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Author: EmilyAnn

Rating: PG

Summary: Post-Nightcrawler. Sometimes perfection and planning don’t matter.

Disclaimer: Scarecrow and Mrs. King and the characters therein are property of Shoot the Moon Production Company and Warner Brothers. However, I reserve all my rights with respect to this story, so please do not reproduce in whole or in part, in letter or in spirit, without my express permission.

Author's Note: First, many thanks to Kim, SSA, and the SMKAuthors who gave me a lot of valuable insight and advice on writing this story. Second, given that there are already SO many wonderful post-Nightcrawler stories out there, I had NEVER planned to write one of my own. However, when this story hit me, I just couldn’t ignore it. I hope y'all appreciate the angle I took.

Feedback: But of course! Please let me know what you think positive, negative, constructive either on, or off-list.

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I sit and watch her. I cannot look away. She said yes.

She is lying in a hospital bed now -- her dark hair a stark contrast to the starched white hospital-issue sheets, her eyes closed.

I know she'll be okay. The doctors assure me of that every time they come in the room; I ask them. They tell me she is only suffering from exhaustion and dehydration. She will go home tomorrow.

I brush a stray hair out of her face and gently kiss her forehead. I'm going to spend the rest of my life with this amazing woman. I can hardly wait.

Birol is in prison, Karbala disbanded. Mara is safe. Amanda will be my wife. All is right with the world.

Her dark lashes splay like feathers along her skin. She is still too pale, the circles under her eyes too dark. She has been through too much. I reach for her hand and see the faintest curve of a smile flit across her features in sleep. She said, yes.

That was not the way I'd planned for it to go, however.

I'd been doing a lot of thinking on the subject, a lot of planning. A special dinner, a bottle of champagne, and I would ask her. She would be wearing one of her amazing dresses. I would be wearing a tux. It would have been perfect.

Instead, she was in jeans and a shirt, exhausted and incoherent from days of torture. She didn't even believe I was there.

I was in a jumpsuit. I'd spent the night in a goo-covered net. We were equally helpless, equally scared, and equally grateful to be spending what might be our last moments on this planet in one anothers' arms. At that moment, I realized perfection and planning didn't matter, all that mattered was that I did not want to let another day go by unless I knew that she would be my wife.

She said yes.

There's only one problem. I don't have a ring.

I study her hand. Her long, delicate fingers fit so well between mine. She wears two rings now an opal, her birthstone; and a tiny gold circlet she told me her father gave her for her thirteenth birthday. I smile, picturing a diamond on her left hand. It will look amazing. I just don't have one yet.

"Lee?" Its Billy. I drop her hand slowly and reluctantly. Billy raises an eyebrow, but I offer no explanation. Its not necessary.

"Birol's lawyer has successfully motioned to have his case removed to the Second Circuit in New York. Shes' trying to exclude some of the evidence on Fourth Amendment grounds, and the judge has scheduled a hearing tomorrow. I need you and Francine to go up there and testify. Your flight leaves in two hours."

"Billy, I . . ."

I can't believe this, I want to tell him. I need to stay here, I hear words in my head, but they don't come. I look down at Amanda still sleeping, a clear IV slowly dripping fluid into her veins. Don't make me leave her, I want to request, and I look back up at him. I don't want spend one moment away from her side, but I can't risk anything going wrong in Birol's trial.

He must be able to see right through me, because he says, "She'll understand. You can see her when you get back."

=====//=====

"LEE!" Francine's harsh whisper interrupts my reverie, and I wonder just how long she's been trying to get my attention.

I change my focus from the passing skyscape to her. "What's with you, Stetson?" she demands.

I've known her for a long time. I can read her moods. She's worried too; she just can't admit it. I study her eyes for a moment, and briefly consider telling her the truth. I'm thinking about Amanda. The phrase flits through my brain and comes to rest in my throat. If I were to open my mouth, it would escape a secret no more. She said, yes. Amanda is going to be my wife. And I haven't even bought a ring.

Instead, I tell her, "It's been a long couple of days."

"Yeah," she agrees quietly. She doesn't look at me though. Her eyes are trained on her hands, and she appears to be studying her fingernails. It occurs to me that she was as involved in this as I was. She's been through just as much.

"You know, Francine, I never . . ."

"Don't," she cuts me off with a wave of her hand and a flash of her blue eyes. It startles me.

"Don't what?" I ask her, laying a hand on her arm.

"Don't thank me," she says, pulling away. "I don't think I could handle it if you thanked me." She returns her attention to her manicure. Could she possibly feel responsible?

"What the hell are you talking about?" I decide to connect with her on her own level--combative.

She reaches down and scratches at her ankle through her pantyhose. "I should've never let you go in there alone."

"Oh, so it's your fault Birol kidnapped Amanda? Your fault I was sloppy and didn't check for booby-traps? Your fault he found out who Nightcrawler was?" I continue to hammer into her. Her eyes grow wider, and I can see tears swimming at the edges, but I don't stop. "Drop the guilt act, Francine, it doesn't suit you."

She gives my hand a silent squeeze and offers me a complacent half-smile. Message received. I change my tone. "Francine, you risked your life by posing as Magda. You pulled off the sting even after I got caught." I return my hand to her arm, and this time she does not shrug it off. "Thank you. Thank you for helping me and Amanda."

"Amanda?" she questions. "You don't need to thank me for her." Her eyes are challenging, and I feel as though she can see straight through to my soul.

"No." I play it cool, though my heart is beating in march-time. "But I want to."

The captain announces our descent into LaGuardia, and I count my blessings as our conversation comes to a close.

=====//=====

"Mr. Stetson, can you please tell us what happened next," the federal prosecutor stands in front of me. He is young -- and earnest. Terrorism, espionage, and treason are more than most young upstarts like him ever dream of, and he's clearly living in the moment. Birol and his lawyer are at a table behind the young man and slightly to his left. Both appear to be taking copious notes. At another table, to my right, sit two other government lawyers on the prosecutors team.

"Birol came downstairs," I answer him slowly and deliberately. "I was still in the net." I swallow hard and continue. "He started to poke at me. He said I should've slit his throat when I had the chance."

"So, Mr. Stetson, you arrived at the defendant's house and found who you thought was your partner in a room upstairs?"

"Objection. Asked and answered." Birol's lawyer stands up.

"Your Honor, this is only a preliminary hearing to determine whether or not evidence gathered by Mr. Stetson and the Agency should be allowed in the trial. Surely . . ."

The judge cuts him off. "Standard rules of evidence still apply, Mr. DeMarco. Get to the point."

"Mr. Stetson," DeMarco addresses me again. "Would you classify the setup in the defendant's house as a trap?"

"Objection. The witness has no basis . . . " Birol's lawyer stands again.

"Your honor," DeMarco interrupts her growing frustrated with this turn of events. "Mr. Stetson is a government agent trained in covert operations. Surely, he can identify a trap."

"I'll allow it, but you better be going somewhere with this, Mr. DeMarco." The judge casts a bemused glance at the group.

"Yes," I answer solemnly. "It was a trap."

"Would it then be fair to say, Mr. Stetson," DeMarco appears to be in his element, "that the defendant was expecting you?"

"Objection!" Birol's lawyer stands and places both hands forcefully on the table. "Calls for speculation."

I settle back into the hard chair in the witness box. It's going to be a long afternoon.

=====//=====

"Mr. Stetson." Birol's attorney comes up to the box and leans in, deliberately invading my personal space. The top three buttons on her blouse are undone, and I can't help but wonder if she's trying to exploit her femininity to gain points with the judge. "Is the Agency in the habit of ignoring the Fourth Amendment?"

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean." I do, but I'm not going to let her get away with these half-assed questions. The judge seems to agree with me, because he warns her.

"Get to the point, Ms. Slautich."

"Before you went on this commando mission through my client's house, had you obtained a search warrant?"

"We had probable cause to believe an innocent life was in danger; there was no time to obtain a warrant."

"Did you knock, or in any other way announce your presence?" She removes her jacket and hangs it over the back of her chair as she questions me. The movement causes her breasts to strain against her blouse. In the past, I would have been intrigued. Now, I'm irritated. I miss Amanda.

"No," I answer her frankly. "We did not."

======//======

Francine testifies next; Slautich takes a similar tactic with her.

"Ms. Desmond." She offers Francine a saccharine smile, and Francine is ready.

"Yes." She returns the insincere grin. She, too, knows what it is to be a woman in a man's world, and Slautich's tactics do not get far with her.

"You've heard your colleague testify that the Agency neither obtained a warrant nor did you knock or announce your presence when entering my client's house."

Francine nods. Her eyes are fixed, icy. She's not happy to be here -- not happy to have this woman questioning her or her actions.

"Look," she starts, drumming the side of her right hand into her left palm punctuating her words. "Our primary objective was rescuing Mrs. King. We weren't in there to find information on Birol. We had enough already. We were there to rescue Mr. Stetson's partner." Her voice escalates with every sentence. Realizing that her facade has been compromised, she stops and takes a deep breath.

"Of course." Birol's lawyer smiles as she says this. Clearly, she is patronizing Francine. "Of course."

To her credit, Francine holds her tongue.

"Defense rests, Your Honor."

The judge pounded his gavel. "We will take a recess and resume in half an hour, at which point I will hear closing arguments."

=====//=====

DeMarco wipes his face with a handkerchief before standing to address the court. He is nervous. A part of me is angry with the prosecutors office for putting him through this trial by fire. However, I am familiar enough with their practices to know that they wouldn't have given him this assignment if they didn't think he could handle it.

"No." I'm caught off-guard at the negative start to his speech. "The Agency did not obtain a warrant. No." He repeats this pattern. "Lee Stetson did not knock or announce his presence. He and the Agency had more then enough probable cause to believe that a human life was in danger. They entered the residence with the sole objective of protecting that life, and the evidence was obtained secondary to that objective. Your Honor, the evidence should stand." He nods once, curtly, and takes his seat.

"Your Honor." Ms. Slautich approaches the bench and faces the judge standing her ground unflinchingly. Her jacket is back on, but her blouse is still unbuttoned. "Clearly, the Agency thinks they can operate outside normal Constitutional limits. Their only reason to believe Mrs. King was in that house was the word of a source--a source with very questionable motivation. Such tips have never been held to rise to a probable cause standard. This was vigilantism, and such behavior simply cannot be condoned by this court." She flips her hair over her shoulder before sauntering to her seat.

"Normally," the judge begins to address the court, "I would deliberate before delivering my findings. However, in this case, I find the evidence to be clear cut." I hold my breath. This can only be very good or very bad.

"You're right, Ms. Slautich." With those words, my heart stops. Surely, the judge can't be serious. Is the evidence going to be excluded? Could Birol walk free? I will myself to continue to pay attention to His Hono'rs words to listen past the sound of the blood rushing through my head.

"This court has never condoned behavior which obfuscates the meaning of the Fourth Amendment. However, we see none of that in this case. Mr. Stetson's source was historically reliable, and the Agency has established probable cause. The evidence gathered at the defendant's house in Maryland is admissible. Trial is set for three months from today. The defendant shall be held without bail at the White Rock Maximum Security Federal Mens Penitentiary. Dismissed.

I exhale, and fight the impulse to applaud. Birol's in prison, Karbala disbanded. Amanda's going to be my wife. All is still right with the world. As he stands, His Honor says one more thing. "Mr. Stetson, my chambers, please."

Francine raises an eyebrow in question, but I have no answer to give her. I shrug, and follow the judge to his office.

=====//======

"You were lucky, Mr. Stetson," Justice Brandt informs me as he removes his robe and hangs it on the hook on the back of his door. "I don’t know that every judge would see the information the same way I did."

"Yes, sir." I feel like a child called into the principal's office.

"Your colleague, Mrs. King, she's okay?" He sits behind his desk and begins to shuffle through his papers giving me only half his attention.

"She's in the hospital, but she'll be okay." I run a hand through my hair, wondering where he's going with this interview.

He slides a letter opener through the flap of an envelope. "She's a special lady, isn't she?"

"Very," I answer without hesitation. "Very."

"I thought so. You put a lot on the line for her." He smiles gently. "Get a warrant next time, son."

I nod. "Yes, sir."

=====//======

Francine pounces the minute I'm out of the judge's chambers. "What was that all about?"

"He said we should've gotten a warrant." I tell her the truth, if not the whole truth.

"Oh." She nods and then changes the subject. "Our flight doesn't leave til tomorrow morning. Do you want to get some dinner before we go back to the hotel?"

I realize that I am rather hungry. "Sure."

"Wonderful. I know a fabulous little French place right on Fifth Avenue, and the maitre'd owes me a favor." She breezes out the courtroom door. I cant help the slight chuckle that escapes. Francine is back to her old self.

=====//=====

I push back from the table and sigh deeply. The dinner was wonderful. Raising my hand, I signal the maitred. With unswerving efficiency, he immediately returns with the bill. Before I can reach for it, Francine has it in her hand.

"You were my guest, Stetson, this one's on me. I'll get most of it back in per diem anyway." She slides her credit card into the folder and returns it to the garcon.

"Thanks." I smile. It's good to be out with Francine.

She must be thinking along the same lines, because she says, "It's still early; would you like to stop off for a nightcap?"

Much as I enjoy her company, however, tonight I have other things in mind. "No, I think I'll go for a walk."

She shrugs. "Suit yourself."

=====//====

Tiffany & Co. I saw it on the way to the restaurant, and I knew immediately that I would find what I needed there. Now I stand in front of the door -- paralyzed. I swallow hard and reach for the door handle.

May I help you? A solicitous young woman approaches me as soon as I step inside.

"I need a ring." I hear myself say that words before I can think them. "An engagement ring," I amend.

"Of course, Mr. . . Mr. . . " She prompts.

"Stetson," I respond.

"Of course, Mr. Stetson." She smiles genially. "Why don't you come this way?" She holds an arm out, directing me toward a counter in the back. I follow.

"What did you have in mind?"

"Classic," I say, thinking of Amanda. "Elegant but simple. A diamond. It has to be a diamond."

"Gold or platinum band?" She runs her eyes up and down appraisingly, as though determining how much money I can spend.

I answer without hesitation. "Gold."

The saleslady unhooks a key ring from her belt, and begins to open one of the glass display cases. I exhale, in awe of the display of diamonds beneath -- row upon row of glistening, prismatic gems.

She pulls out one ring, and hands it to me for inspection. I study it turning it under the lamp. Its nice, but not quite what I had in mind. "I'm not sure. Can I see that one?"

I point to another ring under the glass.

"Of course, sir." She takes the other ring from my outstretched hand, and replaces it with the one I just indicated.

This is the one. I can tell the minute I take it. Classic, beautiful, simple, elegant Amanda.

"Mr. Stetson, sir?" I realize the saleslady is trying to get my attention.

"Yes, this is it. Can you wrap it for me?" I hand the ring back to her.

"Of course." She smiles, and then adds. "That look you had on your face just now -- I hope a man has that look for me sometime. She must be a very special lady."

"Yes, she is -- the most."

=====//=====

The blue and white gift box weighs next to nothing. It is in my carry-on bag, and it's all I can do to keep from checking every thirty seconds to keep from showing it to Francine. It's perfect--beautiful, simple, classic. Amanda. I can't wait to give it to her.

She said, yes. Amanda is going to be my wife. And I have a ring.

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