Title: It's Never Too Late Author: drovar Rating: PG-13 for death and violence Archive: Socks Shoppe and The Ferret Cage E-mail: drovar@alltel.net Disclaimers: These characters do not belong to me though God knows someone should take them away from CC & FS. Crow does belong to me, and they can't have him. Notes: After a particularly hideous Millennium finale I just had to have my say. Some things just aren't right. Spoilers: Millennium finale Summary: Spender/Pendrell/Baldwin -- it's *never* too late. Dedications: To Hal He waited. It was one of the few things he was good at. He waited as the man before him dripped out the last of his life. Waiting and killing, the only two things he'd ever done well in his life, so he waited. He hunkered down close. His nose crinkled at the smell of burnt flesh, cloth and hair. He listened and watched, a slow ragged breath, one more, and then none. The ambulance sirens blared on mindlessly. He rocked back on his haunches and grinned, another job complete, and another payday waiting. He has plans for this pay, plans that didn't involve torture and death and burnt corpses . . not unless he was lucky. A sense of movement, where there should be none, pulled him out of his reverie. The dead guy hadn't just twitched had he? The assassin leaned close. The ambulance jerked sharply and swayed in traffic, he rocked forward steadying himself with a hand on the blackened body. The ambulance siren suddenly cut out. The sounds of a blaring horn, cars and trucks rumbling past momentarily masked a low growling sound that rose up again as the ambulance swerved and moved clear of traffic. It grew suddenly louder in volume and took on a definite direction. The assassin wheeled awkwardly on his heels and had only a moment's recognition, an instant of awareness . . . A large black dog stood next to a red-haired man. The dog's teeth were bared in an angry snarl, but the assassins gaze was thoroughly captured by the flash of gun metal that resolved into a deadly looking hand gun jammed into his forehead. * * * Jeffrey Spender felt the familiar buildup of tension as he slid out of The Not and into reality. The familiar blanketing grayness gave way in one nearly orgasmic snap to light, sound and motion. He was sitting just where he expected, the passenger seat of the ambulance. He brought his gun up quickly and placed it to the temple of the oblivious driver. "Out," he ordered the startled man. The driver tried to turn his head but stopped when Spender dug the gun sight cruelly into his skin. The man recoiled. "Out," Spender repeated, clipping the man smartly in the side of the head. The driver seemed to consider his situation for just a moment and then popped the door open and was gone. Spender slid over, slammed the door shut and cut the siren, sparing the driver only a glance out the side mirror. He drove on; putting some quick miles between them and the angry and frightened paramedic. If they had timed this right . . . then they would be granting themselves a maybe. It was the best they could do. He smiled grimly as he felt the ambulance shift slightly as the vehicle suddenly entered an area of higher traffic. Spender quickly steered to an off ramp. He parked on a quiet side street and sprinted to the back, drawing his gun, just in case. They didn't have much time. What they were attempting was tampering with reality in a major way. They had a small window of opportunity, no more than a sliver. It was an instant in time when the universe blinked and all realities hung teetering on a knife blade of possibilities. They had danced along that sharp and deadly edge before, both succeeding in thwarting the universe and getting cut, but never . . . never with so very much in the balance. * * * Pendrell felt the ambulance roll to a stop, he pushed the body aside, a thin trail of blood trickled down the man's forehead. He lifted Baldwin, refusing to think of him as 'the body', carefully and slowly. He heard a soft whine from Crow as he stepped back over the assassin's corpse. "Yeah I know . . it's close, it's real close." Pendrell tried not to think about the implications of this operation. They had traversed time and space in a way they had never done, never considered before. It was an act of desperation, an act to maybe set things right in a capricious uncaring universe gone wrong. Pendrell steadied himself, trying not to breathe, trying not to think. "Jay," he yelled, just before the familiar face with it's deep brown eyes appeared at the edge of the small window in the backdoor of the ambulance. He had is gun drawn, on guard, as always. Spender flicked his gun's safety on, yanked the door open and began to clamber in. He stopped short at seeing the sad bundle in Pendrell's arms. Spender looked suddenly and stunningly stricken. Pendrell closed his eyes, blocking out the sight, as he felt Spender step up into the ambulance and stand beside him. "Time to fly Crow," Pendrell said softly. "Take us home."