip, confirming, "That's empty. Once we know they're empty, they can go in the tank," he finished, handing the weapon to Stanley.

"That's – that's good," Michael acknowledged with an uneasy chuckle. "I mean, you wouldn't want one of these going off accidentally inside the tank, right?" He inhaled sharply. "But what I really meant…I don't know how to check a gun, use a gun, do anything with a gun, so I think maybe you should teach me…. Just in case."

Nodding, Jake reached for another rifle. "We can do that," he acknowledged, "But after New Year's, okay?"

Michael shook his head in agreement. He knew that Jake and his sister always celebrated New Year's together at the ranch, marking the anniversary of their engagement. They'd come to Buffalo for Christmas twice since they were married, but they always made sure they were home for New Year's. "That's fine, I'm not in a big hurry or anything."

"You don't have to do it," Jake reminded, handing the next rifle up to Stanley. "But it's a good idea. Never know what's gonna happen," he muttered, starting to check the next weapon. "Though, think we'll start you on something a little more basic than these."

Yeah," Michael chuckled, fighting with the rifle he was trying to clear. He'd watched Jake do it three times, but he still hadn't quite figured out how to eject the magazine. "I think I need gun training wheels," he grumbled. But then something slipped and suddenly the magazine was lying in his hand. "Okay," he smiled to himself as he confirmed that the clip was empty.

"Gimme," Stanley prompted, holding out his hand. Michael handed the weapon up, pleased with his success.

Jake and Michael cleared the rest of the rifles quickly – as Johnston had guessed the marine imposters had been completely out of ammunition -- and then, somewhat reluctantly, climbed up into the tank. The interior was small, with seats for four, and 'rank' didn't begin to describe the stench. Rotten food, blood, sweat, vomit, urine... the combination of odors permeated the cramped space. "Don't – just breathe through your mouth," Jake advised, the back of his hand pressed against his nostrils as he vainly tried to block out the smell.

Stanley lunged for the driver's seat. "How fast d'ya think this thing can go?" he croaked out.

"Forty?" Jake replied, starting to tear up. "That's what I – what I think they said back in Iraq."

"That'll take fifteen minutes," he complained, looking over the controls. "Hell, no," he grunted, fighting the bile that rose into the back of his throat. "I'm gettin' at least forty five outta this baby!"

* * * * *

Michael struggled out of the tank, clambering down the outside of the vehicle, and dropping to his knees on the floor of barn. Blinking away the tears that they had all dealt with over the last half hour, he looked up at his brother-in-law, announcing, "You – you so owe me!"

Stanley had tried to push the tank to its limit and beyond, but it had still taken twenty minutes – it had felt like hours – to reach Richmond Ranch road, and a few more after that before the tank was in the barn. He'd driven the tank to an older barn, one that his grandfather had built, and that his father had replaced with a bigger, more solid structure when Stanley was little. This barn was farther out from the house and little used, especially in the last few years when he'd given up on hay after the Hydes had found someone outside Fielding who only grew hay, who grew it cheaper, who could fulfill more of the dairy's need.

"Even if – if I'm the world's biggest gun imbecile, you don't get to say anything," Michael warned Jake.

The two of them had traded off riding in the open turret – though the heavy hatch door had posed its own set of problems – until finally Stanley hadn't been able to stand it any longer and had demanded his turn.  Jake had taken the controls, but he'd been unable to keep their speed up where Stanley wanted it, and so they had switched places once again two or three minutes later.  Jake didn't look like he was going to die anymore – a vast improvement on four days before – but that was about all Michael could say for him.  That was why, once they arrived at the Richmond Ranch, he'd volunteered to stay in the tank and hand out all the supplies inside.  Stanley had already taken his turn, leaving it up to Jake or him, and Michael didn't figure he wanted to explain to his sister why he'd let her husband pass out and die from the noxious stink inside that tank.

"That – that thing needs to be cleaned," Michael declared, fighting the weakness in his legs to stand up.  "And no way in hell am I doing it."

"Well, the EMP took out the electronics," Jake shrugged.  "So get every gallon of bleach Dale can find and flood it," he advised, "Or better yet, toss in a Molotov cocktail and let it do its thing."

"Not gonna worry about that tonight," Stanley decided making a face.  He could smell that … that tank stench on his skin and clothes, and it was making him sick to his stomach.  "There's a root cellar in the back," he said, gesturing at the pile of weapons and other equipment – a few flashlights, two small, single burner stoves, a couple of shovels – that Michael had pulled out of the tank.  "Let's just put it all down there."

"Sounds good," Jake agreed, starting to gather rifles up in his arms like firewood. 

Michael, though, shook his head, announcing, "I need to get some fresh air.  Clear my head."

"Sure, man," Stanley acknowledged, squatting to pick up the flashlights and stoves.  "So, uh, how're you doin'?" he asked a minute later, looking over his shoulder at Jake as he led the way to the root cellar.  "I mean, you're lookin' better.  Better than –"

"The other night?" Jake guessed, allowing a humorless bark of laughter.  "Well, since everyone keeps telling me I was about five minutes from dead, that's not saying much.  And trust me," he added, grimacing, "I feel like shit."

The entrance to the root cellar was in the back, right corner of the barn.  Stanley bent over, dropping the items he carried on the ground before reaching for the brass ring to pull the door open.  "Yeah, actually, you kinda look like shit, too," he told his friend – sympathetically – as he shoved the heavy plank door over.  "And smell like it."

Jake turned his head so he could sniff his hood.  "That's the one thing I didn't smell in there," he grumbled, shaking his head in disgust.  "But you're right... it all kinda marinates together."

"So, you know, the other night…" Stanley began, before pausing to clear his throat.  "Out there, on that road, you, uh… you said some stuff."

"Yeah?" Jake returned, his whole body tensing.

"You know, you said – you said to tell Heather you loved her," Stanley shrugged.  He stooped over to pick up the things he'd put down, and then stepped into the root cellar.  There were two crude steps – the cellar was only about three feet deep – and he stopped on the first one, looking at Jake.  "You said you're gonna call the baby EJ, like your grandpa.  And you talked about some … some girl," he muttered, glancing down at his feet. 

Stanley dropped the flashlights and the stoves on the cellar floor, and then, seeming to muster his courage, turned back, looking up, to face Jake.  "You couldn't break cover.  That's what you said, you couldn't break cover," he repeated, exhaling nervously.  "And I know you'd never – never hurt Heather –"

"It's not what you're thinkin'," Jake snapped, cutting him off.  Michael was outside and he'd closed the barn door behind him, but still Jake looked around to make sure he wasn’t there – wasn't hearing this – before taking a step toward Stanley, kicking one of the rifles out of the way.  "How could you think – think that?" he demanded, glaring at his friend.

Crouching next to the cellar so that his head was level with Stanley's, Jake repeated, "It's not what you're thinkin'.  You think I slept with her?" he guessed before immediately denying it. "I didn't sleep with that girl," he whispered harshly.  Urgently.  "I don't cheat on Heather.  Bein' married's built into my cover.  This time, being married to Heather was built in, just – just so we could stay in close contact.  We talked every other day, we emailed – God," he swore, scrubbing his face with his gloved hand.  "How could you think –"

"I didn't want to think that!" Stanley defended himself, yelping softly.  "I just couldn't figure out what – what you meant.  I just – I just wanted to keep you talking, keep you awake, and then you tell me this thing, and – and –"

"She was killed," Jake said, closing his eyes.  Slowly, he explained what had happened.  "She was – she was shot.  And I should've – I could've prevented it, but I didn't, 'cause I didn't want to blow my cover."

It was the truth, but not the whole truth.  He couldn't seem to force those words up out of his throat.  I killed her.  But Jake couldn't say it.  He didn't want Stanley to know that about him – he didn't want anyone to know that about him, and it was bad enough that his father now knew, but he wasn't going to tell his best friend.

"I should've stopped it," he insisted, finally looking at his friend again.  "Though, I might've ended up dead myself.  Who knows….  It all happened so goddamned fast," he mumbled.

"Jake … man," Stanley tried, reaching for the nearest of the rifles that Jake had dropped.

"It was my last assignment, you know?" he croaked then.  "Ten years was enough.  But I still wanted it to go right, leave on a success."  Jake was frowning and staring past Stanley.  "And I just needed to get in with this one guy, get his trust.  That's all I needed to really open things up.  And then, this one day, out on this road, no one around but us and this kid comes outta nowhere…. If I'd stopped it…."  He paused, shaking his head.  It shouldn't have happened – he shouldn't have done it – but there was nothing he could do to change it now.   "But she ended up … ended up collateral damage."

Stanley didn't know what to say.  There probably wasn't anything he could say, he decided, but that didn't mean it wasn't awkward.  "God, man.  I'm – I'm sorry," he muttered, unsure of where the words were coming from.  He reached for another of the rifles.   "God." 

Jake began to stand up, but that was apparently too much for him, and instead he ended up sprawled on the ground at the edge of the cellar.  "I just wanted it to be over," he admitted.  Now, slumped as he was, he actually had to look up to meet Stanley's gaze.  "I was gonna come home and raise kids and horses, make pancakes on Saturday mornings."  A smile began to creep into Jake's expression at the thought, the tension that had wracked his frame easing.  "Maybe coach some little league, you know?  Go to bed next to my wife every night."

"Kids and horses, huh?" Stanley grinned in return.  "What about flying?  You always wanted to fly, long as I can remember."

"I'm still a pilot," Jake shrugged, "Still have the planes.  Well, probably not now," he conceded.  The EMP had wrecked the electronics in that tank, and the planes, too, surely.  "But I could handle being a weekend pilot better than being a weekend husband, a weekend father.  I did that to Heather for four years," he reminded, "She deserves better."

"Yeah, she does," Stanley agreed, still smiling.  "And that all sounds like the good life to me.  Well, corn instead of horses, and French toast instead of pancakes," he decided.  "But, yeah, sounds great.  Hell, I'll coach the little league with ya," Stanley offered.

"You never were that good with livestock," Jake joked before letting out a deep breath.  "So… you and Mimi?" he asked, "She's the one, huh?"

"Hey, you knew with Heather, like right away," Stanley defended, taking a step forward and then stretching to snag the last two rifles that Jake had dumped on the ground.  "So don't –"

"Stanley," Jake interrupted, shaking his head.  "I'm not – I'm not questioning what you guys have," he informed his friend.  "I'm congratulating you, okay?  You wanna raise kids and corn with Mimi, have at it."  He held out his hand, and after a second's hesitation Stanley accepted it, and they shook.  "Congratulations, man."

"Well, I don't think she's quite ready to talk kids yet," Stanley admitted, his expression turning sheepish.  "But she says she can't live without me.  Says she can't stay here forever, either," he sighed.  "But she also doesn't know that this isn't real yet," he reminded, pointing at the phony marines' supplies piled behind him.  "So, maybe.  Eventually.  I dunno."

Jake nodded, frowning softly.  "Hey, if it's meant to be – if you can't live without her – then you'll figure it out, convince her that this is where she wants to be."

Chuckling, Stanley shot him a skeptical look.  "Man, if you're philosophizing like that… maybe that truck did some permanent damage after all."

"Probably," Jake admitted, making a face.

"So, uh, does Heather know about –"

"No!" Jake interrupted before Stanley could say it: the girl who was killed in Iraq.  The girl that he had killed in Iraq.  "No," he repeated, his voice rising with every word. "Nobody does.  Just – just you, and me, and – and Dad.  And I don't want anybody else to know, okay?  Especially Heather.  Okay, Stanley?" he demanded, "Okay?"

"Sure, you got it," Stanley agreed quickly.  "If I'm – If I'm lyin', I'm dyin'," he said, repeating the oath with which they had made all their childhood pacts.  He offered Jake his hand and they shook on it.  "That was a lot less morbid when we were kids, huh?"

"Just 'cause we didn't really know what we were sayin', doesn't mean we didn't mean it," Jake shrugged.  He started to laugh at himself, suggesting finally, "I must've hit my head real hard out there, huh?"

Stanley's response was cut off by the sound of a vehicle outside the barn.  The door opened at the other end, headlights brightening the dark space.  "They're here," Michael called out.

Ninety seconds later, the six of them – Stanley, Mimi, Bonnie, Jake, Michael and Johnston – were standing in a half circle, gawking at the tank.  By the time he'd found Mimi – and then she'd found Bonnie – Johnston had explained, he'd already spoken with the Davises and located Gail to bring her up to date on what was happening.  It had only made sense to caravan out to the ranch, a fact for which Stanley was extremely grateful.  Sure, facing off with Gray Anderson it had been easy to say he was going to tell Mimi and Bonnie everything, but now as he confronted their shock and incredulity over the situation, he was glad for the back-up of the three other men.

"What – why is the tank here?" Mimi demanded, her forehead wrinkled in confusion.  "Where are the marines?  Stanley, this doesn't make any sense." 

Bonnie was more succinct.  "What's going on, Stanley?" she asked softly.

"They – they weren't marines," Stanley explained, moving around Mimi to stand in front of his sister.  He wanted to be sure Bonnie could see what he was saying.  "Jake and Mike and Mayor Green –"

"I'm not the mayor, Stanley," Johnston interjected wearily.  "I think – I think it's time you just started callin' me Johnston."

"Okay, sure," he agreed, nodding.  "They – they all figured out the marines were – were lyin', they weren't real.  They – there was a riot – a food riot, right Mike?" Stanley continued, glancing quickly at the younger man. 

"Yep," Michael agreed, taking a step toward Bonnie.  "They overwhelmed – overpowered – whatever – the real marines and took – took the tank.  They were hungry," he explained with a shrug.  He knew he should speak carefully, so she could see what he was saying, but it all came out so jumbled.  "They started selling their story, conning people outta food and fuel."

"But – but they were in uniform," Mimi argued, her hands folded together and pressed against her mouth, hiding her lips from Bonnie's view.  "They were wearing uniforms!" she insisted, a hysterical note creeping into her voice.

"They stole those too," Michael muttered.  He hadn't let himself think about what that meant before, not even when Maggie had admitted that Mullin was the name that had come with her shirt.  Had they killed the other marines, the real marines?  Or had they just stolen their clothes?  The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth and he found himself spitting on the barn floor, trying to get rid of it.  "Stanley's right," he confirmed a few seconds later, looking between Bonnie and Mimi.  "It was all a lie."

"So – so none of it is true," Mimi decided, sighing tiredly.  She could feel her eyes filling with tears, so she stared at her feet, willing it all to go away.

"We don't know what's true or not true," Jake said.  "Maybe there was a war, maybe there wasn't.  Maybe there's one president, maybe there's still six.  Could go either way.  We're just back where we were this morning, that's all."

Stanley reached for Mimi's hand squeezing it tightly.  "Hey, Uncle Sam," he teased, "You'll still get to New York….  You just – just hafta hang out with us here a little longer, 'kay?"

"Right," she agreed after a long moment, clearing her throat.  Blinking hard, Mimi raised her head and met his gaze.  "I'm – I'm okay," she declared unconvincingly.  "I'll be okay.  I'm just gonna go up to the house, okay?"

Mimi stepped toward him and placed a kiss on his cheek before pressing the truck's keys into his hand.  "Hey, what?" Stanley protested.  "You're gonna walk to the house?  It's dark, and it's farther than you think," he warned, trying to give the keys back.  "Mimi, take the truck," he insisted.  "Bonnie and I can walk back.  C'mon," he said, forcing her hand open and folding her fingers around the keys.  "We'll walk back."

She closed her eyes, her lips pressed together in a thin line.  "Okay," she nodded slowly, "Thank you." 

Stanley watched her cross the barn and slip out through the door before turning back to face his sister.  Telling Mimi the truth had been hard, but he thought maybe that would turn out to be a piece of cake compared to what he needed to tell Bonnie.  They always seemed to be fighting these days, about Mimi, and about Sean, he thought, resisting the urge to make a face.  And, she sure wasn't going to like what he had to say.

"Bonnie –" he began.

"It was all a lie, made up?" she asked.

"Yeah," Stanley nodded.  "But, we gotta keep it a secret," he told her, signing his words to emphasize their importance.  "We made a deal with Gray, and it's gotta stay a secret so he won't try to cut us out of the air drop supplies.  Us and all the farms."

"Okay," Bonnie shrugged.

Stanley exhaled nervously.  "That means we can't tell anybody.  You can't tell anybody," he stressed, pointing a finger at her.  "You can't tell Sean."

Anger flashed in her eyes.  "You told her," Bonnie argued.

"I had to tell her.  Mimi lives here, and we're keepin' a friggin' tank in our friggin' barn!"  Stanley paused, clenching one hand into a fist.  Taking a deep breath, he started to sign again.  "Look, we've gotta negotiate with Gray about the supplies.  And I still don't think you should tell Sean, but can you – can you not tell him for a week, okay?  Just 'til we're done negotiating.  Then – if you think he'll keep the secret…" Stanley shrugged helplessly.  "Well, I can't stop ya."

Johnston moved toward Bonnie, offering her a tired smile.  "Bonnie, this is important.  You can trust Stanley."

She stared back at the two men, and then glanced at Jake and Michael before returning her gaze to her brother.  "Fine," Bonnie snapped, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Fine, what?" Jake started to ask, "Fine, you –" but Stanley cut him off with a look. 

"Thank you," he said – and signed – to his sister.


* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
 
Sunday, January 6, five years before the bombs


"Well, time for me to hit the books," Michael announced, placing his lunch plate in the dishwasher.  "We have to leave here at five?"  He glanced at his father, who nodded in confirmation. 

Heather, squeezing by her brother to get to the sink, wrinkled her nose.  Michael had worked sixteen hours at the rink the day before, and had only dragged himself out of bed after he'd heard the three of them – Joe, Jake and Heather – returning from church.  He'd stumbled downstairs in a t-shirt and sweats – both a little ripe – to join them for a lunch of leftovers from Friday night's picnic supper.   "Make sure you take a shower," she ordered, "And – please! – do some laundry."

Michael didn't even bother looking back over his shoulder, settling instead for raising his hand in acknowledgment as he pushed through the door between the kitchen and dining room.  "Yes, Miss Bossy Heather."

"I think I'm gonna go take a little Sunday snooze," Joe informed his daughter and her fiancé as he got up from the table.  "But, I'm sure you can find some way to entertain yourselves," he chuckled softly.

"We'll be fine, Dad," Heather assured, moving back toward the table.  Resting one knee on her chair, she picked up the folder of wedding materials she'd picked up at the church that morning.  "Actually, I think we need to go through this.  That's a fun Sunday project."

Ignoring the note of sarcasm in her tone, Joe smiled.  "Good idea, sweetheart," he told her, kissing her on the forehead.  He started to follow his son out of the room, pausing in the doorway to say, "Oh, I wanted to let you know, I invited Geraldine and Jessica to join us for dinner tonight."

"That's fine, Dad," Heather smiled in return, "Actually, Aunt Gerri is the one person I really wanted Jake to meet this weekend that we didn't manage, so it's great."

The weekend had been a whirlwind, and now they were in the home stretch.  Joe was insisting on taking the whole family out for dinner that evening, and that would be the last official event before Jake and Heather headed home.  In eighteen hours, they would be on a plane, and by dinner time tomorrow night, they would be back in Jericho.  It had been a good weekend, and Jake truly liked Heather's family – even Tommy, as he'd told her on Friday night when they'd kissed goodnight at her bedroom door – but that didn't mean he wasn't looking forward to getting back to Jericho where they at least had the chance of privacy.

Friday's game evening had started out with Monopoly but it hadn't proved conducive to conversation, and after a half hour or so they'd abandoned it in favor of playing Oh Hell (though the Lisinskis had all referred to it as Oh Heck until the kids had fallen asleep).  Playing with two decks and thirteen people, the youngest of whom was three, was a new experience for Jake, but he'd had a good time.  He'd ended up dueling it out with Tommy during the last hand, their scores having far outstripped the others.  It turned out Tommy wasn't above a little trash talk, but at least he hadn't seemed to mind when Jake had given it right back to him.  The evening had finally broken up a little before midnight, Heather's brothers slinging their sleeping children over their shoulders as they headed out to their freezing cars.

Saturday, it had been noon before Jake and Heather left the house.  After grabbing lunch at a sandwich shop Heather liked, she had detoured past her elementary and high schools – pointing out the snow covered field where she'd played field hockey – on their way to the ice rink.  At breakfast, Heather had reminded Jake that he'd promised Rebekah and Ali that he'd come see them skate during that afternoon's open ice hours and, as they'd walked in from the parking lot, Jake had rashly suggested that they skate, too.  Unfortunately, he'd only made it around the rink once – and even that wasn't technically a complete circuit – before he'd had to beg off, blaming his broken ankle from the previous summer.

"So, you think you can marry a guy who can't skate?" Jake had grunted as he'd unlaced his skate. 

"Absolutely," Heather had assured, frowning sympathetically.  "Actually, I think I'll prefer having a little less of my life revolve around this rink than it has," she'd admitted, leaning in close, her mouth brushing his ear so he was the only one who could hear her words.  "And, I should've asked this before," she'd continued, pulling away a few seconds later, "But you have skated before, right?"

"Sure," he'd shrugged, "When I was a kid.  Twice, maybe three times," Jake had confessed.  "There's an outdoor, holiday rink in Rogue River, and we'd go when we'd visit my Aunt Bridget."

"And the last time you did that was…?" Heather had prompted, biting back a chuckle.

"Nineteen eighty four, five?" He'd guessed, making a face.

Andrew had joined them then, clapping his future brother-in-law on the back as he sat down.  "Well, Jake, I hafta say, that took some ba – some guts to get out on the ice like that."  Ali and Rebekah had skated by at that moment and they'd all waved at the little girls, who – giggling – had waved back with twice as much enthusiasm.  "You kinda humiliated yourself," Andrew had informed him as his daughter and niece skated away, "But I think I gotta respect you for it."

"I figured – look, all these little kids can do it," Jake had replied, wincing as he tried to flex his foot.

"He has a bad ankle, too, Andy," Heather had defended.  "He busted it last summer."

"Sure," Andrew had returned, standing up.  "Well, like I said, gotta respect you for it.  'Cause, trust me, I'll be dead before I ever try to ride a horse in front of you."

For the remainder of the afternoon, Heather had babied him – not that Jake had objected – retrieving his shoes from the locker they'd rented, bringing him coffee and Reese's from the snack bar, and even sneaking him a couple of Tylenol from her purse.  Eventually, at his urging and her nieces' cajoling, she'd  returned to the rink for a half hour or so, skating around the oval with the two little girls a few times before they'd ended up on the ice directly in front of him.  They – Heather included – had shown him every trick they knew how to do on skates, while Jake had cheered and clapped.  Finally, Andrew had told the girls that it was time to go, and Heather had decided that they needed to head over to John's and Kerry's for their dinner date.

Dinner had been low-key, fun, and surprisingly enlightening.  Jake – who had already considered Kerry an ally – had been surprised by how much he'd enjoyed getting to know John, who was both more outgoing and more thoughtful out of his older brothers' shadows.  Heather had said that Stanley reminded her of Andrew, but for Jake, it was John who reminded him of Stanley.  Remarkably, John had even sympathized with Jake about his ankle, talking about the knee injury that had put an end to his college hockey career – and all hope of turning pro – halfway through his senior season.  "They didn't yank my scholarship, luckily, and there really wasn't much chance I coulda actually made a career of it," John had shrugged, "But it still sucked."

"No, I get it," Jake had said.  "I like my job, but I'm still not sure I wanna go back in the field," he'd surprised himself by admitting.  "Not – not after taking a tire iron to the ankle.  I'm pretty sure he was aiming for my knee, but he was high or drunk or both, so…."

Heather had never heard that detail before, and it had taken her a moment to react.  "A tire iron?" she'd repeated, her voice cracking.  "I mean, I knew you were in the hospital, had a concussion, but you never – you never told me that."

Under the table, Jake had found her hand, gripping it gently.  "I didn't think you'd like that part too much," he'd told her, "And it's not really a great memory for me."

"Crap, man," John had interjected, "I wouldn't want to go back to a job that landed me in the hospital, either."

Stroking the back of Heather's hand with his thumb, Jake had shrugged.  "It's not all the time.  Honestly, it's pretty boring a lotta the time.  That particular day was just … really, really bad."

"You okay, Heth?" Kerry had asked then, smiling sympathetically.

"Yeah," she'd nodded, her eyes on Jake.  "Doesn't mean I don't wish you hadn't had to go through that," she had told him.

"But if I hadn't, I wouldn't have taken leave, and I'd be back in Denver – not Jericho – and I wouldn't have met you," he'd countered.  "Busted ankle and a coupl'a days in the hospital?  Versus you?" Jake had continued, pantomiming weighing the choice.  "I'm good with how things turned out."

"Fine, if you're gonna play the destiny card," Heather had grumbled, offering him a wobbly smile and then a kiss.

"Still, a tire iron?" John had muttered, shaking his head.   "God, that's gotta hurt.  I mean, all I did was zig when I shoulda zagged, and at least I can still play hockey."

"Hey, I can still do my job.  And, most days, my ankle's fine," Jake had assured, draping his arm over the back of Heather's chair.  "But," he'd added, chuckling softly, "I've never played hockey, and I don't think I'll be takin' it up now."

"Well, you've got a good excuse," John had told him.

"And, you'll just hafta hang out with Deb and Mandy and cheer," Kerry had teased.  "They'll love it."

At breakfast that morning, Heather had told Jake that she was going to mass with her father.  "Not that I require my grown children to attend church," Joe had been quick to inform Jake when he'd said that he'd like to come too.  Heather, getting Jake alone ten minutes later, had reminded him that he really didn't need to come with them but, kissing away the skeptical look she'd given him, Jake had promised not to fidget too much, and Heather had conceded that, maybe, this qualified as a special occasion.  At the church, they had run into Tommy, Mandy and the girls, ending up sitting in the pew behind the young family.  Jake, warned ahead of time by Heather, had stayed behind while the Lisinskis had gone up for communion, Tommy somehow managing it all with his baby daughter asleep against his shoulder. 

After the service, Mandy had held them back, waving over an older couple that had turned out to be her parents.  "Mom, Dad," she'd gushed, "This is Jake, Heather's fiancé."  They'd attracted some attention, and in the end, Jake had been introduced to the Lisinskis' three doors down neighbors, one of Heather's grade school classmates, and Sister Patricia, Heather's high school principal. 

Then on the way out of the church, Joe had suggested they stop by the office to see if they could get a wedding packet.  Heather had balked at first, only agreeing when her father had reminded, "If you want to get married in July, then you need to start the process now.  The six months is required, sweetheart."

Jake waited until Joe left the kitchen before catching Heather's hand in his own.  He pulled her toward him, and grinning at him, she dropped onto his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck.  "Hello!" she teased, kissing him gently.

"Hey," he murmured, watching her intently as she pulled, reluctantly, away.  "So this six months thing your Dad mentioned…" he questioned, playing with her hand. 

"It's a Catholic thing.  The required premarital preparation period," she shrugged.  "Six months at a minimum.  Plus there's classes and some other stuff." 

"Huh," Jake nodded.  "Well that explains why my parents weren't married in the Catholic Church," he told her.  "I always figured it was to appease Grams, but maybe not.  They were engaged for over a year, but when they got married it was a pretty quick thing, over Dad's two week leave between his first and second tours in Vietnam."

"Well, in your mother's place, I'd have done the same thing," she said, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.   "Now, if I'd been thinking," she continued, sighing, "I guess I would have gone by the church on Friday, and saved Niagara Falls for another day.  But frankly," Heather admitted, "I was more interested in spending time with you than complying with church law."  She offered him a thin smile and pointed at the blue folder that lay on the table.  "When we get back to Jericho, I'll just have to see how much of this I can do by phone."

"'Kay," Jake agreed.  "But there's stuff we can do now?" he prompted, reaching around her for the folder. 

Heather stopped him, putting her hand over his.  "Well, there's stuff in there we probably should talk about."  She'd made Jake take the front passenger seat when her father had driven them home from the church, and while the two of them had chatted, Heather, sitting alone in the backseat, had looked over the materials in the folder.  It was all information that she supposed she'd always known, but it had never really been pertinent until now, and she wasn't sure how she felt about some of it. 

Letting out another deep breath she puckered her lips at him, smiling against his mouth when he correctly interpreted the invitation to kiss her.  "There's some forms and some handouts.  How 'bout we adjourn to the living room, and we can just look at everything?"

"You got it," he agreed, holding onto her hand as she stood up and then for as long as he could before he was forced to let go so she could cross the room to retrieve a couple of pens from the cup next to the phone.  Jake picked up the blue folder, following her out of the kitchen, through the dining room, and into the living room.

"Okay, we're each supposed to fill this form out," Heather told him, pulling a piece of paper out of the folder.  They were once again sitting on the love seat, Heather with her legs crossed underneath her and leaning against Jake, who draped one arm around her shoulders as she handed him the form.  "We'll have to meet separately with the priest – Father Bouchard from this morning, probably – and these are the questions he'll ask."

Heather watched Jake as he read the front of the form and then flipped it over to read the back.  "So, some paperwork and a meeting with a priest," he acknowledged, nodding.  "I guess we're gonna hafta come back sometime soon to do that."

"Yeah, probably," she agreed.  "But, Jake, there's more.  Your parents have to both fill out one of these," Heather informed him, fishing another form out of the folder. 

Taking the paper from her, Jake looked it over quickly.  "You're sure my Dad needs to fill this out?" he asked.  "I don't know that he'll actually sign something that says he believes I'm 'sufficiently mature' enough to handle marriage."

"Jake…" she reproved gently. 

"Well, he likes you, so he'll probably sign it," he conceded.

"Obviously my Mom can't do one of these for me, so I think I'll ask Aunt Gerri," Heather sighed.  Licking her lips nervously, she turned her head so that their gazes locked.  "So, you're really okay with these?  Some of this stuff… it's pretty personal."

"I think that's the point," Jake chuckled, cupping her chin with one hand and then kissing her.  "It's like the first step to weeding people out, right?  Separating the men from the boys," he teased.

"And, we both know which you are," Heather flirted in return.

Jake smiled at that, telling her, "I sure hope so.  Look, babe," he continued a few seconds later, retrieving the now slightly crumpled forms from the arm of the loveseat, "There isn't anything here that I don't agree with, that I'm not willing to sign.  'Do you sincerely intend a permanent marriage, one that excludes divorce?'" he quoted.  "Yes, absolutely," Jake confirmed, squeezing her hand.  "And you know what, Stanley and I made a pact when we were kids that we'd live to a hundred, so that pretty much means one day we're gonna be celebrating our seventieth anniversary, okay?"

"So now I have to live to be ninety five?" Heather giggled.

"Yup," Jake confirmed.

"Why'd you make the pact?" she inquired, wrapping her arm around Jake's and letting her head rest against his shoulder.

"We were like eight – maybe nine – and we were mad because everyone kept telling us what to do," Jake explained, pressing a row of kisses along her hairline.  "And there was this one day, coupl'a days, really, when our Moms nixed everything we wanted to do, and then made us do what they wanted us to do," he chuckled.  "Chores, mostly.  Finally, we were so mad we hid out in my tree house for a really long time.  Felt like it anyway, though probably it wasn't even an hour," he admitted.  "But we talked about it, and decided that by the time we lived to be a hundred, then there couldn't possibly be anyone left who could tell us what to do, so…."

"That…" Heather breathed, turning so she could twine her arms around his neck, "Is…."  She pressed her mouth to his, "Adorable."

"You know, you completely wrinkled these," Jake accused, grinning, when they finally separated. He held up his copies of the forms.  "This one's even torn."

Heather rolled her eyes.  "I've got another set I can always photocopy."

Making a show of smoothing out the paper, Jake cleared his throat and then read the next question.  "'Do you sincerely intend to be faithful to your partner always?'  That would be another definite yes," he declared.  "And, 'are you open to having children from this marriage?'" he quoted, "Yes.  Eventually."

"Well, don't write that down," Heather warned.  "I mean, a priest – and, who knows who else – is gonna read that," she clarified.  "Plus, there's a flyer in the packet for a Natural Family Planning class that is also recommended we take."  For a moment they simply stared at one another.  Finally, she let out a sigh.  "Jake, I told you, I'm really not that Catholic."

"I thought – I thought this is what you wanted, since you were ten and your uncle paid you to get married after Easter," Jake reminded.

Heather nodded.  "That was so he could take communion," she explained.  "But you can't take communion since you're not Catholic.  The packet recommends that we don't have the full wedding mass, just the wedding ceremony itself."  Heather covered her face with her hands and emitted a long, frustrated noise.  "Right now, I don't think I know what I want," she confessed finally.  "I mean, I used to want all that," she said, pointing at the folder on the coffee table.  "I wanted the pretty dress, and my Dad walking me down the aisle, and all my family there….  I even wanted the mass.  But now… you're the most important part, that's all just … just trappings."

She reached for the form he still held, forgotten, in one hand.  "This bothers me," Heather announced, pointing at the offending words at the top of the backside of the form.  "It says that you not being Catholic is an obstacle.  That it's a diri – a diriment impediment," she read, "Whatever the heck that is – just like impotence or consanguinity."

"Or adoption," Jake added, taking the paper away from her.  He flashed her a tentative grin, adding, "See, it's a good thing I warned you not to sign anything my mother gave you, just in case it was adoption papers." 

A smile teased at her lips, but died without fully developing.  "If we get married in the Catholic Church…. Well, actually, we can't, not without approval from the Diocesan Marriage Tribunal, which sure sounds like a fun bunch," Heather grumbled.   "And I'll have to sign a form swearing that I'll do everything I can to raise our children as Catholic –"

"You should raise our kids Catholic," he interrupted, capturing her hand tightly in his.  "I mean, they have to be raised somehow – with something – and Catholic seems like the logical option."  Jake paused a few seconds, studying her expression, before asking, "Babe, you do know I believe in God, right?"

"I know that," she assured, "Of course I know that, Jake.  You just have issues with omnipotence and other stuff.  It's okay to question."

"Exactly.  Issues with omnipotence," he agreed, squeezing her fingers.  "But absolutely no issues with impotence," Jake added with an affectionate leer, "'Cause that is a completely different thing."

Heather chuckled huskily.  "I know that, too."

"That ended up sounding a little crasser than I meant it to," Jake confessed a moment later, tipping her chin up and then running the pad of his thumb over her lower lip.  "You said it first," he reminded, "And then it was in my head, and … I really just wanted to make you laugh," he told her, brushing his mouth over hers.

"I know that, three," she joked.

"But, babe, I swear to you, I believe in God," he continued, pulling far enough back from her that he could see her entire face, watch her eyes and expression.  "I think there is one, and I don't have anything – anything against him.  I just – I just can't do the 'go to church every week' thing.  But when we have kids, I want them to know about God, about everything.  I want – I want our kids to have your faith."

He held up his hands then, smiling at Heather when she recognized his intention and pressed her palms to his, weaving their fingers together.  "I wanna marry you, Heather," Jake declared.  "And, I want to be married to you for the rest of my life – forever.  But I don't really care how we get there.  If it’s the big church wedding you played at having when you were a little girl, great.  If we just go to the courthouse, that's fine too.  Buffalo, Jericho, wherever.  I just wanna get married however will make you feel like we did it right, however makes you feel married."

Jake watched as Heather's eyes filled up, but she was smiling, too, so he assumed he'd said the right thing.  She started to lean toward him, murmuring, "Jake –" but whatever else she was going to say was cut off by the sound of a throat being cleared behind them.   She whipped her head around to see her father standing just outside the living room, at the foot of the staircase, in the entry.  "Dad!" Heather squeaked, "Oh my God!  How long have you been standing there?!?"

Joe looked almost as embarrassed as Heather did – and she'd turned pretty red – but somehow he managed to answer, chuckling softly at himself.  "Well, I think all eavesdroppers end up hearing more than they want to," he told them, "Though I was an accidental eavesdropper, I promise you.  I only came downstairs to get a glass of water," he explained, "Not – not to interfere."

But despite his claim that he wasn't interfering, Joe didn't continue on into the kitchen, and instead just stood there, studying them.  Finally, after watching each other uncomfortably for nearly a half minute, Heather gave in, surmising, "You think we should get married in the church."

"Of course I do," Joe replied mildly.  He moved into the living room, taking a seat on the edge of the arm chair closest to the loveseat Jake and Heather were sitting on.  "That's how your mother and I raised you, sweetheart.  What we always assumed."

"You also assumed I'd marry someone from Buffalo, someone who's Catholic," she argued.

"Yes," he conceded with a sigh, "But that doesn't mean I'm unhappy with how things are turning out.  Far from it."

"Well, when I read these papers," she said, retrieving the forms from Jake's lap, "What I get is that my church is making the – the bureaucratic judgment, I guess – that it would've been better for me to marry Mark Metzger than Jake.  Just – just because Mark's baptized Catholic, and Jake's not.  That doesn't make any sense."

"Heather, that's not what those forms are about, and it's not what the church is about either," Joe chided.  "The church doesn't want you marrying anyone that you don't love with your whole heart, and all of this… hoopla, it's just to make sure that's true." 

"Right," she mumbled, though it was clear that she didn't completely agree.  Heather glanced sideways at Jake, taking reassurance from his gentle smile and the love she saw in his eyes.  "But, Dad, it is true."

"I know that," Joe confirmed.  He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath.   "I want you both to know that you have my blessing," he said, meeting first his daughter's gaze, and then her fiancé's.  "So while I would prefer that you marry in the church, what is most important to me is that whatever decision you make, you don't make it in haste or out of spite, okay?"

Nodding, Heather agreed.  "Okay, Dad.  Thanks.  But however we decide to get married, that's our decision."

"That it is," he conceded.  Joe offered them both a tentative smile and, standing up, announced, "I'm going to get that glass of water.  And then, next time I come downstairs, I'll try to make a little more noise, save us all some embarrassment."

With that, Joe headed into the dining room and then the kitchen.  Jake and Heather sat together, not talking, until he came back through the house – not even a minute later – carrying his glass of water.  Finally, when they could no longer hear his stomping on the staircase, Heather was able to relax, leaning back against Jake who tugged on her hand to get her attention.  "I'm, uh, sorry, I accidentally told your dad we're sleeping together."

She chuckled nervously.  "That's okay," Heather assured him, turning to kiss his cheek.  "I'm sure the thought had already crossed his mind anyway, especially since my brothers kept accusing me of being pregnant.  Besides, I think at this point he's a lot more concerned about the state of my immortal soul than with my virginity," she declared, resting her head on his shoulder, her nose and mouth pressed against his neck.

"Babe…" Jake protested feebly.

"It's gonna be okay, Jake, I promise," she interrupted.  "In my head I know all of this is pro forma, and I just need to get over it.  And, I will," she sighed, smiling against his neck.  "Long as you don't mind, 'cause whatever we end up doing, you're probably gonna hafta sign that form, or one just like it.  For the preservation of my immortal soul."

"Hey, I'm good with the form," Jake insisted, shifting so that she lifted her head from his shoulder.  "Though, I hafta say," he teased, showing her his now completely destroyed form, "This particular copy is pretty much toast."  Then, cupping her face in both his hands, Jake brought his mouth down on top of hers, kissing her gently, sweetly, and completely.  "However you want, babe," he reminded when they finally broke apart.  Jake rested his forehead against hers, smiling, "Whatever we have to do.  Because I love you."


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

Saturday, December 30, three months after the bombs
 

"Kansas City," April announced suddenly and loudly, drawing the attention of her three companions.  "Oh my God!" she complained, sitting up so she could reach over, across the space that separated them on the sofa, and hit Jeff in the stomach with the paperback novel she'd been trying to read for a month.  She'd gotten further into the book over the last three days, since the airdrop, than she had during the rest of December.  It was a lot easier to read or play a game, to while away time, when you weren't constantly faint with hunger.

"That's what you've been humming all day, driving me crazy?" she accused the younger man, shaking her head.  "Kansas City!?!"

Heather exchanged smiles with her mother-in-law.  The two of them were sitting in chairs on either side of the fireplace, Gail crocheting a baby blanket by the light of the fire.  Heather had been working on one of the last puzzles in a Sudoku book she'd bought at LAX the summer before as she'd travelled between Hawaii and Buffalo, but she had felt the beginnings of a headache from straining so hard to see the page, and she'd set the book aside.  She could have joined April and Jeff, availing herself of the light thrown off by the lantern they were sharing, but she hadn't wanted to give up the warmth of the fire.

"You mean like, 'I'm goin' to Kansas City, Kansas City here I come'?" Heather sang, laughing at herself.

Grinning, Jeff confirmed the song, singing in return, "'They've got some pretty little women there, and I'm gonna get me one.'"

"Those aren't the words," Gail said then, her mild tone hinting at a suppressed chuckle.

"Sure they are," Jeff contradicted, though a second later he asked, "Well then, what are the words?"

"'They've got a crazy way of lovin' there, and I'm gonna get me some,'" she answered, giving into laughter.  "Those are the original lyrics, at least.  I was twelve or thirteen when that song first became popular, and I assure you, it was scandalous, at least in my house.  My father wouldn't let my little sister or me listen to the radio for a month after he caught us singing along with Kansas City," Gail confessed.  "Oh, the fifties."

"I can work with those words," Jeff declared, grinning and making a clicking noise with his tongue.

"Of course you can," April snorted.  "So," she continued, peering at him closely.  "Are you goin' to Kansas City?  Or is this just part of the karaoke machine in your brain?"

"Karaoke," he returned easily, "I'm not goin' anywhere, perfectly happy where I am."

"God, I wish August could meet you," April announced suddenly.  She threw her book down on the coffee table and stretched her arms over her head, yawning softly.  "You are just the kind of guy for my sister, karaoke brain and all."  She smiled at him.  "She'd probably love that the most."

"Well, maybe now that the worst of it's over, the Glendenning girls will get together again," Heather suggested with a grin. 

Jeff nodded his head absently.  "So is August like you?"

"We're both redheads," April informed him.  "Other than that, not really," she laughed.  "For one, she pretty much passes out or hurls at the sight of blood.  She's a speech therapist," April sighed, "And she's just a lotta fun."

"They're all redheads," Heather told Jeff.  "When the Glendenning girls come to town, and we go somewhere, I'm always the odd one out," she explained, waving a lock of her chestnut hair at him. 

"You're still an honorary one of us," April assured.

"Is this the one with a kid, or the one without a kid?" Jeff inquired.

April's gaze narrowed.  "Does it matter?"

He grinned at her bravely.  "Nope, just tryin' to get the full picture."

"Blake is Autumn's son," April answered.  "August is completely unencumbered.  As far as I know, she doesn't even have a boyfriend.  And she's the right age for you.  Twenty five."

"Where's she live?" Jeff asked, starting to sound interested.

"Las Cruces," was all that April had time to say before they heard a key rattling in the front door, and their collective attention turned toward the entry.

Johnston entered the living room first, followed closely by Jake and Michael, both of whom were without their coats.  Seeing them, Gail jumped to her feet, abandoning her crochet project on her chair.  "Jake!  Look at you!" she clucked, "You've – you've been running around all day in nothing but a sweatshirt –"

"Against medical advice," April interjected.

"– And now you don't even have that," Gail complained, reaching her son's side.

Somehow, April appeared at his other elbow.  "You were hypothermic three days ago, Jake," she reminded.  "Three days!  Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"Come, sit," Gail directed, leading him toward her chair next to the fireplace.  She retrieved the half-finished baby blanket, and pushed on his shoulder until he sat down.  "You need to warm up," she insisted.  "What happened to your sweatshirt?"

"Shush," April ordered when he tried to answer, shoving a thermometer into his mouth.  "I need to take your temperature, make sure you haven't undone all our hard work."

Vacating her seat, Heather moved the two steps to Jake's side.  "Sorry," she whispered leaning close to his ear, her hand finding its way into his hair.

Now Gail's eyes fell on Michael.  "Where is your jacket, young man?" she demanded.

"Mikey, you sit by the fire, too," Heather instructed, pointing him toward her empty chair.

"Everything – everything's just on the porch," her brother muttered.  For a moment, Heather thought he was going to ignore her offer, but finally he trudged across the room.  "Our clothes," he complained, dropping into the chair, "They smell bad."

"Jake and Michael were helpin' Stanley out with somethin'," Johnston volunteered.  He hadn't thought the odor was nearly as bad as they claimed – though he'd declined the three men's invitation to stick his head in the tank and smell for himself – but they had driven back from the Richmond Ranch with the windows rolled down, all of their teeth chattering some from the cold.  Still, Michael had pulled his jacket off as he'd exited the truck's cab, and seeing this, Jake had quickly followed suit.   "It's a long story.  But I think a cup of tea would be good for us all.  Warm us up nicely."

"Yes, good idea," Gail agreed.  "And dinner.  You boys need to eat dinner."

"I'm on it," Heather announced, extracting her hand from Jake's hair and pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head.  "Three teas, coming right up," she promised.  Gail had left the kettle heating on the fire after she'd made her own cup of tea forty five minutes before, and so Heather had only to remove – with oven mitts – the kettle from the fire and then pour the hot water into mugs.  Johnston joined her at the mantle, taking his cup and Michael's, leaving Heather to carry Jake's tea to him.

"This is every unclaimed coat I could find in this house," Gail announced, coming back into the living room from the dining room with an armful of parkas, ski jackets and barn coats.  She dropped everything onto the coffee table.  "Jake, pick your favorite," she commanded.

"Ninety seven and a half," April declared, shaking down the thermometer.  "Not hypothermic," she admitted, "But still not good."

"Okay," Heather said, cutting off both her mother- and sister-in-law before they could launch into their next round of lecturing.  "Jake's starting to look a little hen-pecked," she claimed, perching herself on the arm of her husband's chair.  "Time to back off or I'm gonna be in trouble for letting you guys do my dirty work."

Jake, his hands wrapped around the mug as he tried to soak up its' heat while his tea steeped, blinked hard, twice.  "Yep, you're in big trouble now, babe," he yawned.

"So Mikey," April began, turning to eye the younger man.  "What happened today?  You totally blew off your shift," she complained. 

Michael glanced toward his sister, but apparently, tonight, her protective impulses did not extend to him.  "I'm sorry," he grumbled.  "Something important came up."

"I hope it was," April returned.  "Drake's pulling a double tonight to cover for you, so you need to be at the med center by six tomorrow morning to relieve him," she informed him.  "For your own double shift," she added.

"You didn't stay?" Michael asked Jeff, frowning.  The two of them never made a big deal of it, but they didn't usually let Drake stay at the clinic overnight without one of them with him, just in case.

Jeff got up from his seat on the couch, sauntering across the room. "I've got border patrol at six AM tomorrow, double shifts, all through the holiday," he explained, stopping next to Michael's chair.  He wasn't standing exactly in front of the fire, but it was warmer, and he couldn't keep from holding his hands out to thaw them out some.  "Mrs. Crenshaw was havin' a hard time filling slots, so… unless things have changed?" he suggested, glancing at Jake.

"Nothin's changed," Jake returned, shaking his head tiredly.  He took a testing sip of his tea, holding the warm liquid in his mouth for a long moment.  His father had told them during the drive home that he and his mother had decided they would tell April the truth about the marines in the morning, over breakfast.  Jake and Michael were welcome to tell Jeff, Drake and Heather however they wished – or they could leave it until breakfast – but Johnston and Gail had thought that the truth might be easier to face in the light of day.  "We're keeping the border patrol in place for the foreseeable future," Jake offered, "Until we see how things shake out."

"Gotcha," Jeff acknowledged.  "Well then, I think I'm gonna head to bed."

"Yeah, me too," Michael said, finishing off his tea and forcing himself to stand up. 

"After you have your dinner, Michael," Gail admonished.  Wrapping one arm around him, she pulled him toward the kitchen.  "There's some for you, Jake," she reminded, "And you, too, Johnston."

A moment later, only Jake, Heather and April were left in the living room.  Jake gulped down the rest of his tea, and pulling himself up out of his chair with a groan, moved to the pile of coats that his mother had left on the coffee table, picking through it quickly.  It was obvious to Heather that there wasn't much there that interested him.

"I know where I moved a couple of your old coats last time I organized the hall closet at home," she said, looping her arm through his.  "Actually, there's probably one or two in the hall closet still.  Wasn't thinking far enough ahead back in October when we packed up.  Just pick one for now," she advised, "And we can head out there…."  She looked at her sister-in-law.  "Tomorrow?"

"Yeah," April answered a few seconds later.  "Yeah, tomorrow's okay.  But, in general, my medical advice is to take it easy, okay?  And," she continued, fixing a hard stare on Jake, "Avoid strenuous activities for the next few days, okay?"

"You're makin' Heather blush, you know," Jake returned blandly – and without bothering to look at his wife, who had pressed her face into his shoulder, most likely to hide her embarrassment.

"With good reason," April smirked.  "That definitely falls into the category of 'strenuous activities' you need to avoid," she declared, rolling her eyes at him.  "And another thing –"

Heather lifted her head off Jake's shoulder, her nose wrinkling.  "You still have something to say after that?" she interrupted, her tone incredulous.

"Yes," April confirmed.  "Because I know it's tradition and all, and you two are headin' out to the ranch, but this year can you skip the pilgrimage to the water tower, please?"

Jake glanced at Heather, shrugging and offering her a tired smile.  "That we can do," she agreed, answering for them both.  "Given my condition I didn't think the climb would be such a great idea anyway, and now that we're the walking wounded and the waddling with child… that," she sighed, "We can skip."

Jake, though, had another concern.  "So, this avoiding strenuous activities thing….  Is that two days or three?"

"Yes!" April huffed, trying not to laugh.

"Fine," Jake grumbled.  "Can I take a shower?  'Cause it's been awhile, and now –"

"His clothes really do smell kinda funky," Heather supplied.  "See for yourself," she suggested, pulling at Jake's shirt.

"I'll take your word for it," April assured, rolling her eyes and taking a step back – away – from the couple.  "And yes, you can take a shower," she agreed, "Better if you waited 'til tomorrow, but since you're not gonna listen to me, keep it short and sweet, okay?"

* * * * *

Heather knocked perfunctorily on the bathroom door before pushing it open enough to stick her head in.  "Jake, I'm coming in, okay?" she called out, stepping into the cold room and closing the door behind her.

"You gonna join me?" he teased in return, though she could also hear a shiver – not the good kind – in his voice.

"Not that far in," she laughed, "I'm not seein' any steam coming out of that shower, so that's a definite pass."  Heather paused a moment, sighing, "I'm just here to steal your clothes, hon."

"And, if I just had a dollar for every time you've said that to –"

"You'd have five, ten bucks, max," Heather interrupted, giggling softly.  "Now, if you had a dollar for every time I've actually borrowed your clothes – especially the last few months – then you might be a hundredaire," she reasoned, picking his jeans up off the floor where he'd dropped them.  "But I usually don't tell you when I'm taking them.  Just take 'em."

"Okay, I'll give you that," Jake conceded, turning around in the shower. 

Heather checked Jake's pockets, and was momentarily surprised to find them empty.  But he hadn't been upstairs since before he'd left on that disastrous hunting trip, she realized, and he'd left his keys – Stanley had been driving after all – and pocket knife on the dresser that fateful morning four days earlier.  "Though it should be noted that I say this as the woman who is currently wearing your sweatshirt," she informed him, folding his jeans and holding them against her pregnant belly while she bent over, reaching for his shirts and underwear.  "And your flannel shirt."

"Duly noted," Jake acknowledged, his teeth chattering.  "So why're you stealing my smelly clothes?"

"Because they need to go outside," she informed him, catching a noxious whiff off the t-shirt he'd been wearing.  "Yuck!" Heather declared, grimacing.  "And, I'm even gonna wash them for you – probably not tomorrow, but soon.  But remember, you don't tell Mikey or it's a fate worse than death, mister."

Chuckling quietly, Jake turned off the water and pulled the shower curtain back, reaching for a towel. "Hope that was short enough, 'cause it sure wasn't sweet," he groaned, trembling from the ice cold water. He made a strangled, frustrated noise and began scrubbing himself down with the towel, figuring that the friction would warm him, at least infinitesimally, if nothing else.

He glanced then at Heather, who was standing in front of the sink, his clothes balled up under one arm and her other hand over her mouth. Her expression was stricken. "Babe, what's wrong?"

Eyes wide, she stared back at him. "I – I can't believe I said that," she confessed, a hint of hysteria in her tone. "Jake, I'm – I'm so sorry."

"Said what?" he asked, confused.

"Fate worse than death," Heather squeaked, her eyes cast downward.  "I – I wasn't thinking."

"Babe – Heather, it's okay," he told her.  Taking one last swipe at his chest, Jake quickly tied the towel off around his hips and took a step toward his wife. "I thought it was funny," he insisted, adding "I did," when she looked up, her expression incredulous.  Pulling his clothes out of her arms and dumping them on the floor, he grabbed both of her hands, clutching them in his. "I'm not dead, Heather. I probably should be, but I'm not, okay?"

She frowned at him. "Jake, you're freezing," she complained as he continued to shiver.  "And -"

"I'm freezin' my ass off here," he agreed, "But I'm not dead."  Jake let go of her hands so he could cup the back of her head, gently forcing her closer until he could brush a kiss across her mouth.  "I think that's good news for both of us," he told her, attempting a grin.  "And since I can think of about five fates that are worse than death – and four of 'em would pretty much start with me pissin' you off – I will somehow manage to not tell your brother you're washin' my clothes," he promised as another shudder ran through him. "Even though –" Jake paused long enough to exhale shakily, "Even though I'm pretty sure he's aware that our laundry regularly comingles."

"Jake," Heather protested, her eyes filling with tears.

"Hey, that was s'posed to be funny.  You're s'posed to laugh, not cry," he argued, squeezing her hand.

"Fine," Heather returned, fighting a smile.  "But you know what will really piss me off?" she asked rhetorically a few seconds later.  "If you get pneumonia or come down with hypothermia again, that's what."

"That'd piss me off too," Jake agreed, offering her a lopsided grin. 

She started to lean down to pick up the clothes he'd thrown on the floor, objecting when Jake tried to help her.  "I can still bend over," Heather insisted, "This week at least.  I can't make any promises about next week."  Standing back up, she glared benignly at him, ordering, "Go put some clothes on, Jake.  Your dinner's sitting on the desk, and it's not gonna get any warmer.  I'm gonna take care of these," she added, adjusting the bundle of clothes in her arms.

"Okay," he sighed, following her out the bathroom door.  "Hey," Jake said, stopping her when she turned toward the staircase.  "We're good, right?"

"We are better than good," Heather smiled.  "Now stop tryin' to piss me off.  I'll be right back."

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

To be continued in Different Circumstances, Part 14G.

I really can't believe I need a part G (for Semper Fi!) but our lovebirds needed to have long talks in both timelines, so there is still more to come.


Oh Hell is a trick-taking card game that's lots of fun, especially in a group. 
"Kansas City" is a rhythm and blues song written by Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller in 1952.  More than 300 versions of the song have been recorded.  The version Gail heard as a child would have been Little Willie Littlefield's recording.  April, Heather and Jeff are more familiar with Fats Domino's recording.

Lastly, the requirements for marriage within the Catholic Church vary from diocese to diocese, but I did try to choose requirements that are reasonably universal (the six month pre-marital preparation period, pre-cana classes etc.).  The forms that Heather and Jake were looking at are actual forms, but they are not from the Diocese of Buffalo. (Though it is possible/probable that Buffalo has similar forms.)