True Beauty
by talespin
URL: http://www.bluecatsgraphics.com/pean/fanfics/42/

Part 1

Ephram Taff depressed the security switch beneath his desk in response to the light rap on the studded, metal-banded doors of heartwood mahogany, breathing out a soft sigh as he did so. No one beat a tattoo quite like Georgia did.

The locks disengaged with a soft, well-oiled snick and she approached his desk like an actress on the red carpet, as poised as though a thousand eyes were on her with a dozen cameras capturing her every angle, her every move. Ephram watched her come. Well, she was right about the cameras; he’d monitored her ever since she entered the building, thirty-one stories below.

He waited for her to come to a stop before the massive desk where he sat silently studying her, one finger pressed to his lips. A minute passed but Georgia never flinched beneath his regard, displaying her characteristic preternatural composure. He spoke at last. “You know what I want.”

“Yes.” She had never been disposed to call him ‘sir’, but Ephram knew the connotation was there and it was enough for him. On the whole he preferred to allow her to keep her pride and some notions of independence, but they both knew who was boss — he had only had to make that clear to her once. He hadn’t quite broken her then — a woman without spirit was useless to him, but sharp, unexpected consequences tended to make lasting impressions. Thankfully Georgia was a bright girl who caught on quickly, and a second lesson had never been necessary.

“Good.” He opened the wooden case sitting on the desk before himself, lifted the small vial nestled within and her smoky green eyes went to it, the glint in them professional, calculating. “This is a specially designed barbiturate with a pheromone booster and an unpleasant... kick at the end. A unique ‘truth serum’. Formulated specifically for our dear Agent; it’s extremely potent. Don’t lose it.”

The woman took the capsule from Ephram delicately, inserted it into a carefully concealed compartment in her belt, then returned her cool gaze to the lean man sitting before her, waiting.

Ephram continued, ignoring the sultry heat the woman exuded. Just looking at her was enough to melt the wedding ring off a preacher standing next to his wife on a Sunday, but Taff worked with Georgia and women like her often enough that he was immune to the honey trap she represented — when he chose to be. “It will make him tell you anything — do anything for you. Pendergast is a formidable man, more so than most, and he may try to resist until it is too late for him. You will do whatever it takes — in addition to the capsule I want you to use your considerable charms. Just to be sure.”

“If a man needs any sort of drug with me,” Georgia scoffed, “then he’s no man at all.”

Taff narrowed his eyes on her, unamused.

The beautiful ones were always the worst. Not that they lacked brains, no, but in the end they tended to fall in love with themselves; inevitably they got lazy and got themselves killed, or worse, caught. Thank goodness they were a dime a dozen and these days what God didn’t provide, plastic surgery could enhance. Still, Georgia would be difficult to replace. He gritted his teeth. She had lasted longer than most, but the signs were all there; this was probably going to be her last useful mission. “Use the drug,” he said softly, “or you may find yourself in a predicament your beauty can’t save you from. I want no mistakes. Do I make myself clear? You have less than an hour. By that time you must have extracted every detail from him. Do you understand?” he repeated.

“Yes,” she sulked. “I understand.”

Understanding the mission, but not the very real threat. Taff sighed. “Good. He’s scheduled to be at the opening of the new gallery tonight. You should require no more than a few minutes alone with him to obtain the information I need. The first stages of the drug will last for at least half an hour, during which time he will be pliable and conscious; whatever you choose to do with him in the remaining time is up to you. Just don’t allow yourself to get caught.”

She smiled at his standard epitaph. “You know me, Boss.”



Margo watched the late-comers arrive at the gala opening of the latest Museum exhibit with something approaching amusement. Among some circles, “fashionably late” had developed into an art form worthy of anthropologic study. Many of the attendees had taken years to perfect the prime moment to appear, and it was mildly entertaining to watch the well-dressed, the powerful, and the self-assured craning anxiously to see what the latest murmur arising from the entrance was about, followed by the rippling, almost viciously-whispered comments on jewels, dresses, young companions...

Margo half smiled. While the emerald at her throat was genuine, beside the least of the other precious ornaments in the room the stone itself would appear practically worthless beneath a jeweler’s loupe. All the same, it had been given to her great-grandmother as an engagement present nearly a hundred years before, and while it may have paled in monetary value by comparison she wouldn’t trade it for any of the multi-carated wonders on display, nestled against pampered flesh. Some of the jewels in the room even had Names. Still smiling, Margo wandered past where the musicians had set up, pausing to refresh her drink.

The gallery opening was as well-attended as every museum premiere tended to be, a chance for socialites to preen themselves before one another and mix with academics. For the academics themselves, the chance to make funding contacts in addition to the free food always seemed to ensure that a good number of them turned out. In the end, everyone got what they came for.

Fortunately Margo herself wasn’t involved in this particular opening in anything more than an advisory capacity, and while her presence had been expected she was free to move around and mingle with the beautiful people at will.

She marked the arrival of Special Agent Pendergast and was pleasantly surprised when he approached, making a point to seek her out in the crowd and personally thank her for the invitation, taking her hand with his customary half-bow.

Pendergast smiled at her greeting, and with what could only be described as a twinkle in his eye responded, “Of course I do try to occasionally attend events where no prospect of mayhem is in the offing.” He cocked an eye toward the far end of the hall. “Provided the mayor’s wife remains ignorant of the fact that his mistress is also here,” he drawled, “I anticipate a quiet evening.” His gaze returned to her, and he smiled again. “Though I hardly expect it to be dull.”

He seemed relaxed and at ease in her company, appearing engaged and curious as they walked together and she pointed out some of the highlights of the exhibit to him. They hadn’t gotten very far, however, before her attention was preempted by an old acquaintance from out of town to whom she had promised a personal tour.

Margo apologized to Pendergast and let him go regretfully with a few suggestions of displays he should be sure not to miss. As she showed her friend around the exhibit she caught sight of him again once or twice out of the corner of her eye as he strolled through the gallery hall, pausing at displays as he sipped at a glass of champagne, but by the time she was free to look for him again he was nowhere to be seen.

She suppressed a sense of disappointment over his disappearance, wondering again what had caused the agent to accept her casual invitation to attend the premiere at all, offered in passing the week before. Wondered where he was now. With a sigh she put him from her mind and glanced around the room, deciding it would be a good time to slip up to her office and retrieve some documents she had forgotten earlier in the day. She had plans to study them when she got home later that night and in the rush to leave and get back to the museum for the opening she had neglected to slip them into her bag.

Passing into the well-lit hall that led to her office Margo felt herself relaxing in the cool stillness. It was a relief to escape from the glittering, chattering press of people for a while, the live chamber music and smells of rich food. After a while everyone just seemed to talk louder, laugh louder, and it was a peaceful change to escape the buzz of their champagne-charged voices echoing against glass and marble-clad surfaces.

Before she had taken very many steps down the corridor however she paused, listening, then backtracked to a door she had just passed and tilted her head in the silence. The door was shut but she frowned and moved closer anyway, almost certain she had heard something. She put her hand out and the door knob, which should have been locked for the night, turned easily under her hand. She pushed the door open cautiously, peering within.

“Hello?”

The shadows of two people were just barely visible and Margo froze as the door swung wider. Light from the well-lit hall streamed into the room, casting a stripe across the wall and revealing a sight so incongruous that she almost closed the door again and went on her way, unable to comprehend what her eyes were taking in.

She blinked again, disbelieving, but there was no escaping the sight of the lean, pale agent and the woman, entwined in a most unchaste exchange. Two champagne glasses sat on a desk nearby, discarded and empty.

She felt her face flush. “Pendergast?” She croaked out the word, too stunned as she absorbed the sight to pay heed to her initial reaction of wanting to shut the door and walk away, pretending she had never seen... this.

The woman was tall, a long-haired beauty in a form-hugging, glittering cascade of a dress the color of fresh blood, her voluptuous curves pressed to Pendergast, red nails raking against the crisp white shirt beneath his jacket as she rumpled it into her fist, pulling it free of his pants as she kissed him deeply, with an almost predatory passion. She drew back slightly as the light washed over them and Margo saw her features turned toward the source of the interruption. She was stunningly beautiful and appeared not the least bit embarrassed to have been walked in on.

Margo felt an odd twisting in her, a visceral recoiling at having intruded on such an intimate moment. A personal sickness that felt queerly like betrayal washed through her. And yet... what man could resist that? Who are you kidding, Margo? Even Pendergast isn’t made of stone.

Pendergast himself stood against the wall, as unprotesting of the woman’s affection as the paralyzed mate of a Black Widow spider, enraptured and dying. As a final blow he didn’t even appear to have noticed Margo at all.

The woman showed her teeth in a contemptuous smile. “Next room over, darling,” she purred. “Can’t you see we’re busy?” And as if to underscore that point she turned back to Pendergast and kissed him again, a penetrating kiss that he returned slowly, moving as if in an entranced state and responding appropriately to the stimuli presented him. If he wasn’t willing, he sure as hell didn’t seem to be fighting it, either.

Margo found herself staring at the painful sight of Pendergast so immersed then cleared her throat, fighting down her nausea. None of my business, she told herself.

“You’re going to have to leave,” she said, trying to put authority into her voice even though she could barely stand to look at them. “This room is off limits — the door should have been locked.”

“Yes it should have been, shouldn’t it.” The interloper turned again in displeasure, focusing directly on Margo. “Who are you.” There was no trace of the seduction in the woman’s eyes, and Margo nearly took a step back at the feral, savage glint she saw in them. Pendergast, no longer pinned by her lips, swayed.

He looked disoriented, drunk, and he reinforced this impression by smiling in recognition as he finally caught sight of Margo.

“Ah. My dear Miss Green. This is...” He paused, looking his partner over, and a lazy smile came to his face, “...Miss Red. Have you come to join us?” The seductive suggestion in the question turned Margo’s stomach, and yet as the pure oddness of the situation asserted itself she sensed that there was something even more deeply wrong here than Pendergast’s uncharacteristic behavior.

An impulsive, instinctively protective feeling swept through her, and she spoke without thinking. “We’re leaving, Pendergast,” she said. “It’s time for you to go home.”

The woman showed her teeth again, her attitude more than just possessive. Deadly. “He’ll leave when I’m finished with him,” she said. “Not before.” For all her beauty there was an ugliness in her that twisted her expression into one that Margo recoiled from. The woman’s hand still clutched a wad of Pendergast’s shirt into a fist and he gazed at the treatment of the expensive garment with a slight frown on his face, but he gave no other sign or visible capability of protest.

“Get out,” Margo said, her voice stronger than she thought possible. “Or I’ll call security.”

“You’ll do no such thing.” The woman released Pendergast and moved forward with a confident stride and Margo caught a glimpse of the blade held expertly in her other hand, the mocking smile fixed on her face.

Margo turned her to her left. Years before the museum had installed fire extinguishers in each room per city code and before that Margo had served for a season on a volunteer fire-fighting force. With practiced speed she lifted the extinguisher from its mount beside the door, easily pulled the pin, unholstered the nozzle, and unleashed the geyser of fire-retardant spray aimed directly at the woman’s head. The white spray caked satisfactorily over the woman’s beautiful features, coated her fire-colored dress. She shrieked, dropped the knife, and fell to the ground pawing to get the chemical out of her eyes and mouth. Margo rushed past her, knocking the nearly empty canister heavily against the woman’s head as she attempted to rise. The woman crumpled.

Pendergast had watched the entire exchange with a bemused look on his face, making no move from the wall where the femme fatale had left him. He snickered as Margo approached. “That...wasn’t very nice.” Yet he sounded faintly impressed.

Margo seized his hand, pulling him away from the wall. “Come on.”

“I certainly shall.” He chuckled at his anomalous little aside and she ignored him, choosing a route to the exit that involved parading him in his unsteady state past as few people as possible, pausing only briefly to alert a guard and make sure that a security detail was sent to detain the woman who had seduced Pendergast and drawn a knife on her.



A line of idling cabs steamed in the chill night air, waiting to take revelers home when the gala ended. The first cab in line nosed forward and Margo opened the rear door. Pendergast got in with cringe-worthy clumsiness, barking his shins as he crawled across the seat and collapsed. She stared at him grimly. She had intended to send him home with cab fare and return to the party, collect her notes and then go home, but at the moment he looked like he needed help just sitting up straight. With a frown she glanced back at the festively lit museum, the banners announcing the new exhibit shimmering in their spotlights as the wind caught them.

Pendergast. Drunk.

Margo shook her head and looked back at him. He seemed to be having difficulty just arranging his long legs in the back seat. And I thought I’d seen everything.

The cab driver leaned back, peering at them in annoyance. “Hey, where to?”

With a sigh Margo turned away from the museum and slid in beside Pendergast, giving the cab driver her address. The cab pulled out, accelerating swiftly away from the museum.

Part 2

“Margo.” His eyes glittered in the traveling flash as they passed beneath the street lights. He had gone very still in the silence since she had settled in beside him, watching her with a fascination that she found slightly disconcerting. “You’re very beautiful.”

Margo put down the flush of pleasure his words brought to her, knowing they were hollow. “And you’re very drunk,” she replied automatically, feeling the blood rise to her cheeks. Be sensible, Margo. Yet she couldn’t help but feel a small, foolish hope, a wistful longing for him to say the words again.

“I am not drunk. It’s true.”

She turned her head away briefly, finding herself uncomfortably warm beneath his gaze. “You have lipstick on your face,” she said. He made no response and when she glanced back at him found he hadn’t moved but was still gazing at her in that fixed, attentive way. He arched one elegant eyebrow at her, as if in invitation.

Shaking her head slightly Margo did what she would have hardly dared under normal circumstances, leaning toward him and touching his face, smudging at the small mark with her thumb. The flicker in his eye followed her closely, and she could feel his focus moving to her lips. Her heart sped up at the unexpected shift in his attention.

“That’s all.” She couldn’t tell in the shifting darkness whether the lipstick mark was gone or not, but between touching him and the way he was looking at her she sensed something waking in her toward him that she had thought herself over a long time ago. There was a certain beauty in the aesthetic line of his jaw and the smooth, alabaster planes of his face that invited exploration, but beneath the sculpture she felt the living man. Her fingers lingered over the faint chafe of stubble, feeling the coolness of his skin even as his warm breath washed gently against her hand as he exhaled.

“Is it gone?” The lazy, amused quality to his voice caused Margo to lift her eyes to his, abruptly aware of the guilty tingling in her fingertips, that she had been caught crossing the line between touch and caress. Still he didn’t move.

She felt a near magnetic force in his stillness and she drew back, shaken by the strength and suddenness of her attraction, her breath catching as she realized how close they were to one another. “Yes,” she said awkwardly. “I—I think I got it all.” In the darkness she thought she detected a smile on his face, a faint, almost knowing expression.

Before she could compose herself he leaned forward, a graceful, decisive yet unhurried maneuver that belied his previous slurred movements, closing the distance between them. Margo found herself immediately drawn in by the warmth and taste of him, her conscious mind too taken aback to stop her body from responding to his, the reaction coming easily and naturally. Her hands came up seeking purchase, grasping against the lean, muscle-armored ribs, skirting the shoulder harness confining the Les Baer beneath his jacket. Flexible steel moved beneath her hands as he leaned closer and she forgot everything in that extraordinary moment, forgot utterly about the cab driver — surely he had seen things far more unusual than two people making out in the back of his cab? — even forgot that they were in a cab at all as he kissed her deeply, with a need and passion that was almost painful, and more intense than any exchange Margo had ever experienced.

His hand slipped lightly down her thigh and came to rest at the hem of her dress, lingering almost decorously before sliding behind her knee. He drew her toward himself, his eyes glowing, and she caught her breath beneath him, an indefinable thrill of uneasiness running through her as the sheer oddness of the experience struck her again, lifting some of the fog of adrenaline. As their bodies touched the sense of strangeness intensified, strong enough to be felt as it mingled with the tide of pleasurable sensations he was stirring in her. She started to pull back. “Pendergast...”

“Shh.” He stilled her with a touch that was more soothing and reassuring than anything he could have said, laying his hand alongside her face and reinforcing the seduction with his lips. Margo relaxed in spite of herself.

And why not, after all? she wondered fleetingly, trying to quell the murmur of internal debate. There was no cue her body wasn’t responding to, no reaction that he didn’t seem to know how or when to trigger. The effect was intoxicating, entrancing, and yet at the same time there remained something peculiar about the whole situation that fed into her underlying uneasiness. There was something off. Somehow wrong.

She dragged her mind away from the wonderful feel of the weight and warmth of his body against hers, opened her eyes a fraction as his lips found a place just beneath her ear that nearly pushed every coherent thought out of her head again. Still she fought for one small corner of clarity, clinging to the need to follow reason even as she curved her hand about the back of his neck, felt his strong slender fingers in her hair, cradling her head protectively.

Less than an hour ago we were discussing the meaning of a priceless eighteenth century ceremonial shawl found in an attic in New Mexico, she thought, struggling to focus. The memory of his face then was the one she had grown to know so well, even to love, cool and pleasantly attentive, exuding intelligence and civility, and had very little in common with the heat and seductive physicality of the man now. Unrestrained, the intensity of it rolled off him in raw waves, his vitality unmasked, unchecked.

In the back of a cab. It was that final, incongruous absurdity that at last sank in and pushed her over the edge.

“Please,” she gasped, fighting for the words.

“‘Please’, what?” He was close enough that she felt the languid curve of his lips, and she set her teeth at the not-so-subtle tease of his fingers against her skin.

“Stop,” she said, more firmly, her own body protesting the words even as she spoke them but she broke from him again as he tried to recapture her lips. “We have to stop.” For a moment she feared he was so absorbed that he couldn’t hear her, wouldn’t react, and knew she was incapable of stopping him if he didn’t respond. But you don’t want this to stop. She shoved the traitorous thought away.

“Please.” She pushed against his chest and amazingly he fell back, retreating but not withdrawing.

“You are very beautiful,” he said again. His gleaming eyes were wide and fixed upon her, the flattery as frank as any disingenuous drunk’s she had ever known.

Margo struggled with the words. Even though he was no longer touching her her skin was still charged from his touch, nerves so confused and crossed by the power of stimulation that the memory of his fingers was like a trailing, ghostlike stirring that alternately chilled then burned, leaving her shivering. The sensation was so strong that she physically ached with the restraint of not giving in to that body, those lips, her own sense of wrongness and the hazed look in his eyes be damned. She wavered. Even his words were what she wanted to hear.

As if he knew exactly what I wanted. It was a tempting fantasy. If it was only me he wanted. The thought made her go suddenly cold. Abruptly the memory of him kissing the woman in the deserted room came back to her, the red lips, red nails scoring him so casually, waking in him... this. A dizzying, sickening bitterness swept through her, cauterizing the heat of pleasure and euphoria.

Whatever sex-crazed pheromones that woman had unleashed on him, Margo wasn’t about to let him finish himself off on her. Any woman would do. Or a man. Hell, probably even a goat, at this point. That’s all this is. Nothing more.

She held him at bay, staring and stricken as the fantasy disintegrated completely, crashing down with the cruelty of him having made her believe, just for a second, that he saw something in her...

She recoiled as he lifted a hand toward her face and drew further away from him, pressing herself against the door, as far from him as she could get.

“Don’t!”

“Margo—”

“Shut up,” she said in quiet humiliation, wiping her eyes. “Just shut up, all right?”

He blinked at her. “But Margo, you are beautiful,” he repeated with that same, slightly vacuous and intoxicated look.

It was too much. “And you’re drunk,” she retorted. “This isn’t you. Please, just — save it for some bimbo with legs up to her tits. You don’t have to lie to me — I don’t need your pity.” Her own anger surprised her, the hot rush of emotions and hurt simmering beneath the surface threatening to overwhelm her. She was trembling, missing the sensation his touch had been waking in her. Stupid. She took a deep breath then let it out, shuddering.

A look of wounded uncertainty, almost bewildered hurt passed over his hatefully changed face accompanied by something else, a shadow that hinted briefly at pain. He withdrew into a tense, contemplative silence that was as mystifying in its own way as the mindless intimacy had come before it. She stared out the window with her hands clasped over her elbows, trying to ignore him.

There was a puzzled note in his voice when he spoke a moment later, as if he were having difficulty understanding something himself. “I’m...I do apologize. I fear...” His breathing sounded slightly labored in the close air and he fell suddenly silent, his normal eloquence failing him.

Margo turned her head and gazed at him from the other side of the cab in spite of herself. He had drawn himself away from her much as she had retreated from him, and looking at him more closely she realized that for however unusual his behavior of the past twenty minutes had been and even apart from his normal peculiarity there was something truly wrong with him.



A pall of sweat lay over his forehead and his eyes, normally so bright and clear, seemed to be struggling against a glassy, faraway look. A prickling feeling of dread crept over her, the sensation that something was more wrong than it seemed bursting from match into flame. It occurred to her suddenly that his breath had been free of any scent of alcohol; she had detected barely a whisper of it when he had kissed her. What did that leave? Food poisoning? No. She frowned, noting his increasing disorientation with alarm.

As she watched he fumbled at his breast pocket attempting to withdraw the handkerchief folded there, but he seemed unable to be able to muster the coordination to pluck it free. Without hesitation Margo moved closer to him again and reached forward to help him, wiped his damp brow.

“Pendergast?” she asked in a low voice, concerned. “It’s all right. I’m taking you to my apartment. Whatever this is you can sleep it off there.” Filtering out the normal, expected smells of a cab, even this close Margo didn’t smell any wine on him.

“No, I—” he seemed to be growing progressively weaker, more disoriented, and Margo felt another shiver of anxiety pass through her as he trembled visibly. “Margo,” he panted. He closed his eyes tightly — eyes that showed, for the briefest instant before closing, a struggling sanity trying to surface, realization and — was that fear? “I’ve been drugged. Help me.” His normally cadenced voice was ragged, thin. “I have to go home.”

Drugged. That woman... Everything suddenly fell into place. Margo felt embarrassed by her previous anger at him, disappointed, but somehow relieved. “But the hospital—”

“No! I have to go home,” he repeated. “The Dakota — now.” The urgency he pressed through those brief words reached her, and it only took her a moment to react.

She rapped on the plexiglass shield. “Take us to the Dakota, Central Park West!”

“You a John Lennon fan?” the cabbie called back casually. “Bit late for sight-seeing.”

“Please, just hurry. There’s an extra twenty in it for you if you can make it in under ten minutes.”

The cab driver grinned. “You got it, lady.” He swerved the cab around toward the museum again, barely missing a double-parked car, and the vehicle rocketed back through traffic.

Margo turned back to Pendergast to find him drifting and barely conscious, the handkerchief trailing from his pale hand with fingers curled loose and defenseless about it. She felt a deep stab of alarm go through her.

The Dakota? And then what? she wondered. Her knowledge of his residence ended there, with nothing more than the general address. How am I supposed to get him inside that fortress, find his floor, let alone his rooms? she thought desperately, trying to wake him. He groaned and for a moment his eyes flickered open, a vague emptiness in the silver slits as he tried to focus on her.

“M-margo...?” She could see him fighting to maintain consciousness, then he slid away again, his body going limp.

So he truly had been drugged.

Fighting panic she leaned over him, felt for the outline of the wallet in his jacket and withdrew a slim case. With hands that shook slightly she reached up, switched the dome light on and drew the contents of the wallet out, searching for an apartment number, anything that would help her. She sifted through the nondescript, expected contents. A couple of business cards, ID, a large amount of cash...aside from his badge there was nothing else here... She stopped suddenly and held the last item up to the light.

Part 3

The photograph was still in decent shape, its faintly shabby edges incongruous with the smooth leather and immaculate polish of the man. She held the old picture for half a surprised moment, long enough to see a young woman, her face almost plain but beautiful in its happiness standing next to a young-looking Aloysius. The woman in the photo barely came up to his shoulder and they stood with their arms linked, posing together before a white vintage automobile. Both of them looked as though they were laughing at something just out of the frame at the moment the picture had been snapped, capturing them forever in a moment of transporting happiness.

Margo’s eyes flicked from the picture to his gray, harrowed face, then she carefully replaced the wallet’s contents and moved again to where he lay half-sprawled against the door, his breathing erratic. The cab slowed as she replaced the wallet inside his jacket.

“Pendergast?” She called his name again, shook him, and his eyelids flickered. “Pendergast, please. Wake up. We’re almost there.”

By some miracle Pendergast managed to rouse himself again, responding to her entreaty. He groaned and stirred as Margo paid the driver, who gave no indication of being inclined to help her.

“I hope you didn’t tip the man,” Pendergast said fussily, in a too-loud voice. “That was a dreadful...” Margo grimly hustled him out of the cab, praying his drunk demeanor would save them from earning no more than the glare the cab driver was currently giving them. He’s probably thinking of how many pine fresheners he’s going to have to add if Pendergast loses his cookies on the seat. She wrestled Pendergast onto the pavement where he promptly sat down on the curb, burying the heels of his hands in his eye sockets. The cab sped away and Margo stood up, panting lightly and looking around to get her bearings.

After taking a steadying breath she leaned over and slipped her arms beneath his to try and lift him up and away from the street. Sensing her effort, Pendergast managed to get his feet beneath him and they stood together for a moment as she caught her breath, while he clung to her for balance. “Pendergast,” she said, perspiring in the cool air, “You have to help me. I don’t know where you live.”

He lifted his head slightly as if scenting the air and she saw that his eyes were unfocused but with a faint, almost imperceptible nod of comprehension he shifted his weight against her to indicate direction and they made their way step by step toward the courtyard. Pendergast gave a small signal, waving off the doorman as he approached. The man scrutinized them, appeared to recognize Pendergast, then returned obediently to his sentry box, though not without an anxious look.

She never remembered how they made it to the elevator or the rest of the journey to his apartment, too intent on keeping him balanced and moving to pay attention to the details of their progress, as long as he remained conscious enough to direct her. Their movement was agonizingly slow, punctuated by several stops to rest, and as often as Margo could manage she rested him against a wall to take the weight from her.

It helped that she was in better physical condition than she had ever been in in her life, but even so she was fading by the time they reached his door as his weight grew heavier against her, his movements increasingly less coordinated.

They passed through a room that she barely took in, except to notice that one wall consisted entirely of black marble and... Is that a waterfall? She frowned, abruptly reminded of how thirsty she was.

He guided her steps to the kitchen and aimed not for a chair but directly for the refrigerator. Puzzled, Margo let him. She opened the massive, gleaming door, drew out the black metallic-looking case he indicated, then helped him toward the table.

As they reached it Pendergast’s legs gave way and he crashed against the table, nearly going down beneath it. Margo rescued the case and caught at him, her exhausted body taking his near dead weight as he sagged into a chair. He gestured and she opened the cold case, revealing a gleaming, clinical array of vials, syringes and other medical implements. Pendergast reached out, his slender hand bloodless as he focused, blinked, focused again.

“What is it?” she asked in a low voice

“An — antidote. Or as close as I am able to determine. Given the variety of symptoms...” The words came out in a studied slur, the look of determination and concentration on his face as he fought for consciousness and control a fierce and truly terrible, terrifying sight. Margo shivered and scanned the of vials lined in the case.

Drugged.

She couldn’t get the refrain out of her head. Who...? Why...? He drew out a vial, then drew out a second vial and held them both up with a trembling hand. “These...one dose.” Margo took the vials, filled two glass syringes with the contents of each and laid them on the table. “My arm,” he said. She helped him roll his sleeve up, swabbed it with an alcohol pad, drew the tourniquet tight and he slid the first needle home expertly and emptied its contents, followed by the second, with a skill that made the action seem almost as unconscious as he was. He leaned back in the chair with his eyes closed and bowed his head, releasing the tourniquet.

“It should ease the worst effects quickly. The rest — a matter of time.” She watched anxiously for several minutes, prepared to catch him if he lost consciousness completely and fell from the chair, as he looked to be in danger of doing. It occurred to her belatedly that she should have gotten him into a better position to manage in case he passed out, but there had hardly been time.

Margo looked around. Her gaze swept the gleaming kitchen, barely taking in any details except to note that it was immaculate. The floor would certainly have served, by any standards. He stirred again at last, drawing her attention back to him as he inhaled deeply, held the breath, then breathed out slowly. A relaxed, coherent attitude seemed to return to his posture.

“Some water,” he murmured. “Please.”

Margo found the glasses in the cabinet next to the sink, filled one with clear water from the filtered tap and brought it to him, then filled one for herself and drank deeply, feeling the sweat still cooling on her skin.

Pendergast sipped at his own water slowly, each swallow almost painfully careful and deliberate as he drank every drop. When he was finished he sighed and she took the glass from him, setting it aside on the table.

“Better?” she asked tentatively. His fair hair, normally worn so severe and neat, hung down over his face. Margo reached up without thinking and pushed it back gently.

The lowered head gave a slight nod. “Margo,” he said faintly after a pause, “I am so very sorry.”

She swallowed, vaporizing her small wisp of regret. “It wasn’t you,” she said crisply. “It’s already forgotten.”

He lifted his head and caught her eyes with his, and he smiled faintly. She froze beneath his silvery gaze. His eyes were tired, shadowed, but a core sanity had returned to them and there was even a wry, humorous glint in them.

“And thank you,” he said, lifting a handsome eyebrow, “for not taking advantage of me.” There was a deeper expression in his eyes than his words conveyed, and she read it quite clearly. He remembered every bit of her reaction to him, the desire in her and the restraint she had shown.

She blushed, not knowing what to say. “You should get to bed,” she managed awkwardly. “Sleep would do you good.”

He gazed at her for a moment longer, his expression uncomfortably discerning, then he sighed. “Yes,” he agreed, and rose slowly from the chair. “I do believe it would.” Margo caught his arm instinctively as he sagged and reached for the tabletop. He said nothing as she took first one step then another with him, his weight on her enough to tell her that he was still in need of help. His breathing seemed strained, heavy with the effort of moving.

He paused at one door and gestured briefly. Margo started to enter with him but he stopped her. “The guest bedroom. I am sorry to be such a poor host.” He continued on. “The library is down the hall. My room is just here.” He paused reluctantly, turned his head to her. “Modesty is foolishness when one is in need of help. I fear I may still need some small assistance.”

With her help he stripped out of his jacket and shoulder harness, allowing her the dexterous task of managing the buttons on his shirt. His suit pants followed, and she folded them neatly and laid them aside with the rest of his clothes. She drew back the covers on the bed and helped him to sit down.

“My night clothes are in the bureau,” he said, still sounding slightly short of breath. “Second drawer from the bottom. On the left.” Margo glanced at him and gave a small private smile.

He managed a faint, almost uncertain smile in return. “I have heard a patently ridiculous rumor,” he ventured, attempting to make his voice light, “that in come circles there is a degree of curiosity as to whether I wear boxers or briefs...?”

“Yes, there’s a pool going at the museum,” Margo replied with a studied nonchalance, watching him out of the corner of her eye as she moved to the bureau. “And for some reason Lieutenant D’Agosta started one at the precinct as well. Style, material, color...”

Pendergast blushed delicately. “Ah...indeed.” He seemed at a momentary loss, embarrassed by the revelation. “Well. I — I’m sure I don’t know quite what to say. Indeed.” He cleared his throat, tried again. “I...do hope you set your winnings aside for a good cause.”

“Oh, I won’t tell a soul,” Margo said with a quiet grin, sparing him another glance. “It’s worth far more to me to be the only one who knows.”

Pendergast looked only slightly less ill at ease. “Really,” he murmured. “I do believe that is the most frivolous and inane topic of speculation I have ever...” He broke off then sighed wearily and fixed her with his silvery gaze. “I appreciate your discretion, Margo,” he said quietly. “As you know I am a very private man.” He paused, then made another attempt to smile. “Please tell me they don’t wonder about my sheets and nightclothes as well,” he said wanly, watching as she approached with a pair of his pajamas.

Seeing the expression on his anxious, exhausted face Margo shook her head. “Of course not,” she assured him, soothing. “Now that would be silly. Hold out your arms...”

Pendergast stared at her for a moment, then obeyed. “You’re a very honest person, Margo,” he murmured as she helped him shrug into the arms of his pajama top. He drew the front closed over his chest and she once again attended to the details of the buttons with deft fingers as he watched. “It is my experience that honest people tend to make the most dreadful liars.”

Margo merely shrugged slightly and smiled, looking up into his eyes. “Fine by me.” His expression had gone contemplative upon her and Margo found herself suddenly flustered and once again very aware of their nearness, his strange stillness reminiscent of the moments before he had kissed her in the cab and told her she was beautiful. She fumbled the last of the buttons closed and stepped back, blushing at the memory in spite of herself.

“What about you, Mr. Pendergast? Are you an honest man?” she asked.

He regarded her for a moment. “Do I always tell the truth?” He paused. “I confess there are times when the truth is most inconvenient. But I do try to be an honorable man. There is a time for truth, and then there are areas of gray when perhaps the truth is not precisely what it is perceived to be.”

Margo listened, her brow furrowed lightly. “Do you ever lie to people about things to make them feel — you know, to spare their feelings?” She tried to keep the hurt from her voice, avoiding his eyes as he looked at her, his expression troubled.

“No. Never about that,” he said, softly emphatic.

Margo took a breath. “But you weren’t in your right mind, were you. Earlier. I mean, I’m rather plain... I’m not especially... pretty.” She stopped, found that he was still looking at her in that concerned way.

He cleared his throat carefully, eyes never leaving her face. “I’m afraid I was not at my best, earlier. Margo, if there is something I said to hurt you... I recall very little detail, and I cannot bear to think...”

“No. It’s nothing, really.” She shook her head, putting the memory away. Her face cleared. “It was nothing at all. Never mind.”

His gaze remained on her for a moment longer, his expression thoughtful. “Very well. Please,” he added, “Call me Aloysius.” He smiled wryly. “I am, after all, in my underwear. Hardly formal attire.”

“Oh.” Margo looked down at the pajama bottoms that she had laid aside on the bed as she helped him into the top. “Of course. I’m sorry.” She laughed a little in embarrassment and shook them out. “Do you think you can stand?”

He hesitated. “I believe I can manage that, for a moment.”

She slipped the legs over his feet and he rose carefully, remaining steady with one hand lightly on her shoulder as she drew them up to his waist. He stopped her deliberately as she moved to button them at the waist, placing his hand over hers and very gently yet firmly pressing her palm flat against his lean, hard belly. His skin was cool but she felt the heat beneath it wicking out to join with hers and she drew in a soft breath at the reaction. Everything she had been trying to dampen toward him came rushing back, in spite of everything. He tilted his head and smiled gently at her response, his fingers leaving her hand and moving up to touch her chin, trailing up the smooth curve of her jaw, his touch light and sure. She closed her eyes at the sensation as his fingers caressed her ear, slipped into her hair, felt very lucidly the moment he lowered his head to hers, and she moved to kiss him.

It was nothing like their passionate, almost rough encounter in the cab, that strange, almost nightmarish clashing of darkness and fear. Margo felt a stillness welling in her, an awareness of every fiber of her body tuning itself to his touch, responding to him. She opened her eyes and he drew back, smiling faintly. There was more color in his eyes than she ever remembered seeing before, the silver suffused with warm blue and grey, quiet shades that matched his expression, and she could see that he felt it as well.

“Margo,” he said quietly.

“Please,” she said, trembling. “Don’t say anything.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners and he grinned, teeth flashing. “All right,” he said gently, sounding amused. “I won’t.”

She snorted and regarded him, watching as the weariness descended upon him again, more insistently than before. He swayed a little, clutching her shoulder a little more tightly. Strain showed plainly in his face and smudged circles stood out beneath his eyes, clearly visible against his pale skin.

“You don’t follow any instructions, do you?” she asked mildly.

“I can be trusted to obey some instructions,” he managed to counter. “If they are reasonable, and when I’m asked nicely.”

“Hmm.” She bit her lip at his exhausted attempt to sound arch. “Very well then; sit down.” Without warning she reached up and placed two fingers against his breastbone and gave a small push, stepping out from beneath his hand as she did so. He toppled back unceremoniously into his previous sitting position on the bed, looking mildly surprised as his legs gave way beneath him. Margo shook her head slightly. Thought so. She turned the warm comforter and sheets back to the foot of the bed.

“Lay down,” she ordered quietly.

He looked momentarily nonplussed, then obeyed without a word, in the end accepting her assistance to get his long legs tucked beneath the sheets. That small effort visibly taxed him, draining his remaining reserves to their dregs.

She covered him warmly, making sure he was comfortable and he gave a weak, chagrined chuckle at her ministrations. “I’m sorry.”

Margo smiled wryly. “As much as I’d like to take advantage of you in your helpless state now, I’d prefer that you live through the night.”

Pendergast made a sound that sounded suspiciously like a snort of mirth. “You may yet live to regret your mercy,” he warned, the threat almost comical as he fought visibly to remain conscious. His eyes were already half shut.

“Oh, I do hope so.” Margo watched him for a minute, her face thoughtful, then ventured softly, “That picture — the one in your wallet. Is that your wife? The one you lost?”

“Ah.” A smile twisted at his lips then his flagging eyes slowly closed as if the weight of the question were too much for them.

She let it go after a moment, turning her head aside.

“I’ll look in on you through the night,” she said quietly, “to make sure you’re all right.”

His closed eyes tightened briefly, his brow furrowing, the expression almost one of pain as she straightened to leave, then his face relaxed again. There was a brief pause. “Thank you.”

She touched his shoulder. “Call out if there’s anything you need.”

“Margo.” He stopped her as she started to turn away, his voice faint but clear.

“Yes?”

“I was telling the truth. You are a very beautiful woman.”

Margo looked over at him again. His head rested against the pillow, the pale features composed, silver eyes still closed in the relaxed, peaceful face, and he looked wholly like himself once more.

She swallowed, then leaned over and kissed him very lightly on the forehead. “Good night, Aloysius,” she said gently, letting her hand trail from his hair.

His breathing deepened and slowed in sleep even as she reached the door. She glanced back at him, then turned out the light and drew the door softly closed behind herself.