The house was just as they had wished for that night under the stars, made of stone and glass and open spaces. It was located in the Arizona desert, a distance out from Mesa that was close enough that it wasn't too much of a bother to drive in, but far enough to provide them with their desired solitude. And with no light pollution from the city, it gave Darcy her stars.

Moving was always tiresome, but it had gone without problems. There were still things left to get in order, additional furniture to buy and build and such. But, they were there now. They had their house in the desert. And with that came new thoughts. Another step to take; a huge and scary step. There was no longer anything in the way for them trying for a baby.

As usual, Ford did his thinking at night. He was leaned back in a lawn chair, the fire-pit at his feet lit, the flames casting flickering lights and waves of heat over him where he sat, a blanket around his shoulders to ward off the night chill, a bottle of beer cradled in his hands. He felt like it should have been a far more difficult thing, to undo that little tweak he'd done to himself so many years ago that had rendered him sterile. But it wasn't hard at all. It required barely a thought to get his body to return to what he supposed was normal. Such a tiny little thing, a tiny little change. And yet it had the potential to change so much in their lives.

Going to the mall during the busy hours probably hadn't been the best of ideas, Ford thought as his wife and him were making their way through the crowds, bumping shoulders with passerby's ever so often. He was mainly just annoyed, but he worried about her. Crowds and Darcy had never been the best of combination. Though as far as he could tell, she was holding up okay. Comparing her now to the woman he had first met was like comparing night and day.

Still, they had some shopping to get done, shopping they had been putting off for long enough already. And it had to be now, if they wanted to get home to have dinner at any sort of suitable hour, and go out stargazing later in the evening like he had promised her they would. It wasn't often that he agreed to go out and do that with her, so now that he had promised he wanted to keep that promise.

But it was still crowded. And loud. And annoying and frustrating and full of idiots and... And crowded.

The stage: Ford's living-room floor.

The players: Quinn stretched out on her back. Darcy kneeling on Quinn's right side, Ford on her left, and Casper by her head.

The play: mending Quinn's broken psyche.

The link was intense and hard to maintain, draining for all of them. But they all needed to be there; Darcy to be a familiar and comforting presence for her sister, and because her head contained the actual knowledge of what had been done to the younger sister, and Casper because he had some idea how to help mend people. And Ford, well... Ford was the strength needed.

This was such a hard thing for him, to give up control and let himself be directed. He wasn't the one leading this link, Casper was; taking the knowledge from Darcy and filtering it through himself, to then take Ford and use him to piece by piece mend the damage that had been done. It was hard, probably harder than anything he'd ever done, because it required him to be completely open. He'd had to drop the normal high and impenetrable shields, and if he for just one second let his concentration stray, he could feel the souls of the other people on the room, through the connection of their joined hands on Quinn's chest. It was scary as hell. Good thing, then, that he couldn't let his mind stray. Even though he was being guided and directed, it took all the concentration he had.

It wasn't his idea, he thought. Not really. It came from Darcy. From her questions. They had made him wonder.

He'd always said - as a grown man - that he didn't feel connected to his family. To his parents. They had brought him into this world, but he didn't feel like he shared anything with them.

But yet he started to wonder. Now, some twenty odd years since he'd last seen then, since he'd slipped into the night without looking back... Were they still alive? What happened to them?

So he called up one of the researchers he knew within the Organization. One that owed him a favor. Two names. A city and a year. Look it up, but keep it quiet. It took some few days before the answer came; a thick envelope in the mail. He read it alone one night when Darcy wasn't around, and Francis had gone to sleep. Then he took the contents down from his bedroom to the living room, poured himself a rather large bourbon and read it again. And again. In the end he didn't keep any of the papers and prints in that envelope. They all went in the trash. But not before he'd made a few notes.

The following day when Darcy came around, Ford was more silent than usual. Distracted. Then, right before he had a feeling that Darcy was going to blow up on him, he started to let her in. "I need to go to Davenport," he said. A pause. "I could probably use company."

It took days. But, eventually late one morning, a taxi pulled up on the driveway. Ford stepped out, squinting in the sunlight. He'd been indoors, and even underground this hole time, and he'd been dozing off during the ride home. As a result, the sun seemed almost too bright. With an unusual slowness and carefulness - tiredness - he walked up to teh door and out of pure habit put the keys in the lock, pausing in slight surprised to find it unlocked. He never left it unlocked it he left the house. Right. Darcy must be there. Probably Casper. He'd heard that they were cooperating in caring for Francis. That was a good thing.

He pocketed his keys again. A few seconds passed. Then he sighed, and pushed the door open.

Life was actually good. It hit Ford sometimes, and every time he was just as surprised. Life wasn't perfect. It had its dark times. Its griefs. But it was... good.

Darcy and him was still at each others throats at times. They bickered and they fought. Sniped and snarked at each other. But they were also in love. It was absolutely absurd, but never the less the truth. And in between all their fighting, there were sweet times as well. And a lot of fun.

Francis was still the way he was, but with Darcy's steady improvements, their lessons could at times take place at Ford's house now, saving Ford from constantly having to badger the too-friendly Casper to babysit, even if he sometimes showed up anyway.

They all got along. And now summer had come, and Ford's garden was an explosion of life and colour. And with that, his mood improved even further.

Life was good.


Then, one late evening when Darcy was over, the call came. When Ford answered it, he fell silent. Then he left the room with the phone pressed to his ear. A frown had slid over his face, and it was still there five minutes later when he returned. The phone was still in his hand, and he looked at it as if he could hardly believe what the person that had been on the other end of the line had just told him.

Since it was late and Francis had gone to bed, he could talk freely. He still hesitated to tell Darcy this. But tell her he did. "I'm being called back into active duty."

With months passed without a word from Sarah, Ford had started to consider himself dumped. Hadn't he said this from the beginning? It would never work! As least since he'd known that, he wasn't too heartbroken about it. Just... in a very foul mood. But then again, he wasn't exactly Mr. Sunshine in the best of times either.

But he was grumpier than usual. And, with a student to teach, she was most likely going to undeservedly suffer for it.

At least it was a beautiful day, and that was always something, with clear skies and crisp autumn air. As he knocked on Darcy's door, he had already decided to make today an outdoors lesson.

There had been many times over the years that Ford had concluded that he did not like the organization he worked for. ( Their most recent stunt had cemented that. )

Ford had never had trouble sleeping. Even though he'd been through a lot of bad stuff over the years, he'd always been able to just shut down his brain and go to sleep.

He still could, but now he'd started waking up in the middle of the night and not being able to go back to sleep. The first night back home passed peacefully. But the second night he'd woken up from his whole body cramping up and with a splitting headache. The third he'd woken up scared out of his mind for no reason at all. The fourth night he'd woken up unable to breathe for a minute.

Now, on the fifth night home, he woke up crying. He stayed in bed for a moment, wiping his tears away and feeling like a complete idiot. What the hell did he have to cry for? Wasn't things better than they had been in a long time?

After a while he got up, pulled on a pair of sweatpants and tip-toed down the stairs and into the kitchen. He knew that Francis could sleep through a tornado, but he didn't know if Sarah was a light sleeper or not. She was still staying with them after Francis more or less demanding that she did until she had found a place of her own. If the little man was to have his way she'd stay there forever.

Once in teh kitchen he peeked into the fridge. He didn't really want anything - didn't know why he looked at all - so he shut it again and got himself a glass of water. Outside it was snowing again, and he stood for a while watching the millions upon millions of tiny flakes fall. Before he knew it he was crying again, gritting his teeth and covering his eyes, fighting back sobs to keep quiet. He succeeded.

It was ridiculous! The absurdity of it made him angry, and that in his opinion was far better. Setting the glass of water aside, he went down into the basement. The basement was Ford's place to both work out his aggressions, and to relax. In other words, there was a gym and a sauna down there. While Ford could alter his body bast he wished with just a thought, he enjoyed the feeling of working out. Just because he could, it didn't mean he had to cheat at everything.

He went through the motions of bandaging his hands and feet without really thinking about it. Then he went over to the punching bag. The first hit was weak. Testing. The second had more force behind it. Soon enough he was at it for real, moving around the bag, alternating punches with kicks, the room now sounding of heavy thuds as fists and feet struck the heavy bag. He still felt angry, and beneath that was something lurking. Something that had woken him up.

In the middle of January, Ford left Boston. Before leaving he gave Sarah instructions on how to deal with Francis, as well as a decent amount of money to cover expenses as well as to make up for any loss of pay she might suffer from taking off from her job for two weeks. There really wasn't much to caring for Francis. The little man was in essence a good-natured and obedient child. All she really had to do was to keep him safe and fed, and to provide company.

Ford never said where he was going, nor did he provide any details of what he was going to be doing. But then, Sarah never asked.

Three days after Ford's departure, a letter arrived for Sarah. Written in Ford's neat and surprisingly flowing handwriting, it launched straight into things.



The days passed, and no word from Ford. Days, a week, and finally two. And still no word. No sign of life.