He stands in the middle of a living room. No gun, no knife, no nothing. He wonders who he is here to kill. Pastel flower-print on an overstuffed couch. Soft beige carpet under his feet. Framed pictures on the wall, good prints, but not originals. He looks around, surrounded by upper-middle-class suburbia, and doubts there is anyone here who is worth his time.

“I’ve always loved you, Roman. I always will.”

“No!” He jerked awake with a start, hissing in pain as burning ribs slammed him back against the clean white sheets. Panting shallowly and sweating, he tried to recapture the image, the touch, the feel. All that he had left was the pain and the sense that something important had been lost.

“What time is it? How long was I out?” he snapped, fixing his attention on the startled nurse who stood at his bedside.

“You slept a solid ten hours, sir. It’s around eight o’clock at night. Do you need to use the bedpan before we try and get some more food down you?”

John wondered if his sudden hatred of the man beside him was unreasonable, then decided he didn’t care. “I can get up, Jarrod. Just give me a second. Damn, what’s wrong with me?”

“Sir, I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Jarrod said nervously, not exactly certain of the status of his patient. “You’ve got at least one broken rib and four or five others are cracked. There was massive bruising, your arms are all cut up, and your just starting to get over a severe concussion.”

Ignoring the babbling cretin moving uncertainly toward him, John groaned aloud and rolled his legs toward the floor. He tucked his head to his knees, the dizziness making him nauseous as his vision narrowed to a pinprick.

“Maybe I’d better call Mr. Dimera.” Backing away from the figure on the bed, Jarrod made his way cautiously toward the intercom. John Black reeked of danger, and the nurse had the distinct impression that bad things were about to happen. Dimera did not pay him enough to deal with shit like this.

“You touch that phone, I will rip your arm off and beat you to death with it.” The words came out hard and cold, and as if to prove he could back them up, John forced himself to his feet.

Jarrod froze in place, afraid to move forward and even more afraid to move back.

John smiled a threat, pleased to see that his powers of persuasion were still in full effect. “Now, where’s the can?”

He made his way carefully to the bathroom, hoping he didn’t look as weak as he felt. The face that stared back at him from the mirror was his. His face- but not. It’s been altered slightly, Sarte’s work, no doubt. He wondered if it had been voluntary or a result of repairs to the damage inflicted by the Soledinos. Fuck’n Soledinos, he only wished he could have killed them himself. Jesse, at least. Most especially, Jesse.

Swaying on his feet, he gripped the edge of the sink and tried to see past the bandages, the bruises, the swelling. In his mind’s eye, there was another face. Another face that belonged to him in some way he couldn’t quite see, couldn’t quite place. Grunting in frustration, he debated whether it would hurt to brush his teeth. He couldn’t help but chuckle at how pathetic he had become.

Still, at least now he understood his current weakness. Anything not tightly bandaged stood out in purple and black. His arms, his face, his chest- all of it sore and weak and pissing him off with every moment he stood there looking at it. The knowledge that these were the least injured areas did little to inspire confidence. Stefano was going to tell him who was responsible for this and John planned to make the man’s death last for days. Of course- it might have been the woman. If it had been the woman.... It wasn’t her. She wouldn’t hurt him. Whoever she was, he knew she wouldn’t hurt him.

He looked into the mirror and the face smiled back at him. “Fuck you,” he told it, turning to walk stiffly back to his waiting bed. He’d have his answers in the morning.

Her fingers move slowly down the row of pearl buttons. Her hazel eyes never leave his face, as inch by inch she reveals herself to him. He wants her so bad. He has wanted her from the moment he first saw her. If the devil has sent her to tempt him, then the devil is about to get his wish. Sometimes the fruit is worth the fall.

With a low moan of pleasure, she wraps her arms around him and welcomes him home.

“Marlena?!”

“Sir?”

Jarrod. That stupid punk Jarrod. Wrong voice, wrong sex- wrong, wrong, wrong.

“Shut up, Jarrod.”

“Yes sir.”

John stared at the ceiling, grateful to find that the throbbing behind his eyes has receded into insignificance. ‘Marlena.’ That was the woman’s name. ‘Marlena.’ He rolled the name around on his tongue, enjoying the feel of it.

“Is it morning yet,” John asked, suddenly realizing how badly he wanted to see the sun. Too long in the shadows, John Too long in this damn bed. Blinking a bleary eye, he shifted his legs over the side of the bed and used the momentum to lurch to his feet.

“Uh, yes sir. It’s a little after nine.”

Jarrod looked frightened, and John decided he liked him that way. Swaying slightly, he moved to the bathroom, snapping his orders over his shoulder. “Get some clothes ready. I’m going to grab a shower.”

He ignored the muted protests that followed behind him, slamming the bathroom door and trying to figure out how to take a shower with half of his body wrapped in bandages. Inspiration failed him, so he stepped into the tub and allowed the hot water to wash over him, bandages and all. The heat took away the ache, or at least, it dulled the edge. Lathering gently, he leaned against the wall and explored the damage done to his body. When the inventory grew too depressing, he cranked the hot water. The pain of the scalding spray masked the ache of muscles starting to protest bone-deep bruises. It was an odd form of relief, but a relief all the same. He faded slowly away, melting beneath the searing heat.

The cold water brought back, the icy spray making him wonder how long he had been gone. He cut the water and tried to towel off. The pain returned, worse than before. His hands slapped against the tile of the floor and he found himself crouched in the center of the bathroom. “Jarrod, get your ass in here!”

His head dropped to rest against the cool tile and he tried to pretend he could stand up if he really wanted to. Jarrod’s hands were on his shoulders, tugging at his arms, trying to get him on his feet. Jarrod really was a fool.

John’s hand shot out, grabbing a wrist and twisting viciously. With a terrified squeak, Jarrod joined him on the floor. “Get the meds- whatever you’ve been giving me. I need a stimulant and some painkillers. You fuck this up, you call Dimera, and I will hurt you in ways you cannot possibly imagine. Do you understand?” he hissed into the scared bunny eyes.

“Yes sir, Mr. Black!”

Those eyes were far too scared to lie, and John released his grip, putting all of his energy into the act of not throwing up. He listened to the frantic footfalls, trying to decide if Jarrod was more afraid of him or of Dimera. He had his answer as Jarrod came running back into the room, a medical bag at his side.

“You’re not quite as stupid as you look, you know that?” John muttered, watching the needle as it plunged beneath his flesh.


“Um, thank you.”

John’s snicker turned into a sigh, the effect of the chemicals speeding through his blood. The pain wasn’t gone, but it was no longer important and that was good enough for now. Straightening slowly, he granted Jarrod a friendly smile. “You got my clothes laid out?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Black.”

“Then help me off this damned floor. I’ve got places to go and people to see.”

A sharp rap on the door drew him from his internal debate over the wine list, and he looked up only to be struck by a feeling of deja vue. Leaning casually against the doorjamb, dressed in the black fatigues common to Dimera’s fighting compounds, was his second in command- John Black.

“Like the patch?” John asked with a lopsided grin. “Made the nurse get rid of the bandages around my head- made me feel like an invalid. Besides, the girlies will love the eye patch. Makes me look mysterious.”

“What the hell are you doing out of bed! I would have posted guards if I hadn’t thought you had more sense.”

“Now boss, we did have a date. You said you’d fill me in when I could get here under my own power. Well, I could and I did, so stop whining and pour me a drink. I could use one. Some asshole did a real number on me.”

Noting the glazed look in the man’s eyes, Dimera asked suspiciously, “That idiot didn’t shoot you up, did he. I’m trying to wean you off of the drugs before they become addictive. John, you’re going to damage yourself if you ignore what your body tells you.”

“No painkillers, boss. Though I did request a little stimulant- what can I say, the nurse couldn’t refuse me,” John lied.

“No, I’d guess he couldn’t. Well, sit down before you fall down. And I do owe you a drink. After all, I am the ‘asshole who did a number on you’ as you so eloquently put it.”

Stefano stood very still, watching with interest as John’s face paled and his hands curled into fists. He was suddenly grateful for the heavy bulk of his desk, standing between him and the dangerous man in the doorway.

John lurched forward a half-step, swaying unsteadily without the anchor of the doorjamb to hold him upright. “I’ll assume you had a good reason? Care to share it with me before I decide whether to take your head? I had a very messy death planned for the man who did this to me.”

Dimera gave a negligent wave in the direction of the couch and moved to the wet bar tucked along the wall. “Sit down, John. You know I always have my reasons- and this was a very good reason indeed.”

“Codename, ‘The Pawn’? Why a pawn? Why not a bishop? A knight at the very least?” John rubbed at his temples, forcing his brain to accept words it didn’t want to hear.

“Nice to see your ego is still intact,” Dimera chuckled, relaxing back in his chair.

“Damn, Stefano. I can’t believe you let me stay under for 14 years. What the hell were you thinking?” John sighed, raising his second glass of whiskey.

“You managed to escape from my men before the programing was complete, John. You were wandering around in a drugged-out daze and Marlena was only too willing to supply you with a ready to wear identity. An identity as her loving husband. Without the final controls implanted in your mind, you immersed yourself in becoming Roman Brady- not that I can particularly blame you. This happened right as the ISA cracked down and the war with the Soledinos was becoming a true threat. I needed you with me, but it would have created too much heat for ‘Roman Brady’ to disappear again. Besides, I wanted her watched and protected, and with you committed to being Roman, I knew she couldn’t be in better hands. After all, that was your original assignment, why I implanted the memories I did. It was supposed to have been a little reprieve from the constant battling. A little break, watching over a woman who had become important to me.”

“That’s the stupidest plan I’ve ever heard of, Stefano,” John replied, shaking his head and sipping at his whisky.

Dimera grinned. “That’s what you said the first time I told you about it.”

“It appears I was right.”

“John, the drugs shouldn’t have destroyed your memories. It was… an unexpected reaction on your part. You were a bit volatile after the Soledino fiasco, I was hoping it would calm you down.”

“Oh, it calmed me down, all right! Hell, Stefano, you turned me into a freak’n cop!”

“Yes, that was a bit- awkward, shall we say? As an arch rival, you were not someone to be casually dealt with. It seemed best to simply leave you be.”

“So why’d you bring me back?” John spat out, his words an accusation.

Dimera did not miss hint of anger, nor the feelings it implied. “I got lucky, John. I caught you away from your home ground. You came after me, not the other way around!”

John threw back the last of the whisky, trying to wash away the bitter taste in his throat. “I never did know when to quit,” he muttered.

Dimera shook his head. “No, you never did. Do you remember any of it? Any of your time as Brady?”

With a groan, John levered himself to his feet. The room spun around him as he staggered to the bar, filling his tumbler to the rim. “Want another cognac?”

“What do you remember?”

John eyed the golden liquid as if it carried the answers to questions he didn’t want asked. With a shrug, he took another gulp. “I remember everything you told me. It comes back as you say the words- like some book I’d read and long forgotten. Sometimes, I think I remember more. It’s all twisted up, it’s all wrong- but it’s there. The first time I held my daughter. The first time we… It’s coming back. It’s all coming back.”

“You don’t have a daughter, John. You know that, don’t you?”

He could feel Dimera’s concern. He could feel his fear. “Yea. I know.”

John’s throat grew tight, each breath suddenly harsh. He took another drink and pushed the memories away. “By the way, where’s my gun? Feel naked without it. Feel like you don’t trust me,” he said, changing the subject to something safer.

Dimera hesitated, trying to read the slumped figure, trying to see inside. As usual, the brittle shell kept him out. Opening the bottom draw of his desk, he pulled out a beautiful silver inlay 9 millimeter encased in a black leather holster. With a studiously casual gesture, he tossed the weapon to the man at the bar.





John flashed a broad grin, the gun flashing out to take aim at some imaginary target against the far wall. With the flick of his finger, he dropped the clip and checked the rounds. Fully loaded, just as a gun should be. The clip slid home with the barest whisper of sound. He chambered a round and wished for something to shoot. Vaguely disappointed when nothing presented itself, he clicked on the safety and returned the weapon to its holster.

“You kept it,” he said, strapping the belt around his waist, feeling as if a missing body part had been returned.

“Of course. It was a gift to you. I’d always hoped to return it.”

“Best birthday present I ever got,” John said, his fingers absently running across the cool grip, an old habit long forgotten.

“You earned it. Besides, you only turn 21 once. It’s good to have you back John. It’s very good.” Dimera said the words, and in saying them, began to accept them. God, the man even looked like his old self from here. The baggy fatigues hid the heavily bandaged torso and arms. Viewed from the left side, very few bruises showed on his face, and those that did were fading. John was the finest weapon he had ever owned, and he hadn’t realized how much he had missed him until he had gotten him back.

“Remember you said that when I hit you up for my back pay,” John replied, his face flushing slightly.

“You were on vacation. You don’t get paid to be on vacation,” Stefano teased, his grin giving lie to his words. He turned his head at a sudden sound from the doorway, and his smile deepened at what he found there. Her face pale and her eyes gleaming- Marlena had arrived for lunch.

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