Two: Sometimes a Guy Just Has to Kick Some Ass

Rubbing the small of her back, Mitzie perused the lunch hour stragglers still sipping their café coffee, with an inaudible sigh. Glancing up at the big round clock hanging over the cash register, she gratefully noted the time and emptied more of the dark brew into a portable pot.

It'd been a long day in an unending line of long days; she was tired, sore and longing to go home. In just thirty minutes or so, she'd once again bid her mild-mannered boss a goodnight and begin the short, but undeniably lonely walk home to her dark, empty abode. Overcome with long suppressed emotion, the weary waitress's sea-green eyes prickled with uninvited tears, endangering her carefully constructed façade of detached serenity.

'Mitzie' Lynn Larsen straightened her spine. Swallowing deliberately, she tightened her grip on the coffee pot's handle. Despite the events of recent months, she refused to expose her pain to the café's few remaining regular patrons and the one lone stranger seated in the back. Regaining her composure, she gazed thoughtfully his way.

This was the third day in a row she'd looked up, after taking someone's order, to find he'd somehow slinked past her to quietly fold his lanky frame into the very last booth next to the window. Usually the tourists and outsiders who passed through town were demanding, but not this man. Each day his refreshing polite, uncomplaining, almost lazy style beckoned to her carefully protected core. There was something intangible about him that seemed both welcome and comforting, like a long ago lost token of childhood.

Unshaven cheeks and casual oversized attire, unabashedly displayed in the middle of the week, weren't all that unusual in this fisherman's haven. Yet, there was something about this particular fisherman that was decidedly different.

Tall and sinewy, with close-cropped silver hair, and unruly eyebrows, his weathered face with its faded dimples bore a benign faintly crooked smile. A ghost of a grin that confirmed the secrets reflected in his fathomless deep-set chocolate-brown eyes. Mitzie suspected he'd endured more than his fair share of pain and known great sorrow. And, that this clearly enigmatic man relished each brief and stolen moment of quiet he might chance to find. In her heart she knew she was right about him and yet, she had no idea why.

That first day when he'd ordered, "The special, please." in his quiet sturdy tone, he reminded her of her fraternal uncle, Pastor Henry Larsen. And ever since, the few words spoken between them reinforced that first impression. He made her wonder who he really was. Not just what he'd done, but how he felt about what it was he did.

Uncle Hank dedicated his life to both God and his country by serving as a career-military chaplain. She'd had it first-hand from more than a few military types that Pastor Hank was the kind of minister who led his flock from a foxhole not a pulpit. Her serious-minded father found his younger brother's caviler attitude towards the risks he took hard to take. The pair disagreed on almost everything. And, while she adored her daddy, Mitzie found her comfort in Uncle Hank's wry humor and open soul. He was a man, who despite all he'd experienced still remembered how to play.

The last of the regulars called a courteous 'good evening' as they filed out, rousing Mitzie from her musings and leaving the stranger, still sipping his coffee, behind. Taking a second to turn the 'closed' sign over in the window, she moved to his side intending to add a bit more coffee to his almost empty cup.

Rising, the silver-haired stranger gently took the pot from her startled fingertips. Pressing one large hand to her shoulder, he angled his chin toward the seat across from his. "I'll get it; you just take a seat and relax for a bit."

Reaching over to the next table, he deftly snagged a clean cup, set it in front of her clasped hands and filled it with a flourish. "Now then, what kind of pie would you like, cherry or peach?"

Shocked, Mitzie sank back against the booth's thick cushion and shrugged. "I... ah, what do you recommend?"

Grinning, her faux-waiter cocked one inquisitive eyebrow and looked her over. "Hmm... I like the cherry just fine, but there is something about the peach that makes your troubles just fade away... ya-sure-you-betcha!" Nodding, he swiftly made his way to the front counter, collecting two generous pieces of pie, one large glass of milk and two clean forks. Carefully placing the biggest piece and the milk next to her coffee, he slid into his seat once more. "No worries, it's on me."

"Thanks, it's been a while since anyone served me." Still recovering, Mitzie smiled shyly. "I'm Mitzie," she added awkwardly.

"Name's, Jack." He said pointing a laden fork at his chest. Taking a healthy bite of pie, he chewed enthusiastically, motioning for her to do the same. "Go ahead, eat." He commanded good-naturedly. "You're looking unacceptably peaky."

"Peaky?" She echoed quizzically.

"Yeah, peaky." He replied lightly, his ponderous eyebrows rising and falling in impish syncopation. "You know, pale, pallid, wane, lacking color, tuckered out... basically pooped."

"And here I thought chivalry was dead." Torn between mirth and annoyance, Mitzie concentrated on her slice of pie.

"Ya know, generally I am a man who minds his own business." Jack began softly. Pausing, he pushed the remains of his pie aside.

"However, you look like someone who needs a friend... I've been there a time or two..." Clearing his throat Jack peered into his coffee. "Sometimes it's easier to talk to a stranger. We tend to fade away."

Stunned by his acuity, Mitzie eyed him warily. "You might go away Jack, but my guess is you leave a lasting impression."

Jack snorted derisively and shrugged. "I'm just another fisherman dangling my line in the waters, hoping for a nibble."

"Just another fisherman, eh?" Mitzie echoed admiring the many layers cleverly hidden in the light declaration and his lack of arrogance.

"Yep." Jack confirmed between sips of coffee.

"That might be..." Mitzie was willing to bet he was everything he appeared to be, but she'd been burned before. "But you see Jack; I'm not your usual fish. I like to investigate the lure before I swallow it, even a shiny sterling-silver one."

"All that glitters..." Jack cocked his head to one side, his expression ironic. "Okay so..."

Taking a final sip of milk, Mitzie Lynn stood up and gathered the dishes. "So how's about you walk me home."

Collecting the tab Jack rolled a twenty inside, stuffed it in her apron pocket and made to follow her lead. As the pair reached the main counter, the café's owner popped his grizzled head out of the kitchen. "Just set those plates in the busing tray, I'll attend to them after I lock up." Narrowing his faded blue eyes, Oliver looked Jack over, pursed his lips, and nodded. "You run along home now Mitzie, I'll see you at 6 am."

Mitzie led the way out the door and turned west. Jack fell into stride beside her quietly. He seemed to sense she needed to be in control and allowed her to set the pace.

"What do you think of our little town, Jack?"

"I like it just fine." Sidestepping a large crack in the uneven sidewalk, he thrust his hands into his pockets. "How do you feel about it?"

"Well..." Mitzie studied the ancient Oak trees standing majestically along the avenue, finding solace in their familiar gnarled branches sporting the first buds of spring; tinted by the shadows of oncoming dusk. "I've always loved it. I grew up on a dairy farm just outside of town."

"Ah ha, a milkmaid!" Jack interjected mischievously, his animated eyes twinkling with humor.

Mitzie laughed lightly. "Not exactly. Dad sold it when I was twelve and we moved into town. He and my uncle bought the local hardware store. I used to work there after school and Saturdays. They relied on me to keep the office organized."

"And you loved it." Jack stated gently.

"I did." She agreed wistfully. Life was easier then, she had her daddy and her uncle to coddle and dote on her every whim.

"And your mother?" Jack prodded.

"She passed when I was eleven... cancer." Mitzie answered distantly.

"I'm sorry." Jack offered quietly.

"Thanks, Jack." The remains of a similar grief echoed in his reply. Here was a man who understood her pain and wouldn't push her to reveal anymore.

Mitzie linked a familiar arm through his. "So, how long will you be gracing our fair town with your presence?"

"That depends." He hedged.

"On?" She probed.

"On the fish." Jack said impishly. "Ya know how we fisherman are, always hankering to catch a big one."

Despite the lightness of his tone Mitzie suspected something more than fish was on his mind. "What is it you do exactly, I mean in the real world?"

"Nothing very exciting these days, I'm afraid." He shrugged and sighed dramatically. "I'm just an old desk jockey."

"Now why am I having trouble believing that?" She countered.

As they rounded the corner Mitzie Lynn drew up short. Bobby Fitzgerald's over-sized red convertible was parked haphazardly at the end of her driveway. 'Not again.' When was he going to give up and leave her in peace? Fixing a false smile on her face, she released Jack's arm and offered him her hand, "Thanks for walking me this far, Jack. I'll be alright from here."

Jack's sharp eyes slid past her toward the sedan, all semblance of light fading rapidly from their chocolate-brown depths - transforming them into obsidian marbles. The muscles in his square jaw tensed. His long sinewy frame drew taunt as a bowstring.

Mitzie Larsen had seen body language like this before. Long ago her lovable pup, Lancelot, made a similar transformation when a wolf ventured too close to the farm. Oh yes, she knew the look; it was the look of a predator.

O'Neill noted the young waitress's carefully guarded response to the convertible parked up the street. Scanning the immediate area for any further signs of threat, he pulled an old ball cap out of his jacket pocket, fixed it securely on his head and pulled it low over his eyes. Fishing his dark sunglasses from another pocket, he settled them on the bridge of his nose and made ready for battle.

Keeping an eye on the vehicle's occupant, He clasped the girl's extended hand, looping it over his arm once more. "Nope, I don't think so. A gentleman always sees a lady to her door."

"But... " She began nervously, "Really, Jack it'd be better if I just went along alone from here."

"Better for whom?" Guiding her in his wake, he smiled tightly. "Ya know small towns are interesting; folks love to mind their neighbors' business. If you're a quiet unassuming sort of fellow like me, they tend to ignore your presence. A man can learn a lot about a community just hanging around." And, the presence of the flashy automobile's occupant lurking outside Mitzie Larsen's residence, along with her reaction, confirmed the bit and pieces of information he'd gleaned were more than idle gossip.

Mitzie's small fingers dug painfully into his forearm. "You don't understand..."

"Oh, I think I do. I wasn't born yesterday ya know." Jack covered the petite hand clenched over his forearm with his own calloused palm.

"I don't want you to get hurt." The lady's incredible green eyes filled with tears.

Jack found her whispered concern for his safety strangely touching. Releasing her hand, he ran one long index finger down her soft cheek tracing an errant tear. "Trust me."

"Don't let the snow on the roof fool ya." He informed her with a feral grin. "I can take care of myself."

The wolf must have seen their reflection in his rear-view mirror. Exiting the car, he leaned belligerently alongside. Bobby Fitzgerald was well dressed, looked to be about thirty, six-feet and, as with many a narcissist, fit.

"I knew you missed your beloved daddy, Mitzie... I wonder how superior he's feeling now that he's rotting in purgatory... the arrogant bastard." Running a jaundiced eye over Jack's appearance, Fitzgerald's lip curled contemptuously. "But... please... do not tell me this old fossil is your date."

"Jack's a friend." Mitzie began tentatively.

"He looks more like a broken-down old bait-wrangler to me." Fitzgerald's tone dripped acid. Grinning lasciviously, he pushed his solid bulk away from the auto's polished surface, clenching his meaty fists. "I suggest you run along now, pops."

Jack ignored the challenge. Drawing the woman beside him along, he adjusted his trajectory.

Avoiding Fitzgerald indifferently the twosome continued strolling up the walk.

Hissing with ire, the big lummox hesitated. Nobody dismissed him; especially some senile old fart. Cussing under his breath, Fitzgerald grabbed a baseball bat from the backseat of his ride and strode after them.

The fine hairs on the back of O'Neill's neck stood at attention telegraphing his assailant's approach. Giving Mitzie a light shove, he spun around lithely, his body deceptively relaxed.

"Maybe you don't hear so good. I told you to take a hike old man." Fitzgerald bit out, rhythmically slapping the bat's smooth length against his palm.

"Ack!" Jack raised an index finger, his brows touching his hairline. "That's: maybe you don't hear so well. And, as a matter-of-fact, I heard you just fine."

Removing his sunglasses, he made a great show of tucking them inside his breast pocket. "However, I chose to disregard your impolite behavior and unreasonable demand."

"Unreasonable? Jeez, you sound like that holier-than-thou uncle of hers. I hope those hairy Iraqi insurgents kick his meddlesome ass." Bobby spat.

"Really? No doubt he objected to your inestimably boorish demeanor and lack of respect." Jack surmised in a lofty tone.

"I don't have to take your..." Fitzgerald sputtered, hefting the bat ominously.

"Son, you're headed for a world of hurt." O'Neill growled. His flinty eyes narrowed sardonically.

Roaring, Fitzgerald used both hands to swing the bat forcefully at his rival's head.

Mitzie stood transfixed. Jack twisted gracefully. Kicking the weapon from Bobby's boneless grasp, he continued to spin full circle. As Jack's booted foot came forward once more it connected with his adversary's jaw, sending the startled younger man flying backward.

Spitting blood, Bobby staggered to his feet and charged.

Jack bent forward allowing momentum to take Bobby over his shoulder - his head impacting forcefully with his opponent's solar plexus; taking him down like a Rhino on a dead run.

A heartbeat later, it was over. The wolf lay helplessly sprawled out on the lawn.

Humiliated, Bobby struggled to take a breath, panic hindering his efforts. How the hell had that happened?

Jack hovered over him, adrenaline surging through his hyper-alert body. The need to pummel Fitzgerald into a pulp warred with his sense of honor. 'Damn, it sucked to be responsible.' Gulping air, nobility overrode the beast within.

Mitzie watched Jack's predatory armor slowly fade; replaced by the affable man she'd first met in the café. Giving Bobby's carcass a wide berth, she moved to his side, enfolding his hand in hers. "Just like Lancelot."

Unsure if he'd heard correctly, Jack gazed down at her quizzically. "Not bad for 'an old man,' huh?"

"Old man?" Mitzie smiled up at him tenderly. "It appears to me as if that shiny silver lure is every bit as appealing as it looks - and then some."

Feeling suddenly shy, Jack cleared his throat.

Pulling his cell phone from his hip pocket, he dialed 911. "Hello, Sheriff Otterbeck? Jack O'Neill, here... I'd like to report an assault with a deadly weapon... I'd appreciate it if you'd come around to the Larsen place and collect the trash..."

"What?" Squeezing the delicate hand clasped within his capable grip, he continued, "No, Lars she is peachy... What's that? Oh, ya-sure-ya-betcha, I'll press charges."

***

Three days later, General Jack O'Neill was back behind his desk in Washington, D.C. engaged in a transatlantic phone call.

"... She's fine, Hank. In fact, she is more than fine... your 'little' Mitzie is quite a gal, if you weren't an old friend..." Tapping an idle finger on the desktop, Jack enjoyed his pal's reaction to that little crack. "Relax; Sheriff Otterbeck is arranging an order of protection... that scum-sucking pig will be cooling his heels in County for at least the next six months, plenty of time for your transfer to come through..."

Listening, Jack leaned back in his comfy chair and fiddled with his favorite Yo-Yo. "No, Pastor I didn't inflict any permanent damage on the smarmy... Yeah I know, I promised I'd try and reason with him..."

Hank Larsen's disembodied voice interrupted him once more.

"Crap." Jack huffed, losing his patience.

Flicking his wrist sharply, the wooden toy plummeted to earth, only to bounce smartly back along the string tethered to its center... "For crying out loud Hank, sometimes a guy just has to kick some ass!"

fini:)

2006

Index