A/N: We're finally getting closer to the action! (and you may interpret that last word multiple ways ;D) This story is plodding along just fine and inspiration has me pretty good, so long as I keep up on my crazy college homework, expect regular updates! And please review. Because if you do, then I'll know there are people reading and my muse will come down and give me a big fat inspiration kiss and there will be lots of chapters. And if you have any requests just say because chances are I'll jump up and down in glee and do it. Really really :3 Thank you so much for stopping by, I hope you enjoy my work.

Downstairs, he ripped through his files, maps, and photos in a rage. Maps of the city. Pictures of the kidnappers (the only clear shot was of a man named Sakim, apparently some sort of "lieutenant" in the terrorist cell) and files, files, so many files. In a matter of hours he had it. It all came together that final day, and at last, he had a plan to drive this mission onward.

At the table in the center of the room, the largest, the members gathered together. He watched Lisa edge away, purposely sitting as far from him as she could. Sadly, she ended up directly across from him, and the mistake made her face flush with fury. He averted his gaze, taking in the others in the room, and remained standing. He leant over the surface and pressed his fingers down.

"These men won't ransom us Keefe," he stated simply, "even if it were an option. They won't acknowledge us, either, my 'old friends' will make sure of that." With these next words, his head tilted the slightest, "They'll haggle. The deal will be sealed in a couple weeks and that'll be the end of our politician." The last word was enunciated so well each consonant clicked across the room.

"What's they're problem with Charles Keefe?" someone queried across the table.

He frowned, casting luminescent blue eyes that way. The wrenching glare clearly said so much more than the "I assume they disagree with his methods" he actually spoke. It said the question was irrelevant and at the same time spoke so much deeper, down, stopping hearts in the terror of those blue eyes.

Lisa's face twisted up incredulously, but she remained silent. He could practically hear her thoughts, spotting her in the corner of his gaze. She was comparing Keefe's methods to his, he had no doubt in his mind.

"We're dealing with foreign extremists. Better yet, desperate foreign extremists," he continued. "They'll latch onto anything they can get their hands on. We'll lay a prize in their laps."

"A Trojan horse?"

"More or less. One of us plays the part of an American heir, gets in there, and takes in everything needed to get out. First the place must be scouted and the guarding system better understood, but that cannot come until we make the journey over the Atlantic."

"Mr. Doe, you promised me a complete plan," Miss Alden smiled. "Today."

"And I've kept that promise," he countered. "Expect more when I see this place for myself." His eyes flashed. "I've written out other details, but nothing can be sealed until I am there."

Miss Alden reluctantly agreed. She secured a unique flight for the key members amongst them in accordance with his formulating plan of action. None were set to travel in the same plane same class, to keep as covert as possible, and before long he sat in an airport, by a familiar restaurant, staring at a simple drink between his fingers.

Tex Mex. He really did like the place. That's why he brought her here, those years ago.

He stirred the ice around, smirking at himself. He could run now, take a different flight, if he had any money in his pocket or if it weren't for the device at his ankle, constantly watching.

Besides, he could do this. He could do it well. He could win his freedom. There was no doubt in his mind.

Almost none.

He sipped the drink and swallowed slowly. Peering over the rim, there stood that one sliver of doubt. Lisa waited in the line, patiently, rocking back and forth over her pretty heeled shoes, biting her lip, folding her hands between her knees, her fingers rumpled the skirt. He smirked, feeling she must be unsettled at the idea of being here again with him, even if they both kept careful distances. Maybe even as unsettled as he was when he saw her at the beginning of this mission.

He peered back at his drink. He downed it in another moment, ordered another. He passed the time slowly, enjoying this moment to relax his mind.

At first it felt nice. Then he noticed her, waiting patiently in line, but gaze drifting. She was watching him, still. Only fair, he supposed, he couldn't keep his eyes off her. Thank god they were on different flights.

Planes canceled. Flights delayed. In the end he found himself walking down the aisle in coach searching for his seat.

He found it.

Both their eyes bugged out and she scrambled back as far as the chair would allow it. They gaped at one another. The papers between his fingers crumpled. "That's my seat."

"You're kidding."

Solemnly, he offered his slip. Her head shook. Desperately.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. Despite how quietly he spoke, his voice carried and commanded, edged with a dangerous bite. "We weren't supposed—"

Lisa looked sick. She leapt to her feet and scrambled around him. "Who wants to trade seats? Hello? Anyone?"

In typical fashion, no one paid her mind. She marched towards a flight attendant. He caught her arm, frowning. "Don't draw attention to us," he ordered.

Lisa whirled. Her hand crashed down. She slapped him, hard, face twisted in a snarl.

That was the second time she'd hit him since he'd seen her again, the only greeting she had for him. His fingers slid across his tingling cheek. His eyes lifted up to hers.

That firm green gaze blazed back, like an emerald fire. He felt where the prints of her hand had pressed across him, and it was so sick that these were the only times she had ever touched him, when she struck him, and the only memory he ever had of touching her was wrenching her aside and whispering orders under threat of duress.

He wanted it to be different. Being reminded that it wasn't sent a fury up his spine. And those emerald eyes still bore back into him, the anger, the loathing welled up inside them both, and each breath they heaved within was audible to the people sitting around them. They panted in fury, in unison.

"Don't touch me," they said as one.

"What's going on here?" asked a flight attendant, a man, stepping between them.

"I need to get off this plane," Lisa declared. She gripped his arm, the newcomer, and John Doe's eyes fell to her fingers tightening, boring into the contact. He felt a nausea of anger welling within him. "I need to get off this plane. Now."

"I'm sorry Miss, it's too late for that now, we've already closed the doors—"

"I need to get off this plane."

"She needs to get off this plane," he said, eyes never rising from that firm grip. "She can't stay here."

It was hard enough sitting across a table from her, spotting her swimming in and out of his world. Next to him? For a whole flight? Again?

No, never again. He'd made that mistake once.

"Get her off this plane."

"Get me off this plane!"

"I'm going to have to ask you both to sit down and buckle up, now," the man ordered firmly. "The pilot's taking off any minute."

His luminescent blue eyes snapped to hers desperately. She glanced from him to the other. Her lips mouthed one word, barely the breath of it escaping her, please, she begged, please.

"Sit," the man said.

"Or what?" John demanded, the full force his clear blue eyes zapping up to glare.

"We've got cuffs here," the attendant croaked.

"I won't do this!" Lisa cried. "Never again," she whispered.

"The pilot will be taking off in two minutes. Please buckle up and remain seated," the intercom interjected with strangely familiar voice.

The flight attendant panicked. "Sit—just sit—all right? I'll get you extra peanuts and a drink or something—" The man backed up down the halls.

Jack and Lisa stood there a moment. The other people in the cabin cast them strange looks.

"Please take your seats."

Lisa stomped and slipped down by the window, buckling up. Her face turned to the glass. She took a sharp breath in, clutching the armrest. He adjusted his collar, closed his eyes a brief moment. Carefully, he sat beside her. He tightened his straps until it almost hurt. He let his head swing back as the plane took off.

Six hours. Just six hours. He could handle six hours.

"Mmmm," she muttered.

Six hours beside Lisa Reisert. He could handle it. He didn't have to look at her, to smell her, to—

"Mmmmm," she cringed.

"Shut up," he whispered, peeking at her with a side glance. She was pale, clutching the seat, gazing out the window.

What? After all this she still hadn't gotten over flying?

"We're not going to crash, Leese, more people die in cars than planes now be a good girl and shut up."

She dropped her chin, eyes clenched shut. A hand fished into her pocket. A pen slipped between her fingers, and she gripped it, hard. Her eyes made their way up and glared.

His darted from pen to her.

"You found my scar last time, Jack," she said, one hand pressed to her breast. "But I gave you one." Her other fingers nestled on her lap. The pen shook between her knees. "Leave me alone."

His neck, at the base, where the last pen he had seen Lisa hold lodged itself that long time ago, throbbed quietly. There was a scar, sparking at his gullet with a red starburst circle. The collar covered it up.

"James," he corrected, turning away from her, keeping his eyes straight ahead. They betrayed him once and peeked nervously at the pen, stealing a glimpse from the corner of his eye. "I'm James Dorian this time."

Lisa scoffed, jerking her head aside. The pen snapped in and out as she pressed the end, again, again, clicking.

He didn't like this. She was exerting control, establishing power. She came out on top last time, that's what she was showing him, telling him. He tossed her another glance. Her eyes were out the window again. His lips stretched out, he spoke.

"How's your father?" he asked, and his words had the desired effect. She sat up straight like a whip cracking. "What'd he say last time you spoke with him? You think he's fine, don't you, safe at home? Are you sure? It's funny. How everything can seem right, juuuust grand, and then it goes to shit before you have a moment to gather yourself together." He laughed. "It's funny, how you can plan and hope and wish and then there's one tiny, minuscule detail you never noticed before that changes the entire game. One mistake. One—little—slip." He shook his head.

One little scar, that gave Lisa the guts to fight back, one little knick that made her turn down that sea breeze—it all would have been easier if she'd let him buy the damn drink, he'd earned the right, he'd guessed it—"And sometimes, sometimes it's even worse. Sometimes you can do it all right—Leese, you did it all right, you know that? You were spectacular, never strayed from that so far as I can see." His eyes flicked her up and down. "But even so, the world decided to beat you up for it anyhow."

The plane trembled again, jostling the passengers and shaking their seats. He frowned. Flights never ran smoothly for him. He'd been on a number.

"And you still bother," he muttered. She still kept going, on with her kindness, on with her bold devotion, on with her loyalty and determination damn her. She wouldn't stop, not with those beautiful smiles and that thick hair. "It's pathetic."

Lisa needed to get with the system.

Maybe then she would stop being extraordinary. Maybe then could finally forget about her.