Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me. They are the invention of

James Parriot, and Sony/Tri-Star television. I'm borrowing them without

permission, but I promise I'll return them in as good or better condition when

I'm through with them. Special thanks go out to Lorelei for getting me into FK,

and Jonna (who isn't involved in FK at all, but read through this and gave me a

lot of encouragement).

This story takes place the same night as Ashes to Ashes, shortly after the final

scene.

Losses

by Anne Jensen (ajensen@west.net)

There was a part of her mind still in denial--a part which still believed that

he was alive, that it had all been a joke or something. That he'd sit up and

laugh and say, "Hey, Trace, want to go for a spin on the bike?" She ignored it.

Vachon was dead. She'd buried him with her own hands.

Her own hands. She looked down at them, streaked with dirt which, in the

darkness, could have been mistaken for his blood. But she didn't blame herself

for his death. It had been an accident. *(Sure, Trace, try explaining that if

someone in blues shows up.*) She'd only held the stake. *He'd* impaled himself

on it. It wasn't even *his* fault. It was the fault of whoever or whatever had

attacked him.

She bent her head and rubbed her eyes--from tiredness, not tears. She was

beyond tears and had been since she'd scattered calla lily petals over his body

in the shallow hole and said a few prayers for him. As she'd refilled the hole,

each shovelful of dirt had weighed on her own soul, but had done nothing to ease

the gaping ache she felt which the tears had left in their wake.

This spot would have to be unmarked, of course. She couldn't even leave

flowers--nothing that would indicate there were bodies buried here. Hence the

calla lilies and small jar of apricot jam which she'd buried with him. Her own

personal tribute which no one would ever link to her in case his body ever *was*

discovered.

She'd wanted some kind of keepsake of him: a lock of his hair, or something,

but couldn't take it for the same reasons. She was a material witness--at

least--in a death and what she was doing was not exactly procedure. An obvious

keepsake would serve as a link between the two of them, and could raise a lot of

uncomfortable questions. She couldn't afford that possibility. One question

could lead to another and then who knew what information the folks at work might

stumble on.

Along the same lines, when she left here, she'd go back to the church and clean

up. All traces of Javier Vachon, vampire, had to be erased, to live on only in

her memory. The ubiquitous green bottles needed to be emptied and washed, and

his personal effects had to be gone through and organized and--since any next of

kin must have died 400 years ago, and she didn't know of any other of his

associates who were more capable of it--the task fell to her. It could all

wait, though. She'd sit here beside him until dawn, only an hour or so away.

This was a nice enough spot. Vachon had chosen it well, when he'd buried

Screed. It was pretty in its way and peaceful with the water nearby. Despite

her initial fears about someone--her co-workers in particular--passing by, it

appeared to be unfrequented as well. Even if she couldn't put up a marker, she

could at least visit, once in a while, if she were careful. She rested her head

against her tucked up knees and let one hand trail through the overturned dirt

like it was strands of dark hair.

She felt the presence behind her before she heard the footfall. Without looking

up, she said, "He told me you weren't one of them."

The voice--so familiar from the radio show her partner listened to--replied, "He

did it to protect you."

She lifted her head, and stared out unseeing across the water. "You're here to

make me forget about him, aren't you." She wasn't accusing, merely seeking

confirmation.

"It will ease the pain." His voice was gentle. Odd for someone whose radio

commentary was often filled with painful truths, veiled insults, and caustic

barbs.

She closed her eyes again. "Whatever did this to him?"

"Has been dealt with," the Nightcrawler assured her. "You need not fear its

happening again."

"Too late for Vachon," she said, rubbing the dirt of his grave between her

fingers. It was all she had left of him, and soon she wouldn't even have that.

A few more minutes and her entire year with him, all of the events which had

changed her entire outlook on life, would be gone. She wondered what it would

be like--walking around without knowing of the night's secrets, of the truth

behind the legends. She stopped herself. Time enough to think of that later--a

lifetime. Better to cherish the memories of Vachon while she still had them.

"I remember the first time we met--it was that plane crash almost a year ago.

He was supposed to be dead and I saw him blink. I almost convinced myself at

the time that it was my imagination, until I saw him in the makeshift morgue

looking for his hand." For the first time she let herself talk about him,

really talk about him. She hadn't been able to mention his vampire side to her

mortal friends, and she hadn't known any vampires--other than Screed, who'd

really been Vachon's friend, not hers. But here, on this beach in the pre-dawn,

with someone she didn't even know, she could finally share *all* of those

thoughts and memories before they were consigned to the grave with Vachon. "I

think I fell in love that night, even before I knew. There was something--

mysterious--about him, certainly." She smiled, thinking about her innocence,

then. "So, of course, I had to solve the mystery.

"He was always there for me, whenever I needed him--even if I didn't think I

did. My dark guardian angel..." She described their time together, the words

pouring out as her tears had earlier. And although it must have bored her

companion, he listened patiently.

The sky was starting to lighten in the east as she came to the end of them.

"Just three nights ago he was poking though my refrigerator, and now he's gone.

With no funeral, no memorial service, nothing. Just an unmarked grave by the

water. He deserved better than this."

"It was the best you could do," the radio host said softly. "I'm certain Javier

would understand and appreciate the gesture."

"Maybe." Tracy scooped up a handful of the overturned dirt and let it fall

through her fingers. "I won't even remember it, though. And I think that hurts

the most about all of this." For the first time, she looked at the person

standing next to her. "Have you ever lost someone you loved?"

"I have--some--familiarity with the feeling," he commented.

Tracy returned to stare out over the water again. "Suddenly *every* moment the

two of you spent together becomes precious--the good times and the bad. Now I

won't have any of it at all." She sighed. "I guess I have no choice about the

matter, though."

"No," La Croix agreed. He laid a light hand on her shoulder. "But *I* do.

Keep your memories, Tracy Vetter. May you find comfort in them."

In the time it took her to turn back, surprised, he was gone, leaving her alone

on the shore in the growing light of dawn. Alone with her thoughts--and her

memories.

Fin.

Please send all comments/calla lilies/jars of apricot preserves to

Anne Jensen

ajensen@west.net.