"Le génie humain a des bornes, Mais la sottise n'en a pas"~ Alexandre Dumas
("Human genius has its limits, but stupidity does not.")
~**~~**~
Geniuses.
They're supposed to be the most intelligent people on Earth.
They were the ones that solved world problems from the safety of a lab and then turn around to host black-tie dinners where politics and social ethics dominated the discussion.
Geniuses were raised in rolling villas with private tutors and had access to the best education available.
They had mothers who said things like 'tighten your cravat, darling' or 'I'll see you for Sunday brunch after the polo match' and 'don't you think the use of the Oxford comma is pretentious, dearie?'
Geniuses didn't rush into burning buildings. Geniuses didn't jump in front of bullets, even while wearing Kevlar. And they didn't, under any circumstance, even with the pain of death looming, sacrifice their taste-buds for a sip of piping hot coffee.
More simply put: Geniuses didn't do anything that would cause harm to themselves.
Right?
Wrong.
Geniuses are idiots, Jack had decided.
Exhibit A was currently sitting in the back of an ambulance, wiggling around when a rookie EMT attempted to shine a light in her eyes.
Jack paced in front of the open ambulance, raking his hands through his hair. He already accepted the fact he was going to go bald. It was a race against the clock. Especially if he spent any more time in the immediate vicinity of that infuriating doctor.
After going a bloody round of fist-a-cuffs with a man twice her size, she had jumped right up and demanded he call off the paramedics. She grumbled more over the loss of her knife than the blood trickling down her neck.
Still. He couldn't shake the feeling of dread.
When he had first seen her, his heart froze.
Pure ice.
Fragmenting into cold shards.
But after a few moments of head lulling and unfocused eyes, Dr. Coldwater seemed to regain her equilibrium and pushed away his hand with her own bloody palm.
Now she was verbally berating a shaking EMT responder on the protocol for closing head lacerations.
Now she cares about protocol.
"For the last time, if you don't hold that mirror straight, I'm going to bash your head in with it."
V.C. yanked the sterile thread through her eyebrow and looped it around again.
"Ma'am. Maybe I should do that. . ." The squeak that came from behind the mirror sounded like it belonged to a mouse, rather than a man.
"Ha! So you can make me look like Frankenstein's monster? No, thanks, I'll take a hard pass on that one."
Her voice was raspy, rust on copper, sand in the desert.
Jack figured the ligature marks on her neck were responsible.
Deciding to end the poor EMT's suffering, he stopped his flustered pacing and hoisted himself up into the ambulance. Nodding the nervous man away, Jack took his place and the mirror. He settled onto the padded bench across from V.C., contemplating her over the glass.
"You know, it would be easier if someone else did that. . ."
V.C. shrugged, leaning closer to her reflection. The blood on her face had dried and crusted, staining her skin a light pink.
"Easier isn't always better."
She tied off the end of the thread and placed Steri-Strips across the wound, closing it firmly. Beside a laceration transecting her left eyebrow and a split lip, her face was probably in better shape than the other guy.
Jack had seen the blood strewn across the kitchen floor, speckles of crimson. The blood trail had led drip by drip outside to tire treads and then disappeared. But there was enough there to know that the man was injured.
Badly.
After coming across a scene like that, Jack never wanted to get on her bad side. He had a nagging feeling that he would not make it out alive.
A hiss of pain escaped V.C.'s lips as she accidentally clenched her palm closed. A piece of glass glittered in a stream of sunlight. Jack lay the mirror on the seat beside him and grasped her hand in his own.
Skin to skin.
Bloody to clean.
"Let me."
He leaned forward, curling his fingers around her own and pulling them into his lap, balancing it on his thighs. Flushing the wound, Jack wrapped gauze gently around her cuts.
He could hear her breath, feel it. Warm and steady.
And close.
So close.
He ran his thumb down each finger. Tracing the path of creases.
Slow.
Soft.
Strictly professional tracing.
His aimless patterning ceased when a bang from a car door knocked him out of his stupor. Jack leaped back and V.C. jerked her hands into her lap.
Awkward silence basked in their midst.
"I--I..."
Jack cleared his throat roughly and fought the urge to ruffle his hair. Flipping open a pad, he shuffled his feet before asking if she could describe the assailant.
Shrugging one shoulder and flickering her eyes anywhere but at him, V.C. answered.
"6 ft. About 240lbs. Not much else; I didn't get a good look at him." Her eyes finally met his. "I was kinda busy, yanno. Trying not to die and everything."
Jack felt all of the tension dissipate at her sarcastic jibe and rolled his eyes.
"But he definitely is going to be in need of a doctor. He's got a broken nose and a knife wound to the thigh. I didn't hit the femoral artery, but he'll be bleeding pretty bad." She tapped a bound finger to her chin. "We should start by checking hospitals or clinics in the area."
She hopped up quickly. Too quickly. Her body swayed precariously before she righted herself.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
"Fine. Just perfect."
~**~~**~
He wouldn't let her drive back to Rinshawn. Something about 'impaired driving' and 'operating machinery with a concussion.'
She had meant to deny the concussion, but that EMT had gotten to Jack first, warning him of the dangers of a serious head impact.
That some met death in their sleep, never to return to the land of the living.
At that dramatic caution, Jack had plucked her car keys out of her hand and hoisted her into his sedan before she could even threaten kidnapping.
This is why wannabe poets shouldn't try to be doctors.
They spend all their time creating terror with their eloquent words when 'her head has an owie' would work just as good.
He promised that he would have an agent retrieve her car and bring it back to Rinshawn, but stated in no uncertain terms that there was no way he was letting her out of his sight.
Jack took the term 'helicopter mother' to a whole new level.
Speaking of hovering. . .
"Should you be looking at that?" Jack motioned to the camera in her hands. Jack had taken pictures of the tire treads and blood samples from the scene while V.C. was being examined. She was flipping through them when he had addressed her.
One of his wrists lay on the steering wheel while the other hand caressed the stick-shift, almost lovingly, as his eyes studied the road in front of him.
Men and their cars.
V.C. rolled her eyes.
Or she tried.
Moving too much of her face hurt like she had gone around with Laila Ali. But she wasn't about to let Jack Rhodes tell her what to do.
"Yes. It's fine, Rhodes." When that didn't placate him, she jibbed further. " I'll tell you what, if I start having a stroke, you can tell me I told you so."
The car swerved as Jack jerked his head towards her. "Wait, really? A concussion can cause a stroke?!"
Exasperated, she shook her head from side to side and said, "Just drive, Rhodes. Just drive."
She retrieved the black bag lying on the passenger's seat floor. A laptop haphazardly was stuffed inside, along with a day planner.
Jack lay one finger on the spine of the computer. "I found that in Mateo's office. It's password protected. I thought maybe Pager could take a crack at it."
Sifting through the planner, V.C. noticed that Emblem had marked down everything he did. Down to the hour.
It read the following:
7/7-7/13:
8AM-7PM: Business Trip to Dubai- meetings with Dwyer company
7/14:
5 AM- Morning run
8AM-Deposition in court- Fildmine case
11AM-1PM: Lunch w/ new client
2 PM: Afternoon run w/ J
4PM-5PM: Board meeting w/ C. Jameson
7/15:
5 AM- Morning run
8AM-11AM: Court w/ Judge Greggory
12PM-1PM: Lunch
2PM-4PM: Accounting maintenance
7 PM: Meet w/ S. D.
7/16:
5 AM- Run w/ J
9 AM: Dr Apt w/ Dr. Vice/blood work
12PM-2PM: Client meeting
3PM-7PM: Free time.
She read it aloud to Jack who listened intently.
Gosh, who even has that much time to run?
"People who like to stay fit"
Whoops!
V.C. hadn't realized she had vocalized her thoughts. "Listen, he kept track of his running times. He even tracked his calories intake and output."
Gross.
A vibration in her pocket redirected her attention. Snapping the planner shut, she slid it back into the bag before slipping her phone out. She unlocked it and read the message.
"Arya said that the evidence from your agent has been delivered. I'll be able to start the bullet comparison. And analyze this blood, see if we can get a match in the database of the intruder."
"Then back to Rinshawn we go."
~**~~**~
Sunlight bounced through the windshield right into Jack's eyes. He flipped the visor down to block the sunbeams.
The sign for the city limits of Rinshawn flashed by.
Welcome to Rinshawn. Est 1905. Population: 2231.
Some kid had graffiti-ed over it in bright orange spray paint.
"You'd think that a town that supposedly just struck it rich wouldn't be such a dump."
He threw a side-glance at the woman beside him. The rough pavement had jostled her awake, banging her already injured head against the window. She winced and pressed an ice pack against her forehead.
He had to admit, even from the start he knew she was beautiful.
It was the first thing he had noticed about her.
However, once he had figured out who and what she was, the possible attraction meter had immediately depleted to nill.
But now, he was starting to see the allure that drew people towards her; because even after bruising mottled half her skull, she still resembled a goddess.
A goddess who would kick one's teeth in on any given day of the week.
A strictly off-limits, do not engage or touch with an eleven and a half foot pole goddess.
But a goddess just the same.
Continual bumps in the road ahead swiftly knocked him out of his ravine and away from his unwanted thoughts.
"You should take those pain meds the EMT gave you. They'll help with the headache."
"Pills make my head fuzzy. Can't think straight. I'll just stick with ice."
"Suit yourself."
The car rumbled to a halt in the compound, the warehouse standing tall in front of it. With a click of his seatbelt, Jack exited the car. He circled the front and grabbed the case from V.C.
Watching carefully, he hovered a hand behind the doctor as she wobbled forward. Jack was cautious around her.
Not worried, per se, because that would mean he had some sort of positive feelings towards her.
But cautious.
After all, he wouldn't put it past her to sue his department for extreme negligence just to get back at him.
But none of the above happened. In fact, she acted as if the whole ordeal was just an inconvenience comparable to breaking a nail.
As soon as the elevator opened, V.C. jumped to address her employees.
Everyone was crowded around their respective computer screens and didn't look up at their entrance, with the exception of Thomas, who sprinted towards Jack.
He took up residence beside the Commander, greeting him enthusiastically. And then walked in step with Jack, mirroring the swinging of his arms and matching precise footfalls.
V.C. smirked at the boy's imitation of Jack and wagged her eyebrows humorously at him.
Or at least tried to.
It kind of looked as if her forehead was having a mini seizure, restricted by the railroad track of stitches. But he still knew she was immensely enjoying the way Thomas treated Jack as his 'mother duck'.
Approaching Arya, she walked her fingertips across a table while addressing the girl. "All right, Arie, hit me with it; what we got?"
"The Fed dropped some stuff off. Didn't look through it yet, waiting for you." She reached out and tapped the box sitting in front of her.
"Good call, kid." Coldwater then snapped towards the engineer glaring at a semblance of cables and screens. "Flynn, did you recrea--"
Flynn was the first one who glanced up at her reappearance. Taking one look at her, he abruptly rose from the corner in one fluid motion and strode towards the injured doctor.
"Vae?! What happened to you?"
It was the first time Jack had heard his voice. He spoke with a deep tamber, accented by British roots.
Flynn cupped her face in one palm, inspecting her face closely.
Ebony to ivory.
A little bit too close for the certain someone standing at her elbow.
He seems awfully familiar just to be a co-worker--
"Nothing, Flynn. I. . .I fell down the stairs." She winked at him, brushing his grip away casually. "I'm fine. Focus on the case."
With dark eyes and a furrowed brow, the man regarded her before conceding, stepping back. "Yes, Doctor."
He fixed Jack with a glare that could melt ice caps and Jack had the sneaking suspicion that the man was fighting the urge to unload a full round into Jack's gut.
Note to self: don't get trapped in a locked room with this guy.
When Jack failed to break eye contact with him, Flynn softly drew V.C. to the plasma screen by her elbow.
"Based on the data tabulated from the footprints at the scene, I can extrapolate the dimensions of your shooter."
"Don't leave me hanging."
"Regarding shoe impressions, it most likely belonged to a man wearing size 10.5. Measuring the print depth and the way pressure was spread across the imprint, I'd reckon the shooter was between 82-90 kg and 170-182 cms tall."
He frowned, rubbing his maw. "Which is bloody useless because those dimensions can fit over half the population."
"Hey, don't worry about it, Flynn; at least it's something." She bumped her shoulder into his.
Like I thought. . . Familiar.
V.C. backed away from the screen to address Jack. "Imma analyze the bullet from Emblem's body."
She hefted the evidence box onto her knee and nodded at the computer geek. "Page, look at the laptop Rhodes found in the house. It's password protected so you better break out that MIT brain I pay big bucks for."
And then she was gone, lugging the box off into the recesses of the warehouse to conduct some geeky experiments.
Leaving Jack behind to the hyenas.
Or rather, one hyena.
Who shot daggers at him from under darken eyebrows and cracked his knuckles ominously.
It's going to be a long night. . .
~**~~**~
A/N
Next chapter is called: Sisterhood Of The Traveling Guns
Blurb:
For someone so smart, her mind ironically was the one thing that got her into trouble. And that trouble usually involved her making jokes at inappropriate times. She couldn't help it; it was sort of a defense mechanism. One that had gotten her kicked out of far too many wakes.
Whatever you do, V.C. do not make a 'kick the bucket' joke.
Just nod with pity.
Or something.
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