A/N: I love Haven. It is my favorite show of all time and since the moment I discovered it (devouring the first three seasons on Netflix just as the fourth season was airing), I have wanted to write a fanfiction for it. Only, Haven is a remarkably cohesive, very intricate narrative that means changing one thing for a harmless little fic would make everything else that happens afterward come tumbling down. So for a long time, I was afraid to even try. But after watching it for the seventh or eighth time, I thought of something I could do. Make one change to one point in the timeline of Haven and follow the ramifications all the way through. It's actually a pretty redundant AU because I'm only writing it to savor the show I love, which means I follow the general guideline of the show, but I change things here and there and add things to try to make it interesting and fresh. It's definitely a Naudrey story, but I love Duke, too, so I try to keep him as integral to my story as he is to the show. Anyway, this is an insanely long author's note, but I hope some of you are still reading Haven fanfiction and enjoy this story that I'm really writing because I want to read it myself! :) There should be six parts to it (maybe seven if I can do a post-show part) and each part will follow a season.

Disclaimer: I take a lot of stuff from the show-I do try not to go word for word concerning the dialogue, but a lot of the background episode concepts are not mine at all. No copyright infringement is intended. I just love Haven too much not to play around with it.

She comes into town expecting lobster menus, the smell of fish, and small town cops doing their best to pretend they're not intimidated by stronger jurisdiction and a bigger badge than theirs. What she gets is a chasm opening up in the road in front of her, a dizzying moment when the sky and the sea (very, very far below her, but she does her best to shrug that off) merge into one, and an abrupt stop that feels more like a pause than an end. Death isn't something she particularly fears, but she doesn't exactly care for it either—only, badge and jurisdiction notwithstanding, she's not quite sure how she's going to get herself out of this predicament.

The man (in a sweater that looks as if it's decades old and with eyes bluer than the sea foaming beneath her) who knocks at her window and walks away at her sarcastic reply doesn't look anything at all like an answer to her prayers, but his hands are strong and sure when he unexpectedly yanks her out of the car and he doesn't shake with adrenaline or exclaim at their close call as they stand side by side to watch her car crash into sparks and debris against the cliff sides.

"Shame about the car," is all he says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. As if this sort of thing happens constantly and rescuing newcomers to town is a daily occurrence.

"Eh, it was a rental," she replies, and can't help but smile when he only nods thoughtfully. Silence seems to be something he's comfortable with, far more so than she is, so she doesn't wait for him to say anything more, just asks, "So, are earthquakes common in Maine?"

"Sandstone roads," he explains, the explanation as sparse as his smiles (assuming he can smile, which Audrey isn't sure about just yet).

"Uh-huh." She feels a laugh bubbling up inside her, but she can't quite explain why so she nods instead and finds something else to say. "And any chance I might get a ride into town?"

He studies her, his expression closed off. Not guarded or wary, just blank. Reserved, as if he's not sure what to make of her but is willing to wait until he knows more before he makes a final decision. "Could be," he says.

Now she does laugh. "I see I'll have to brush up on my monosyllabic while I'm here. Do you have a name?"

"Yep," he drawls, and his expression hasn't changed, but she would swear there's the hint of a twinkle in his eye (she's suddenly sure that he can smile, and even laugh, if approached in the right way).

"And?" she prompts him, delighted with this reaction.

"Don't know," he says. "I'm not sure it's a good idea to give my name out to a strange woman carrying a gun."

Her hand covers her gun instinctively, the weight of it solid and reassuring despite the layer of her coat between. With her hand on her weapon, she reassesses the man in front of her. A small town yokel for sure, with that sweater and the heavy boots and the hardy bag slung over his shoulder, not to mention the blue Bronco parked at a precarious angle off the road, but there's something more there than seems apparent. He's pulled her out of a teetering car, met her sarcasm with hidden humor of his own, and spotted her piece—all in under five minutes. That's enough to capture her attention even without the sharp cheekbones, sea-blue eyes, and quiet reserve (though, she thinks, those certainly don't hurt his case at all).

"Fed?" he asks, and she blinks at him.

"What, am I wearing a sign that gives it away?" she asks sardonically, and is startled to see the corner of his mouth twitch up.

"I sure hope so," he says. "Speaking of, mind if I have a look at that badge?"

"Why?" she challenges him. But he only looks at her, not moving a single step toward his vehicle (in so much better condition than her own), so she sighs, rolls her eyes, and pulls out her badge to flash at him.

"Audrey Parker," he reads before giving her a small smile. "Welcome to Haven, Parker."

"Lovely place you have here," she retorts. She starts moving to the Bronco then, hoping he'll get the hint and follow her. He does, falling into step behind her as easily as if they've done it a dozen times before, though she notices that he keeps a few feet of distance between them (and he keeps his hands in his pockets, has since she told him her car was a rental, and she wonders what he's hiding or if he's afraid of something, afraid of her).

"It's unique." He steps around in front of her and opens the passenger side door, waiting for her to slide in. She's a bit taken aback by the gesture (it's as outdated as this tiny town hidden between the rugged ocean and the verdant forest), but it fits this man (his odd mingling of old-fashioned gestures and astute observations, backwards way of talking and timely appearance), so she murmurs a thank you and climbs up into the truck.

"So," she says before he can shut the door between them. She meets his gaze, wonders why he seems reluctant to hold it, and asks, "What's your name? Are you a cop or something?"

He lets out a sound she thinks is supposed to be a laugh but instead sounds like a bitter scoff. "No," he says, gesturing to a belt devoid of badge or piece. "Not a cop. Name's Nathan Wuornos. I'm a reporter for the Haven Herald."

"Ah." Audrey looks at the bag slung over his shoulder and realizes it's a camera case; a pen and the top of a notebook peek out over the edge of a side pocket. "Is there a story out this way?"

"Just came from one." He starts to shut the door and she moves to help him. The last thing she means to do is shut the door on his hand, but the door moves more easily than she expected and his hand is in just the wrong place.

"Oh!" she yelps, eyes flying to his face. He looks disconcerted and holds his hand slightly away from his body, but she's seen people in pain before (has watched them bleed out on the ground, has seen them fall from bullets she's aimed their way, has felt pain herself and fought to stay afloat above the rising swells of white-hot pain) and he's not displaying any of the symptoms. "I'm so sorry!"

"It's okay," he tells her, as if she's the one who's been hurt and needs comforting. But he doesn't meet her eyes, and the quirk of a smile at the corners of his mouth, the twinkle in his eyes, they're all gone, replaced by quiet watchfulness, practiced blankness. "I didn't feel it."

"Oh. Tough guy, huh?" she asks, but he's already walked away, rounding the Bronco to get to the driver's side, and Audrey can only watch him in puzzlement.

He says nothing as he gets in and starts up the engine, or as he pulls back onto the road and leaves behind her car (not the right procedure for leaving the scene of an accident, she knows, but she doesn't care about the car, doesn't dare risk losing her ride into town, and doesn't want to waste any time in finding Jonas Lester before he can hurt anyone else). It's up to her to break the silence, a task she takes on with ease.

"What story did you just come from," she asks, "and don't you want to know where I want to go?"

"Assumed you'd want to head for the police station, seeing as how I'm fairly sure FBI agents don't come to Haven just for our moose farm." He doesn't quite smile, not even the tiny hint he gave of one before, but the stiffness of his expression eases ever so slightly, which, Audrey is beginning to think, is almost as good as a smile from this taciturn and confusing man.

"Good thinking." Her own smile is much more blatant than his. "I need to find a man named Jonas Lester."

Nathan lets out a snort and pulls the Bronco to a stop.

"What?" Audrey looks all about, irritated, suddenly afraid he's going to make her get out and walk from here. "What's wrong? Not a friend of yours, I hope?"

"Definitely not," he asserts. "But we might as well turn around. The story I just came from was that of Lester's death. He fell off a cliff last night."

Audrey catches his eye and grins at him. "Well then, sounds like I got here just in time. To the crime scene it is."

The crime scene is much less surprising than her entrance into town. There's a police chief who blusters with the best of them but, unsurprisingly, lets her do what she wants. There's a horde of small town cops who watch her with narrowed eyes and suspicious aloofness. There's a fair share of derision at her theories, rolled eyes when she insists they do their job correctly, and she even gets told where's the best place in town to try lobster, which neatly delivers all of her original expectations, wrapped up and handed to her so easily and openly the only thing it's missing is a big red bow.

All of her expectations fulfilled in one fell swoop, but not quite. Because what she didn't expect is the fact that Nathan stays and waits for her a healthy distance from the crime scene, or the odd method of Lester's death, or the way the chief impatiently leaves her to her work and makes his way to the distant Bronco to confer with Nathan, who stands beside his vehicle unmoving, seemingly silent. Audrey watches the confrontation out of the corner of her eye as she walks the crime scene looking for anything else that might have been missed along with the piece of paper in Lester's pocket. The police chief is adamant, waving his hands and chewing his Nicotine gum almost violently, while Nathan appears unaffected, like the chiseled cliffs around her, standing straight and worn and alone despite the wind chafing their stone sides and the sea frothing along their foundations.

Audrey shakes the odd thought off, finishes her perusal of the crime scene, and blithely goes to interrupt whatever showdown is happening between Nathan and the local law enforcement. They clam up as soon as they see her coming—or, well, the chief does. Nathan just watches her come, silent and still (waiting for something to come, something he's already sure will happen, only she can't quite make out what that something is).

"Well?" the chief demands of her, bottled frustration evident in every line of his stolid body. "Satisfied now?"

"Not unless there was a cannon up on that cliff to justify how far away from it our fugitive landed," she retorts. "I expect to hear back from you when you know anything more about that extra piece of evidence."

"Of course you do." The chief draws himself up, icy eyes even colder beneath wild white brows set in a craggy, weathered face. "The best thing Lester ever did for this town was die, but you won't let it be, will you? You—"

"Hey," Nathan says, unexpectedly jumping in. Both Audrey and the chief turn to face him in surprise. "Might as well check it out, right?

"Oh, sure, sure!" The chief seems to swell, his indignation filling him up so that Audrey thinks he might explode right in front of her. "Why not? Not like we have anything better to do! Not like there's not more important things for an FBI agent to do than wander around our town as if it's tourist season! Go ahead, waste our time! Stick around if you want—we all know I can't stop you!" And with that, he throws his hands up in the air and stomps off.

"Wow," Audrey says into the silence he leaves behind. "Melodramatic much?"

"It did seem a bit much, even for him," Nathan agrees, his expression contemplative as he looks in the direction the chief went.

"You know him well?"

Nathan looks back to her and that almost-smile is back. "In a manner of speaking. His name's Garland Wuornos."

Audrey's eyes widen and she all but gapes up at him. Even squinting, she can't see any similarities between the men. One is all stocky edges and errant frustration, all set to explode, random bits of energy and passion leaking out of him in gusts and spurts he can't quite contain; the other is narrow lines and sharp points, quiet and guarded, and maybe there is passion and wildness to him, but it's locked away, tamped down so tightly Audrey thinks that maybe it would take years she doesn't have and stresses she can't quite imagine to bring it boiling outward.

"He's your father?" she asks, but saying it aloud doesn't make it seem any more believable.

Nathan's smile vanishes once more, and his eyes turn smaller, harder, as if he squints without even trying, drawing in on himself. "He is, though I doubt he'd appreciate the reminder. Come on, I'll take you to the top of the cliff so we can look for that cannon of yours."

"Nathan Wuornos," Audrey says admiringly, "I like the way you think."

She counts it as a personal victory when he actually chuckles in response.

The top of the cliff is a treasure trove. Nathan finds a hat, Audrey finds a gun, and both lead her to interesting places. The hat leads her to a man almost as quiet and restrained as Nathan, but his stresses have already been endured and he ends up throwing her across the street with nothing more than (she thinks, though it seems impossible) his mind before disappearing in a fog that comes up out of nowhere. The gun, on the other hand, leads her to a dock in the middle of a hail storm, which lands her unconscious in the ocean only to wake up aboard a ship that looks to have seen better days.

Duke Crocker isn't anything like she thought he'd be from Nathan's scornful snort at the mention of his name and the biting things the reporter'd had to say about him. He's definitely a smuggler, Audrey thinks, but a cultured one if the foreign newspaper he's reading is any indication, and he makes a mean cup of coffee, doesn't do bad laundry, and the fact that he saved her life on top of all that leaves her inclined to be lenient in her judgment of him. That he amuses her while still retaining his slight edge of danger is icing on the cake.

Still, Conrad is the one who can maybe possibly move things with his mind, the one who holds an attachment to Marion Caldwell, whose moods can theoretically call up mist or hail or lightning, and he's the one with the motive for killing Lester. All of which means Duke is an interesting acquaintance, but he's not a suspect.

"I saw the paper you pulled from Lester's pocket," Nathan tells her, leaning against the door of his Bronco, hands in his pockets. She's known him for only a day, but he's stood in this pose so many times already that she thinks she'll be able to remember it clearly for years to come, no matter how many cases she solves or states she visits in between.

"Really," she says flatly, striding up the pier to meet him. "And how did you manage that?" She can feel Duke's eyes on her back, but he doesn't follow her and Nathan seems determined to pretend he doesn't exist. Audrey's grateful Nathan had thought to give her his number, even more grateful he came to pick her up without asking too many questions, but she suddenly wishes for a taxi cab or a Bureau car instead. Clearly, there's quite a bit of history behind the animosity between Nathan and Duke, and at the moment, she's feeling too tired and too much in need of a shower to deal with it all.

Nathan shrugs and opens the passenger side door for her again. "My employers have contacts everywhere."

"Your employers?" she asks, just because that seems the easiest question to answer. Small towns are weird. She'd known that already, but Haven is reinforcing that assumption in so many different ways.

"The owners of the Herald," Nathan says impatiently. "Vince and Dave Teagues. Anyway, the paper matches the ripped chart on Duke's boat. I saw it when you dragged me there yesterday—he had a chart that was missing its edge. I'll bet you it's a direct match."

"I don't know." Audrey frowns. "You saw what Conrad did. Lester wasn't killed by a gun—and besides, Duke said his gun was stolen and he filed a report on it. I'll check to be sure, but I believe him. More, he's got an alibi for the night Lester was killed. Conrad, on the other hand, lied about his."

"Maybe Duke didn't kill Lester," Nathan says (a bit reluctantly, Audrey thinks), "but that doesn't mean he wasn't hired to get Lester out of country after Lester and whoever his accomplice is finished their con. Lester came looking for money, and he had to have some idea of where to get it."

"I know where," Audrey says, and she's so satisfied by the feeling of missing pieces clicking into place that she doesn't even notice how easy it is to discuss an ongoing investigation with a journalist who really has no business interfering in police matters.

Agent Howard says she needs to think more logically to excel with the FBI, but Audrey's never solved cases by being logical. She relies on instinct, intuition, imagination, and more guesswork than any police force will ever be entirely comfortable with. It's not textbook, not Quantico-approved, but it solves her cases and gets her out of sticky predicaments alive. It's what lets her jump to the impossible conclusion that Marion Caldwell can control the weather and what helps her talk the distraught woman down.

Of course, it's not quite as easy as figuring it out and then talking it out. Ted has a gun, and Audrey's so intent on Marion's grief and the fluctuating hurricane whipping all around her that she doesn't realize Nathan has followed her out of the truck and decided to stop Ted on his own. She does hear the gunshot, but by the time she spins around, all she sees is Nathan running and tackling Ted to the ground. She feels a brief spurt of worry, feels tension thread through her body until she's ready to run and jump at Ted herself, but then Nathan's sitting up and he's holding Ted's hands behind his back, and the tension drains out of her, leaving her limp and relieved.

She tosses Nathan her pair of handcuffs and turns back to Marion, who dissolves into tears over a blue ribbon and falls into Audrey's opened arms. Truthfully, despite the sympathy she offers, Audrey's relieved and exhilarated at the way this case has turned out. For the first time, she isn't left incandescent with rage and horror at finding a killer; instead, she's suffused with sadness and empathy and, all right, yes, maybe the tiniest bit of hopelessness. After all, Marion has no idea what she's been doing, and her loneliness, her need to find something more, some purpose, is something Audrey can identify with. But a jail cell won't fix or contain this problem, and short of killing Marion, Audrey doesn't quite know what to do.

"Conrad will be beside himself," Nathan says quietly as they stand over Ted and wait for the police to arrive. Marion sits in the backseat of the Bronco, silent and drained and quiescent. "He's always loved Marion, I think. He's good for her, too."

Audrey is awake all at once, straightening and smiling up at him. "Nathan, you're brilliant!" She means to explain her plan, to exalt in the idea of a happy ending all around for Conrad and Marion and the town of Haven, but that's when she sees it.

Blood.

It's all over his arm, dull and brick-red against the brown of his shirt, coating his sleeve to his skin so that she almost can't see the wound near his shoulder where the bullet from that one explosive gunshot grazed him.

"Nathan!" she exclaims, her hands outraised to catch him when the shock inevitably wears off enough for him to tilt forward and collapse.

But he only looks at her, confused, a line in his brow and a question in his eyes. Just like before, there's no sign of pain anywhere in his expression. He has both of his hands stuffed into pockets, as if his arm doesn't bother him at all. As if the bullet wound is nothing more than an annoyance.

"What is it?" he asks.

"You're…you're bleeding," she says, which is probably a stupid thing to say, but it's the sort of thing that doesn't usually need to be said out loud, so she feels somewhat justified.

"Oh." He looks down at his own arm, twisting his shoulder to make it easier for him to see. "It looks like just a graze," he says after a moment. "Should be fine."

"Fine?!" Audrey has her mouth hanging open, ready to repeat more of his vague words in the hope that hearing someone else say them will make him realize how ridiculous they sound, but she doesn't get them out. She just stares at him, because this town is strange (stranger than most, maybe than any), and because if Marion can control the weather, then who's to say other people can't do other things. And because Nathan is watching her with that blank, waiting expression, the one that makes it seem as if he's just counting down the seconds until…until…well, she isn't sure what yet. Until she does whatever it is he's so sure she will do.

She closes her mouth, gives a short shake of her head, then squints up at him. The rain has faded, thankfully, vanishing in the lightning's wake, but there's still a heavy moisture to the air, tiny pinpricks of water that give the air substance and weight. "You really can't feel it?" she asks.

Nathan tilts his head, as if to study her from a different angle. "No."

"Can you feel…anything?" And even though she asks the question, she really doesn't expect the answer he gives her.

"Nope." He shrugs (his wounded shoulder rising and falling just a bit out of tandem with the other).

"Is that…was there an accident?"

"No," he says yet again. She thinks he can sense her growing aggravation because he adds, "It's called idiopathic neuropathy."

She tucks the diagnosis away in her mind to look up later. "Can you feel pressure?" she demands, and raises her hand toward him as if to test it out then and there.

His tiny flinch away from her freezes her. "No."

The moisture in the air turns heavier, colder, in her mouth as she breathes in, swallows, tries to find something to say to pretend to them both that neither noticed the flinch (because if he can't feel anything, then why does he need to be afraid of touch?). "Can you feel fire?" she asks.

He lets out a tiny sigh. "No."

"Can you feel ice?"

"Yes, oddly, I can feel ice," he says, and Audrey's breath whooshes out of her.

"You can feel ice?" she gasps.

There is a definite smile peeking out along the contours of his mouth. On anyone else, she wouldn't notice it, but on him, it's better than the chuckle she provoked earlier. "No," he admits, "but I can feel a headache coming on."

Her next question (about headaches and sicknesses and whether he knows when he's sick if he can feel headaches) goes unspoken thanks to the sound of sirens nearing and the sight of red and blue flashing through the ponderous air.

"Saved by the sirens," Nathan mutters, but she's sure he purposely said it loud enough for her to hear.

"That's all right." She grins and nudges his good side with her shoulder. "I know how to bide my time."

She thinks he chuckles again but if so, the deafening sirens drown it out before the squad car and ambulance pull to a stop behind his Bronco and the sound shuts off. The red and blue still make rainbows in the damp air as the doors open and emergency response personnel spill out into the riven meadow where Marion confronted Ted. Nathan shrinks in on himself, huddled up against his truck ("Had it since I was nineteen," he told her when driving her away from Duke's, and she teased him for that until he retorted that at least he didn't drive his vehicles off of cliffs), and Audrey can't help but frown when she realizes that he has a way of making himself almost invisible around others.

In fact, the uniforms who come to meet her by Ted don't even glance Nathan's way, just take Ted from her, nod at her concise (very, very edited) report, and start containing the scene, taking away Ted's gun in an evidence bag.

"Marion's fine," Audrey says, irritated when the EMTs keep trying to get past her to the Bronco, where Marion's sitting with her head in her hands, clearly not interested in emerging from her temporary refuge to ride back into town in the ambulance. "She was just…she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. But Nathan's hurt. He's been shot."

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Nathan give her a sharp glare, though surely he didn't really think all that blood on his arm could be ignored. It's a gunshot wound, a shot fired at a civilian by a man evading arrest by a federal officer. More than that, it's a gunshot wound and he's bleeding all over the place. Even without him being able to feel it, Audrey is a bit surprised he hasn't keeled over from shock and blood loss yet.

The EMTs stare at her blankly for a long moment during which Audrey glares at them. They know their job—Nathan's three steps away from her, from them, and even in the twilight air, it's not that hard to see the blood, smeared against his neck now from all the times he's shrugged.

"It's all right, Parker," Nathan says, almost hastily. "I'm fine."

"Right." The EMTs nod and turn back to the ambulance.

Audrey feels a sudden sharp surge of anger, so strong it can't be diluted even by her confusion. Blowing out a huff, she stalks around and cuts the EMTs off. "What are you doing? He's been shot! He needs medical care!"

"Parker!" Nathan's voice, sharp and urgent, only makes her angrier, and she plants her hands on her hips while she glares at the EMTs.

"I don't know what's going on or why you're ignoring an injury, but I do know that there's a GSW behind you and whether he can feel it or not, it's something that needs to be documented—proof that will be necessary in a court of law. So whatever it is you're avoiding or point you're trying to prove, you get over it and you help that man, you understand me?"

Sullen glances, mutters hidden under their breath and beneath the wet air, but Audrey doesn't care because they turn (reluctantly, but still) and make their way to a hunched and motionless Nathan. He doesn't meet Audrey's eyes, doesn't attempt to explain what happened, just stands there, leaning against his truck, and stares straight ahead. There's a curious blankness covering his features like a mask (and it's not the absence of pain, she thinks, but more like numbness cloaking pain too great to give into), and for a moment, she wonders if she did the right thing. Only a moment, though. Maybe she'll never be as logical or deductive as the Bureau wants her to be, but if there's one thing she does know, it's that the proper evidence documented at the right time solves a lot more cases than daring heroics or waving guns.

Still, it's a very long period of time that Nathan's surrounded by the EMTs. She watches him out of the corner of her eye, even while supervising the crime scene being set up, and notices immediately when he's ushered to the back of the ambulance. But whether it's due to the EMTs' curious lack of care for Nathan or Nathan's own powers of persuasion (which would be interesting to see from this man of few words), it's apparently decided that he doesn't need to ride to the hospital. The minute he climbs out of the ambulance (moving slowly, jerkily, a bandage on his shoulder, a sling on his arm, his sleeve pushed aside and his jacket clutched in his good hand), Audrey heads over to him.

"How is it?" she asks without preamble. "Any loss of mobility?"

He doesn't meet her eyes. "Just a graze," he says shortly, and brushes past her, headed to the Bronco.

"So it's going to be okay?" she presses, keeping step with him.

"Of course." He scoffs and finally grants her a look, albeit a short, hurried one. "I told you, nothing to worry about."

"Oh, really." Audrey comes to a halt at the same time as he does, only she makes sure she's a step too near him, preventing him from opening the driver side door and clambering in, cutting their conversation short. "So do the EMTs always refuse to acknowledge you, or is this just a special occasion?"

His shoulders round a bit, counteracting some bit of his height and leaving him stooped and small. He looks almost frail, and Audrey frowns because it's not a look that suits him. He's silent for a long moment; it's hard, but Audrey outwaits him. Finally, he lets out his air in a small sigh and leans back against the truck (his good hand is in his pocket again, she notes, and wonders why the sight already seems as familiar to her as Howard's stern features). "Not just the EMTs," he admits.

"What is that supposed to mean?" she presses, and if it sounds more like a demand than a question, she can't help it. Small towns are weird, granted, but to the point of ignoring a man just because he can't feel? How does that even make sense?

Nathan turns his head and studies her, curiously, as if she's an oddity he can't quite figure out (and she's come to know that feeling pretty intimately in the last two days). "A man who can't feel anything," he says quietly. Neutrally. As if it doesn't affect him, doesn't hurt him. Doesn't touch him. "That doesn't seem like a curse to you?"

"It seems like a burden," she says, nodding, "one that shouldn't have to be carried alone." She sounds like Sam talking to Frodo, she realizes, and almost chuckles over it. But Agent Howard never seemed too amused by her obscure references and odd sense of humor, so she shrugs it off and goes back to peering at Nathan through the almost-fog and blank mask between them.

"Well," Nathan looks almost taken aback. "That's not how most see it."

She opens her mouth to say more, to ask more questions (to wonder incredulously how a medical staff—or is it really the whole town?—can be so blind as to think that if something doesn't hurt, it doesn't matter), but Nathan is already sliding agilely between her and his door, opening it, lifting a foot to climb in.

"Ready to go?" he asks. "Big case to wrap up."

Audrey pauses, but grudgingly gives in. "Yeah," she says. "Though who knows how I'm going to explain any of it in my report. Agent Howard's never going to take me seriously again if I try to tell the truth."

"A woman controlling the weather doesn't happen often in your important FBI cases?" Nathan asks, and Audrey has to do a double-take to see the glint of humor in his eyes as he waits for her to get in the truck.

Audrey glances in the back to see how Marion takes Nathan's comment, but the woman is asleep, her head leaning against the window, her eyes closed, mouth slack. Her hands are curled up into loose fists in her lap, innocent and harmless-looking, as if there isn't still electricity crackling in the air and rain hanging like fog between trees because of her anger and betrayed hurt.

"No," she answers Nathan. "I never get interesting cases like that. Maybe Haven has something to offer after all."

"Maybe so," Nathan says, almost contemplatively. Then he turns and quirks a brow at her. "You coming or what?"

"Yeah, yeah." She laughs and hurries around the truck (and it shouldn't feel odd after just two days to open her own car door, but it kind of does).

"Do you want to stop for pancakes on our way?"

Audrey glances askance at Nathan, glad to put the crime scene (such as it is) behind them and move on. "Pancakes? What about lobster? I've heard there's a place in town that serves the best lobster in Maine."

"Maybe," he says noncommittally. "But I don't like lobster. I really like pancakes."

Her laugh comes unexpectedly, and she can see her reflection grinning at her from the window, marred by trees lining the road. "All right," she agrees. "Pancakes it is."

Nathan's smile is small and unpracticed, but just enough to make her look forward to having breakfast for dinner.

Paperwork is as annoying in Haven as it is in Boston and Chief Wuornos seems to delight in hovering behind her, casting a cloud of gloom and doom as easily discernible as any of Marion's, as if he's upset with her for solving his case for him. Lester's dead, Conrad's agreed to keep Marion calm, Ted's in prison with a heaping pile of evidence and witness statements to keep him there for a while, and altogether, it seems like a happy ending.

If, that is, she can ignore the fact that in most towns—small or large—controlling the weather isn't something that's possible. And where there's one exception, there could be more.

But still. Lester's dead, and there's no more reason for her to be here. Agent Howard will be wanting her back in Boston with her (very routine, very dull, very fictional) report in hand. It's a long drive back in her new rental (silver instead of red this time, so maybe it'll bring her better luck), and if she wants to get there before nightfall, she should be leaving soon, but she makes time for one last stop. Well, one stop and a short but mesmerizing conversation with Duke, who's conveniently walking past the police station when she emerges. He flashes her his (trademark, she's sure) grin, hands her a coffee cup ("It'd still be pretty cool if I could guess how you like your coffee," he says, but he hasn't), and asks if he's sure he can't convince her to stay in town long enough to try dinner. "With you?" she asks, and maybe she's flirting a bit, but tall, dark, and mysterious has always been her thing, and she's leaving town anyway so a bit of harmless flirtation can't get her into too much trouble.

"Of course with me!" Duke exclaims, scandalized and offended and laughing at her through dark, glittering eyes. "Only the best for the only cop I like! You should feel honored, actually."

"I'll try," she retorts. "Thanks for the coffee—and for the help. Have you ever helped solve a crime before?"

"Uh, that would be a no." He shrugs, much too innocent-looking for his own good. Any federal officer worth her salt knows that someone who looks that innocent is trying too hard. "I have helped cover a couple up, though."

Audrey tries to resist but laughs anyway. "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that. Maybe Nathan was right about you after all."

"Nathan Wuornos? Right?" Duke's grin doesn't waver at all, but there is something serious, something almost grim, in his expression, as if now, after all their repartee, he is trying too hard. "That would be a miracle in and of itself. I'm sure, being the astute investigator that you are, you've noticed he doesn't exactly have a lot of fans."

"Yeah." She straightens, clutches her Styrofoam cup a bit tighter in her hand. Her other hand is tucked into her back pocket, her wrist brushing her gun. "Why is that?"

Duke examines her a long moment, and for the first time since she's woken up in his bed and found him reading a paper in the shadow of her drying clothes, he is completely serious. "I don't ask questions, and maybe you shouldn't either. Suffice it to say that Pinocchio isn't exactly a real boy and that has led to quite a few key figures around here being disappointed with him."

"Really," she says flatly. Audrey doesn't like this, not one little bit, and if this wasn't a small town, if she didn't already have her rental and her goodbye present sitting in the front seat, she might even consider staying a bit longer and trying to get to the bottom of this. "That's it? That's the story? He has a medical condition so he's suddenly a social leper?"

"Huh." Duke peers at her, prowls around her a bit to study her from a different angle, oblivious to her narrowed eyes. "You didn't look up that supposed medical condition, did you?"

"No," she replies guardedly. "Why?"

"Might be interesting reading." Duke shakes himself. She can see the serious mien falling at his feet like shattered pottery, leaving behind the mask beneath, all grins and innuendo and smooth charm. "But why read when you could be having dinner? With me?"

"Sorry," she says, but the flirtation is gone. "I've got to be heading out."

"Well, Agent Audrey Parker, it was a pleasure while you were here." He tips an imaginary hat to her, points to her coffee as if to remind her that she holds it in her hand (and it's too sweet, but the gesture was a good one, plus it's free, so she definitely plans on drinking it), and then he saunters away, whistling a merry tune to himself, his tattered, salt-stained clothing seemingly stolen from some other era yet a perfect blend with the town surrounding him.

Audrey looks after him before shrugging off the uneasiness his remarks left and sliding into her car. She still has another stop to make before she can put Haven in her rearview mirror.

The Haven Herald is based in a small yellow building down a nondescript street that's pretty much identical to every other street in Haven. If it weren't for the blue Bronco parked halfway down the street from the corner building with the words 'Haven Herald' painted on it, she might have missed the place altogether.

Audrey scoops up the goodbye gift she picked up at the gift shop across from the police station, heads up the wooden ramp, pulls open the door with its swaying blinds, and enters a cozy room. Not exactly what she expected. The walls are plastered with newspaper articles, black and white pictures, post-it notes, and bulletins; two desks placed back to back beyond a waist-high gate to her left are overflowing with papers that only begrudgingly make room for small laptops; and just in front of the door, behind a clean counter that seems something like an oasis amidst the rest of the clutter, there's another smaller desk. It's neat and organized, the laptop front and center, the cup of pens and wooden box holding memos and mail set in such a way as to balance out the effect. Audrey isn't surprised at all to see Nathan sitting at this desk, his camera bag at his feet, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand.

He looks innocent and unworried, not at all like a man ostracized by an entire town. But then, he hadn't looked like a man who was shot either.

"I brought you some flowers," she says out loud.

Nathan doesn't look away from his computer screen. "I know," he says with a conspicuous sniff. "Lilies and lilacs."

"Very impressive." Audrey sets the vase on the counter with a thump, and feels gratified when he finally looks up at her. His right arm is still in a sling, but he looks well. He looks safe, and something in Audrey's chest eases a bit. She doesn't work with a partner for a reason, and she hates that he was hurt at all for helping her, but it's comforting to know that he'll be okay (she pointedly ignores the little voice asking how okay he can be when he's ignored by everyone in town). "That does not, however, negate the fact that you are a very odd man."

Nathan's smile isn't humorous at all this time, and Audrey wishes she'd said something else. Anything else. But he stands and walks up to the counter, leans against it to examine her flowers. "So. Leaving, are you?"

It's impossible to say, from his tone, whether he wants her to go or hopes she will stay.

"Always another case," she says with a shrug. She's a bit puzzled as to why she can't think of much to say. This is the easy part, after all, the part where she thanks the locals for their help (sincerely this time, but usually sarcastically and with an inward roll of her eyes) and heads out of town, on to bigger and better things. But for some reason, she feels almost…reluctant…to leave. Very strange. Of course, she probably won't be able to find anything nearly as exciting anywhere else as what Haven has offered her in her few days here.

"Well…" Nathan pauses, and for the first time, rather than keeping his silence, he seems to be at a loss for words. Audrey would have teased him about it, but she can't seem to find any words herself.

Fortunately for them both (and her dignity), they're interrupted by the door opening behind her. Audrey steps back a bit to give the two men room to enter. One's tall and broad with an overabundance of hair, the other short and slight and balding. There couldn't be two men more dissimilar, but they move in sync, each knowing where the other is without ever having to look up.

"Nathan, how's the arm?" the shorter one starts to ask, but the question is gone before it's finished as he catches sight of Audrey standing between the counter and the door. The bigger man looks back, puzzled, and then he too comes crashing to a halt, his eyes fixed on Audrey with a strange sort of intensity.

"Hi," Audrey offers, a bit amused by their reactions.

"Ah," Nathan says, straightening and retracting back into himself. "This is Dave and Vince Teagues, the owners of the Haven Herald. Guys, this is Audrey Parker, the FBI agent who solved the Lester case."

"Ch-charmed," Dave, the shorter one, manages. He offers her a smile that's as tentative as it is strained. "Always lovely to get new visitors to our town. Not enough visitors lately, isn't that right, Vince?"

"Right," Vince says hastily. He doesn't even attempt a smile, just continues to stare. "I suppose the strange weather doesn't help matters."

"Weather's weather," Dave says, almost testily. "Nothing strange about that."

Finally, Vince looks away from her, a snort destroying his odd intensity as he glares at his brother (she assumes they're related, anyway; nobody but family can perfect glares like that). "Right. Because hailstorms in the middle of a sunny day are very common."

Dave nods as if Vince has proved his point. "Exactly," he says with satisfaction, and then he turns to stare at her. Vince's stare was unblinking, unwavering, but Dave's is jumpy, his eyes darting to her, then away, then back again, as if it's dangerous to look at her too long.

"Nice to meet you too," Audrey says, and decides to ignore the stares. They're strange old men for sure, but Nathan is watching the scene unconcernedly, as if this is somewhat normal behavior for his employers, so Audrey sees no reason not to do the same. "Your reporter was a lot of help. I'm glad you could spare him."

"Oh, yes," Vince says without bothering to cast even a glance Nathan's way. "That's Nathan for you. Always in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Audrey frowns. Nathan, she notices, doesn't react at all except, perhaps, to turn his attention to the vase of flowers sitting on his counter. "I'd say more like the right place at the right time," she says. "I'm sorry he got hurt helping me, though."

The two brothers nod, a bit vacantly. She doubts they heard her at all.

Rolling her eyes, Audrey straightens, frustrated and upset for no reason she can put into words. "Something wrong?" she asks bluntly.

"Oh!" Both the old men startle and shift their weight, moving from foot to foot until it looks as if they're moving all about the office even though neither one of them actually moves.

"So sorry," Vince says hurriedly. "It's just…I can't help but think I've seen you somewhere. Ever been to Haven before?"

"That didn't sound creepy at all," Dave whispers loudly.

"No, can't say that I have. Such a shame, too," Audrey adds teasingly, smiling at Nathan, "considering that the pancakes are some of the best I've ever tasted."

"Huh," Dave says. "Interesting. Interesting. You do look familiar. Of course, we meet quite a few people in our line of work. But…hmm."

"Hmm," Vince echoes. "Maybe…" And without missing a beat, Dave swivels to meet his brother's gaze and they both share a look, something passing between them that Audrey can't possibly interpret. Then, in a flurry of motion, the two brothers head to their respective desks, sit down, and begin typing away at their computers in tandem, Dave muttering a bit under his breath, Vince utterly silent.

Audrey raises her brows and steps closer to Nathan. "Ooookay. Bit interesting."

"Never a dull day," Nathan says with a shrug. "But don't let first impressions fool you—they know this town better than anyone, and they're not quite the harmless old men they appear."

"Personal experience teach you that?" she asks, and is gratified when Nathan cracks the edges of another smile.

"Maybe."

The conversation seems doomed to fizzle out again, but Audrey jerks her chin toward the sling on Nathan's arm and asks, "How's the shoulder doing?"

"Doesn't hurt," he replies dismissively, as if that's all that matters.

"Right." She rolls her eyes. "Tough guy."

It seems a simple statement, not at all up to her usual standard (and yes, she really does have one), but it actually makes Nathan smile. A real smile, open and whole and not at all like the tantalizing hints of smiles she's seen up till now. He looks…normal…when he smiles, as if he's just another guy on the street, some random person who helps her on a case. He looks as if he's never heard of idiopathic neuropathy or EMTs who ignore wounded citizens or small town idiosyncrasies. He looks happy, and he doesn't stop smiling until her attention is jerked from him to the Teagues brothers jostling up beside her. The instant she looks away, she thinks she sees Nathan's smile disappear, and sure enough, when she sneaks a glance of him, he looks as unruffled and stoic as if his mouth muscles have never done a bit of work in his life.

"Knew you looked familiar!" Dave pronounces triumphantly.

"I think I'm the one who mentioned it," Vince says, more than a hint of exasperation creeping through.

Dave huffs. "Does it matter?"

"It does when you—" Vince begins, but Dave doesn't let him finish.

"Here you are. It's an old picture, of course—the article's old—but it was a big story in its time. Something happens like that and it stands out even twenty-seven years later."

"Don't just stand there yapping at her—let her see the article!" Vince orders, and Dave obligingly holds out a paper still warm from the printer.

Puzzled and curious, Audrey reaches out and accepts the newspaper article. She looks down, expecting she doesn't even know what (something more in line with lobster menus, the smell of fish, and uninteresting cops than with the Haven she's ended up finding), but her smile vanishes almost before it even begins.

She's looking at herself.

Herself with long, dark hair.

Herself in a grainy, black and white photo with a 1983 date stamped on it.

Herself in Haven, holding a child's hand, standing over a body under the shadow of the words 'Who Killed The Colorado Kid?'.

Herself, but it's not her—she's never been here, was scarcely born in 1983, and she's never had dark hair in her life, and the whole thing's impossible. As impossible as flying monkeys or vampires in real life or…or women who control the weather with their emotions.

It's impossible, but she's looking at a woman who could be her twin.

Or her mother.

Nathan is watching her, a crease in his brow, right between his eyes. She hesitates, then hands the picture over to him. She should be looking at the Teagues brothers, should be asking them how and why and where and who, but all she can do is watch Nathan study the picture speculatively. He stares at it a moment, looks up at her, back to the picture, and then, still with no change of expression, hands the paper back over. "She looks like you," is all he says.

Something inside of her eases. She has no idea what it is, or why Nathan's calm reaction stills her panic before it can even start, but she turns abruptly to face his employers.

"I don't understand," she says. Another completely obvious statement, but it needs to be said because there's nothing else to say.

"Do you have family here? Think she could be your mother?" Vince asks curiously. And yet he's staring, staring, staring, and beside him, Dave is looking, looking away, looking back, worrying the rim of his floppy hat between his gnarled hands.

"I—" Audrey frowns and glares down at the picture again, wishing she could bring forth the answers. Her eyes dart over the article, skim through the words caught by the printer, but there's nothing there except the details of a man who was never identified found dead on the beach twenty-seven years ago. Nothing there except her own face. "She could be," she finally admits. "I was raised in an orphanage—never knew my parents."

"Well then…" Vince trails off as if that's all that's needed to be said, but he doesn't sound decisive at all. He sounds as if he's waiting for something (everyone in this entire town is waiting for something, she thinks irrationally).

Audrey nods and chews the inside of her lip. Ten more minutes and she would have been out of this town. Ten more minutes and she would have had an interesting mystery to mull over in the night when she was alone. But now…now Nathan is watching her with one arm in a sling and one hand in his pocket, and the Teagues are nervously shifting their weight in front of her, and Duke's ominous words are ringing in her ears, and she doesn't think she's going to be leaving nearly as soon as she'd thought.

So she makes her excuses, and she escapes their waiting looks, and she drives and drives and drives until she finds the spot of beach immortalized on the front page of the Haven Herald. And then she stands there in the dusk holding an impossible picture, feeling a long-buried hope rise up inside her, and realizes that maybe, just maybe, this is the place, the mystery, she's been looking for.

Her phone beeps when she makes the call. The wind, smelling of salt and brine (and maybe she imagines it, but she thinks she catches a whiff of pancakes), whispers through her hair, along her cheeks. The waves murmur in front of her, not enough to drown out the sound of her internally coming to a decision.

"Agent Howard," she says when he answers. "You know that vacation time I never use? I think I'm going to need it."