Remember WENN and it's characters are copyright AMC/Howard Meltzer Prods and Rupert Holmes. Story's mine. :)

This one popped into my brain at 4:30 early Sunday morning. Just an attempt at filler, not a go at speculation. (much! ;-) )

As usual, I love comments. :-)

Unexpected

By Michele Savage (Bizarra)

*Where the blazes is he?!*

Hilary shot an irritated glance at Mackie and continued with the script. This was a major turning point in Brent and Elizabeth's relationship and 'Brent' hadn't shown up yet. She made a mental note to kill Scott Sherwood next time she saw him. Mackie had stepped in and was filling in, but that didn't make her any less angry at Scott. He'd promised her he wouldn't be late again.

She heard the studio door open and assumed Scott had just slunk in. She didn't bother with a look, just made a sniping remark about him being tardy again. She heard shuffling behind her as he picked up the script and gave him the opening line. Then she waited for his response.

"Elizabeth"

Her breath caught in her throat. The last voice she'd expected to hear had answered her.

*Jeffrey*

She turned slowly, not wanting to believe what her ears had told her. The unexpected sight of him tore through every defensive wall she'd built up over the last few months. She turned around as if he'd disappear if she weren't looking at him.

He started to walk toward her, reading his line. "There's something I've been meaning to tell you."

She heard his steps get closer, instinctively she wanted to run. But her feet wouldn't move. Script. *Read the line. Concentrate on the script.* She tried to pull herself together, to salvage the rest of the scene. It was impossible to concentrate on doing, of all things, a love scene with her own Benedict Arnold standing close enough to feel the heat of his body.

*Get out of here, Hilary* her mind screamed. She turned and ran from the room as fast as she could. She leaned against the wall long enough to pull in some composure, then went to find Betty.

With enough acting to gain herself an Academy Award she gave Betty an ultimatum. Either Jeff goes or she does. She was okay until she'd realized that if Betty kept Jeff she'd lose everything.

*Why did he have to come back*

Jeff walked out of the studio as she walked past and pleaded with her to listen. He followed her out of the station, still begging.

He could beg all he wanted, she didn't plan on listening any time soon.

"Will you go away." she asked annoyed.

"Hilary, please. Hear me out."

The elevator door opened and she stepped inside, knowing full well he'd follow her in. After punching the lobby button, she leaned against the wall trying to both to pull herself together, and stay as far away from Jeff as possible.

He knew she didn't want him near her, but if he kept pressing maybe he'd get through. It killed him to see her suffering. If only she'd listen to him, she'd understand. At least he hoped she would.

He walked closer, "Mittens you've got to listen to me."

She took her hat off and leaned her forehead against the cool elevator wall, and fought back the tears that threatened. She'd be damned if she let him see her cry.

Finally in desperation, Jeff grabbed her arms and kissed her.

She struggled against him, needing to get out of his arms before she gave in. She bit down on his lip.

"Oww." Jeff pulled away, tasting blood. "Hilary!" He didn't expect her to bite him, but admitted he did deserve it.

Hilary stumbled to the button panel and pushed a button. Any button. She had to get out of this elevator. She turned to him, and mustered everything she'd ever learned from Giles Aldrich. The door slid open on the fifth floor. Praying she could find strength to speak without faltering, she told him in a threatening tone, "You will never touch me again." and stepped between the doors before they slid shut.

She turned and realized he hadn't followed her, and collapsed on the nearest chair. "Why?" She looked upwards, "What did I do wrong?" She regained some of her composure and started down the stairs.

Jeffrey met her at the front door. She saw him and immediately put up a defensive wall. She barreled through the door as if he weren't there, and walked to the taxi she knew would be waiting.

"Hilary, please talk to me!"

She had had enough. Hilary turned and started yelling. "No! I will not talk to you. You lost any chance of a future with me when you married that . . . that woman! I would appreciate it if you would stay out of my life." Opening the taxi door, she slid into the back seat. She slammed and locked the door preventing Jeff from following her into the vehicle. "Drive, will you please Mr. Winstead?" she told the elderly cab driver.

Jeff watched the taxi pull away from the curb. He had known it wouldn't be easy. He sighed and decided he'd walk home. It was several miles but he could use the fresh air and Hilary needed to . . . hell. Needed to do nothing. She had been hurt badly. He had no right to expect her to welcome him with open arms. Maybe coming back was a mistake.

George Winstead glanced briefly at his passenger through the mirror. He had known both Miss Booth and Mr. Singer for years. The route they lived on was his regular one and had been since he'd worked for Pittsburgh Taxi. He had taken them home every night; he'd listened to them bickering and listened to declarations of love. The last few months Miss Booth had been going home alone.

She had told him what happened and he couldn't believe it. He'd never believe Mr. Singer would do what she said. That boy loved her, it was usually written all over his face. But apparently he had married that woman.

He saw how upset she was and tried to cheer her up. "I enjoyed your shows today, Miss Booth."

She annoyedly wiped a tear from her eye. "Thank you, George." She had always liked Mr. Winstead. He reminded her of her grandfather.

"Um, was that . . .?"

"Yes, "she answered, glad to have someone to talk to at least. "I never expected him to actually come back." She lapsed into an introspective silence.

Turning into the Singer's driveway, George parked the cab and turned off the engine. He always walked his lone female passenger's to their front doors.

He walked around to her side of the car and opened the door for her. Taking her hand he helped her out of the taxi. "Home again, Miss Booth."

"George, how many times do I have to tell you, it's Hilary." She reminded him.

"Oh, You know I don't call my ladies by their first names. It's not only gentlemanly, but my professional courtesy." He patted her hand and looped it through his arm.

She smiled, "Well, then I'll just have to start calling you Mr. Winstead again."

They stepped up to the porch and the white haired man held out his hand for her keys, which she handed him. He unlocked and opened the door for her. Hilary walked in almost expecting Jeff to be there. When he wasn't she knew that he would be eventually.

"Mr. Winstead, come in for a moment. I don't think I'll stay here tonight. You'll wait until I get some things together?"

"Sure." He sat on the couch and waited until she was ready to leave. She did what she needed to do automatically. It pained him to see the usually vibrant Hilary Booth like that. He watched her write a note and place it on the table in front of the telephone. He knew she needed to let her feelings out. "Miss Booth. Hilary." he said catching her attention. He gestured to the empty cushion next to him. "Sit for a moment."

"Yes?" she asked.

"Tell old George about it." He suggested, opening his arms for the hug he knew she needed.

Suddenly, Hilary felt like a ten year old who's grandfather was soothing a skinned knee. She leaned into his open embrace and sobbed against his shoulder.

"There, there child. You just let that hurt out." He patted the back of her head gently.

"If I . . . if I had known he was coming back. I could have been . . . ready." She said between sobs. "I love him . . . so much. But . . . if I let him . . . back in, I 'm afraid."

"Afraid of what, Hilary?" George asked, comfortingly.

She sat up again, "I can't take this kind of hurt again."

"Then don't."

"What?" She hadn't expected that response.

"You make him work hard to get back into your good graces."

She wiped her eyes and her mind was suddenly whirling. "Thank you." She kissed the older man on the cheek, "I feel much better now."

"Good!" He slapped his knee, "Are you ready to go?"

"No." She answered with new resolve. "I'm staying here. This is my house. Let him stay somewhere else."

"Good for you, girl." He stood and walked to the door. "I'll see you Monday night!"

"Yes you will." She watched him walk to the taxi, and waved. She thought of her talk with Betty. *I hope you'll see me Monday.*

Hilary shut the door and grinned almost evilly. She had an idea. Make him work to get into my good graces. *This, I can do!* She ran upstairs and pulled open her closet. Going through the clothes, she found a rather revealing red dress. Jeffrey's favorite. She laughed, "This is even better."

*If I know my hus . . . Jeff well enough, he's at O'Malley's right about now, cooling his heels.* She dressed and readied herself for Jeff's punishment.

Just to make sure Jeff was there, she called and using one of her many voices, she confirmed her suspicion. Armed with the knowledge that he was in fact at the bar, she left the house and walked the two blocks.

Taking a deep breath and going into full 'Hilary Booth' mode, she walked into O'Malley's and plunked herself on an empty bar stool. She ordered a beer and struck up a conversation with the man sitting next to her. The bartender brought her bottle and a chilled glass. He glanced at the booth Jeff occupied, "You know your husband is sitting over there."

She turned and looked Jeff in the eye. With a raise of her eyebrow, and a look that told him she was on the warpath, Hilary took a long swig from the bottle she held. She turned back to the bartender, and replied, "I vaguely remember that man, but I can't seem to recall from where."

The bartender immediately backed off. He knew the Singer's well enough to know to stay out of the middle of one of their disputes. That was a lesson he learned long ago.

Hilary turned back to the man she'd been speaking to, and asked him if he wanted to dance. An upbeat song was playing from the old worn jukebox in the corner of the space Mr. O'Malley had cleared for dancing. She took another drink and followed him to the dance floor. She glanced at Jeff and smiled slightly, seeing the dark look of jealousy pass over his features. *To hell with him*, she decided and gave her all to the music.

She danced several songs with different men. The heady combination of adrenaline and beer had dulled her senses and her inhibitions. She was rapidly becoming the star attraction of the night. Randomly, she grabbed another man and pulled him close to her. The song playing was a very slow sensual one. Dimly she recalled it as one of Jeff's and her favorites to dance to, usually at home.

She looked Jeff's way and saw he was likely as drunk as she was. And noting the look of pure lust on his face as he looked at her, she realized he'd recognized the song as well. She turned her partner so she wouldn't have to look at her husb . .*no. Jeff!* Why is she suddenly calling him -that- again?

"Scram." she heard the familiar voice from behind her threatening the man she was dancing with. "She's my wife."

She tightened her grip around the shoulder of her partner, and coldly replied, "Not anymore."

"Hilary Singer . . ." He angrily stated, knowing full well he'd get a reaction.

He did.

She exploded.

"BOOTH!" She yelled, turning to him, her face full of anger. "It's Hilary Booth!" She poked a finger at his chest as she seethed, "I am NOT now, nor have I apparently EVER been Hilary Singer!" She spat the last name as if it disgusted her.

"Will you lower your voice?" He snapped, noticing all eyes were on them and the bar had gone silent.

"NO!"

He grabbed her arm, intent on pulling her outside, but she pulled from his grip.

"Do you have ANY idea how HUMILIATED I felt when that painted up HUSSY walked into my station . . . MY STATION! . . . and told me your -wonderful- news. Where is your new bride now, PUMPKIN?"

"Hilary, lets go outside." He told her evenly.

She laughed amusedly, "Am I embarrassing you, Jeffrey?"

Jeff noted thankfully that the patrons had grown bored of their squabble and gone back to their boisterous drinking.

She suddenly pressed her body against his, wrapped her arms around his neck and lowered her voice to a seductive tone, "Tell me darling, does she whisper your name in the night? Does she know where to touch you, like I do."

Jeff pulled her arms from his neck, and pushed her away, "Stop it."

"Did I get too close for comfort?" She cooed smugly and strutted to the booth he'd occupied all evening. She sat, making herself at home. She slid back and leaned against the wall, stretching her legs straight on the bench. Checking the bottles, she found a half empty one and picked it up. Drinking down the rest of the contents, she stared challengingly as he stood over her.

He sat, pushing her legs to the floor and turned to her, "Why don't we finish this conversation at home?" Slowly he moved his hand upward toward her thigh, but was stopped when she dug her fingernails deep into his skin.

In a cold tone, she told him, "I'm sure there are plenty of women in this bar that would be glad to pleasure you for an hour or two. But I guarantee you, it won't be me. Ever again."

"Mittens, I love you." He told her honestly, needing her to believe that if nothing else.

"Don't 'Mittens' me, Pumpkin," she sarcastically spat his nickname. "Now if you would kindly move, -I- am leaving."

Jeff stood to let her out. "You aren't walking home alone."

"It's two blocks, I'm a big girl. It's not as if you care what happens to me anyway."

"Hilary, I do."

She laughed sadly at the irony of his words. "You keep saying those two words to me. You've never meant it before, why start now." She walked away and out the door.

Leaning against the cold outside wall, she closed her eyes to the pain in her heart. *Oh god, why does this hurt so much?*

She started her walk home, tears clouding her vision. "Stop crying. He's not worth crying about." *Yes he is.* She argued with herself, "stop it!" Tripping over her heel, she took her shoe off and in anger threw it as hard as she could. The other shoe quickly followed.

Jeff left the bar, and saw her nearly a half a block ahead of him. He saw her trip and then throw her shoes. Her rending scream of "no" was loud enough he'd heard it and then saw her collapse into a heap on the sidewalk. He ran blindly toward her, nearly getting hit as he tore across the street. The cursing of the driver fading behind him, Jeff only thought of getting to Hilary. Why did he leave her? Why did he let this whole Pavla mess happen.? If anything ever happened to Hilary it would kill him. It nearly killed him to have to do what he did.

He reached her and saw that she was sobbing uncontrollably. Another part of him died. He crouched and whispered soothing words to her. She reached to him, not caring who he was. He picked her up and carried her the rest of the way to the house. He unlocked the door with his own keys and carried her to the bedroom.

She'd passed out not long after he picked her up, mumbling that the shoes had cost her over one hundred dollars. Carefully he lay her on the bed and redressed her in a nightgown. He tucked her in warmly and pressed a kiss on her forehead. "I know you don't understand now darling," he whispered softly against her skin, "but you will hopefully in time." He closed his eyes and a single tear dropped into her hair. "I love you, Mrs. Singer. I always have and I always will."

He resisted the temptation to curl up against her and left the room. Knowing he wouldn't be welcome in the house come morning, Jeff pulled the blanket off the couch, walked outside and attempted to make himself comfortable on the porch swing.

Tomorrow. He'll try to get through to her tomorrow. He -had- to get through to her. He loved her too much to let her go.

The soft swinging, and the occasional barking of a dog, soon lulled Jeff into a fitful slumber.

THE END

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