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After seeing Kitty, Laura, and their five identical friends tucked into a UN motorpool vehicle, Heather turns her attention to David. "You," she says in a tone that does not allow for argument, "are coming home with me, and I'm going to feed you." Nearly a year of not having anyone to chivvy, chide, fuss over, and feed is about to unleashed on David North.
Heather flags down a cab and directs it to the Baxter Building. She doesn't insist on conversation in the cab, she knows better than that. She busies herself reviewing her files from her interviews that afternoon, flagging addresses for followup, while tucked into the back of the cab next to David.
"I'm afraid I haven't got a lot on hand," she admits, on the way up to her apartment. "My mother would have my ears for the state of my fridge. But, I'm sure you won't object to pancakes and coffee and whatever else I can cook up." She lets them into a tidy apartment with modern furniture and homey touches, like hand-knit blankets thrown over the back of the sofa and fresh flowers around the place. It feels like someone's home. That's a skill in and of itself.
"Coffee is in the tin to the right of the stove," she says, once she's herded David inside. "You may get it started while I get out of my work clothes. After that, you're going to sit down and do nothing. Put your feet up. And don't argue."
*
Even a seasoned mercenary like David knows better than to argue with a woman like Heather. He may presently be in a bit of a state, but in a way, that made it a little easier to simply respond to instructions with quiet "Yes ma'am"s and trail along after her as she led the way.
Somehow, he isn't even surprised when it's the Baxter Building that they roll up to. David follows her up and, once inside, carefully sets his pilfered duffel bag down out of the way as his eyes give a habitually thorough scanning of the room. Some things don't change. He gets halfway through "You really don't have to cook for me," before he shuts his mouth. Don't argue. "…yes ma'am."
He rakes his hands back through his hair on his way to the kitchen. Coffee. He can get coffee going and then retreat to the couch. That doesn't sound so hard.
*
It takes Heather a few minutes to get out of her work clothes, sort it all into the laundry and dry cleaning, set her shoes aside to be polished, and get into a house dress. Not a house dress like her mother used to wear, she's not that old yet, but a little floral wrap dress that wouldn't be suitable for work — especially since it's above the knee. She brushes out her hair, washes her face, and returns looking more like the very young woman David first met years ago.
"Did you find everything all right?" she asks, looking around to make sure David hasn't attempted to do anything like turn on the news.
*
There is a fresh pot of coffee on the stove and a very well-behaved David sitting on the sofa, hands clasped tightly in his lap. No TV or newspaper. Just him, waiting quietly for her to come back.
He even manages a small smile for her when she reappears. "I did. Thank you."
*
"There are some books in the end table there, and some National Geographics," Heather offers. "No news, no television." She comes over to sit beside him, one foot tucked under her so she's facing him, and reaches out to put a hand on his arm. "You look simply terrible, David. I don't know what happened and I won't ask but I know something did. And, since I can't do anything else to fix things these days, I'm going to make you dinner. If you want to tell me anything, ever, you can. I may be out of a job but I can still keep a secret the way I used to."
*
The observation about how he looks actually makes David laugh and he drops his eyes to the floor. At least he didn't flinch away from the contact. That's probably a good sign. "It's not very good mealtime conversation," he says in a tired voice, blindly reaching up to cover her hand with one of his. "And I would hate to drag you into this, Heather. You deserve better." Before she can protest, however, he finally looks over at her, with a very tired smile. "But if you're sure. Friendly ears are in short supply."
*
"I'm absolutely certain." Heather doesn't waver once she's made up her mind. "You're my friend, David. You were our friend." Heather's expression crumples into something terribly sad. "That doesn't just go away. We can talk after dinner if you want. Or now. Or two in the morning, I don't care. I just want to fix whatever hurt you like this. I can still help, even now, I promise."
*
The reminder leaves David feeling a bit like he's been socked in the gut, and it shows. "I'm sorry about Mac," he says quietly, forcing himself to sit up a little bit straighter, look a little more together. It's easier to do when he's doing it for someone else. He's quiet a moment, trying to decide if there's anything else to say. …no, not really. "If you're hungry," is all he says, offering a weak smile. "I can wait to eat until you're hungry."
*
"I'm sorry, too. But it's the job, isn't it? I always knew." Heather gives his arm a little squeeze before getting up. "I'll bring you a coffee and maybe find us a little something for now," Heather says, on her way into the kitchen. She stops to put on an apron — pink, with strawberry appliques and red rickrack — before she gets out the coffee cups. Both of them take their coffee black. She's never been able to train herself to drink it like the girls in the office pool do. There are cookies in a tin, she gets those out as well. Baked goods are a surefire way to the hearts of the boys who run the archives at work. They rarely get up to the cafeteria during the day.
"Here." She sets David's coffee and a plate of cookies down on the coffee table. "Start with that, I'll see what I've got rattling around in the kitchen. I promise not to give you food poisoning. I haven't done that to anyone since I was fifteen."
*
David's eyes follow Heather as she returns to the kitchen, but they don't stay there long. As she moves to the stove to retrieve the coffee, some of the color drains from his face and he quickly looks down to the floor between his feet, one hand coming up to cover his mouth as he forces himself to just breathe. Nice, slow, even. Count to five in, hold, exhale. A recognizable pattern.
He doesn't quite startle when she comes back, but he does lift his head a little quicker than he means to. "Thank you. That's an easy promise to keep," David muses, forcing some lightness into his tone. "I don't get sick anymore. Or drunk. Double-edged sword, I suppose…"
*
"Well, that's…something." Heather takes it in stride, filing it away for later. "It was Mac I did it to, by the way. He'd been away on one of his trips and I'd been taking care of his plants so I made him dinner and put it in the fridge for when he got home, as a favor." She returns to the kitchen, taking stock of what she's got around. "Only he was delayed for days and I had no idea, I just assumed he was busy. When he got back, all his plants were dying and — being Mac — he ate what was in the fridge. And nearly did himself in. I learned to date things. I'm sure it must have been moldy and he was so busy thinking about something he didn't notice."
Aha. Fruit and plenty of it. The concierge at the Baxter Building seems convinced she's going to get scurvy if she doesn't have enough fruit around. "Well, since you're here you can help me get through this backlog of fruit. Who thought I'd ever complain about having too much pineapple?"
Heather pulls out the cutting board and then finds a large knife in the knife block. Perfect for tackling the spiny beast lurking on the back of her counter.
*
"That does sound like him," David replies with a laugh, an actual, genuine smile coming to his face. "But I hardly think that counts as you giving him food poisoning. That was entirely self-inflicted."
David is doing a pretty decent job of being okay as long as he keeps his eyes on the floor, and not on the young woman in the kitchen. The mention of fruit, however, has him squeezing his eyes tightly closed and tensing up in anticipation, and his hands twitch against his knees when the knife whispers out of the block.
He makes it through one cut before he's clamping a hand over his mouth and making a mad dash for the restroom. For a man who just claimed he didn't get sick anymore, he certainly sounds like something isn't agreeing with him.
*
"David?" Heather abandons the knife into the sink and chases after him. If he can't get sick by conventional means, it's possible he was poisoned somehow — she wouldn't put it past some of the people they've encountered before. There are all kinds of ways to kill a man without having to be there when it happens. She wasn't kidding about not letting him our of her sight.
"It's going to be okay," Heather promises as she catches up to him, without any certainty that she's right about it. She puts a gentle hand on his back, rubbing between his shoulder blades. Raising seven siblings makes this kind of thing par for the course. "Just breathe," she soothes. "You're okay." Saying it might make it true.
*
At least David's tie didn't go into the bowl in his haste. Some small corner of his mind that isn't preoccupied with being sick and feeling more than a little humiliated can take comfort from that.
Once he's fairly certain there's nothing left, David blindly gropes around to flush. It's only polite, and it makes that 'just breathe' thing that Heather is encouraging him to do a little bit easier. "I'm fine," he hoarsely croaks out. "I'm — sorry, it's not — I'm okay."
*
"Here." Heather fills the water glass sitting on the back of the sink. "Take this." She holds onto it until she's sure David's got a good grip on it. "You don't have anything to be sorry about." She puts her hand on his back again, to steady him a little even though she's a foot shorter than he is. She can manage. "I said I was going to take care of you."
*
His hands are shaking when he takes the water, but not so much that David can't manage to rinse his mouth out and, afterwards, have an actual drink. He seems perfectly happy to just stay seated in an awkward heap on her bathroom floor, listing to one side in order to rest his forehead against the edge of the sink. Cool porcelain. That helps, too.
"It was Stryker," David says very quietly, eyes closed while he tries to focus on regaining some semblance of composure. "He's been — there have been kidnappings. Experiments. I-I didn't know."
*
Heather sits down beside David, facing him so she can watch his face, and takes one of his hands in both of hers. Tears sting her eyes when she says, "I want to say I'm surprised. I didn't know, but I'm not surprised." She rubs the back of his hand gently. "He took you? David, I'm so sorry. When? How long? What can I do to help? He has to be stopped."
*
"Was investigating the kidnappings on my own, didn't know it was him," David says hoarsely, leaving his eyes closed. He gives her hand a grateful squeeze. "I'd hit a dead end so I replaced someone I'd pegged as a likely target. Figured I could learn who was doing it, where they were taking people, and get myself out again." It's worked before.
His beard twitches into a smile and he cracks an eye open. "Two out of three. I was there for… three weeks?" he says, brow creasing slightly. "Nearly four?"
*
"Oh, David. You should have…this isn't the kind of thing you can do alone. You know better." Heather would be annoyed but it's obvious he's paid horribly for the mistake. On to solutions. "Nearly a month captive would take a terrible toll on anyone. You're staying with me — and you're going to tell me whatever it was that set you off so it doesn't happen again — until we get this sorted. The building is very secure and you can recover properly. You can stay in the study. And I'm going to help you, you need a base and a handler for something this scale."
Heather pauses and then quirks a little smile. "Do tell me he didn't do something dreadful to you with a pineapple."
*
David actually laughs, a hand drifting up to rest against his forehead. Oh, lord. "No, no, it…" He laughs a little harder as he reflects on the correction he's about to make. "…it was a watermelon. Christ. That sounds really stupid without context."
He is not going to argue with the rest. He knows there's no point to it, and if he's honest, he's tired of being on his own anyway. So David just nods, still giggling a bit, and very carefully begins shifting around to try regaining his feet. "…sure. Thank you. I'll need to take a trip out to Westchester for my things, and I do need to talk with Katherine about all of this…"
*
"So, no fruit salad for a while, then. Anything you need, anything you need to talk about, you can tell me. No matter how bad it is." Heather reaches out to put her hand on David's cheek. "I'm in, so don't you forget it when you start making plans. Anyone you know and trust to work on it, you can bring them here as well. Or we'll pick another meeting place. I just need to know what our resources are, what the parameters are, and then we can decide on a course of action. This is what I do. This is what we do. We will fix this."
*
"Fruit is fine, Heather, I just — it's the knife." David doesn't shy away from the hand at his cheek, but his eyes are searching for anywhere else to look other than at her. "I'm afraid I won't be able to help you in the kitchen for a while. I'm going to be a very poor house guest." He draws in another slow, steadying breath. "…everything I am at liberty to share with you, I will," he promises.
*
"You're not a guest, David. You're practically family. I won't have you apologize. No knives, I promise. I'll warn you." Heather gets up gracefully, straightens her skirt and apron, then offers David her hands to help him up. She's strong enough. "Whatever needs doing, I can handle it. I always have. You know that. You always acted like you believed it, too." That made him an anomaly among the men she needed to work with before.
*
"You never gave me a reason to doubt," David replies, simple as that. With a little sigh, he reaches up to accept her hands and lets her help him back up to his feet, holding on just a moment to make sure he's steady. No swaying… okay. He can let go. "If you'd like to join me when I go to retrieve my things tomorrow, you'd be welcome to. I can make proper introductions, let Katherine know you're here to help."
*
"Of course." Heather lets his hands go after one last squeeze. "Why don't you go lie down on the couch in the study while I cook. I'll bring you blankets and a pillow. You won't be able to see or even hear anything much in there, especially if you put the radio or the stereo on. I never use that room, I'm just rattling around in this place, so it's yours. Tonight, rest. Tomorrow, action."