Viewer Discretion Advised
[Takes place before "Hungry, Thirsty Roots."]




As much as Jill had buried herself in her work of late -- investigating, interrogating and drafting report after report on Lincoln Park -- she was glad to have a little time off for the holiday. Any more 19-hour days would've led to burnout, and the agent sighed with relief yet again as she sat at one of the many coffee shops in Chicago, deciding to give Caribous Coffee a shot over Starbucks.

Jill didn't have all that many people to shop for this Christmas -- ironically enough, her social circle was smaller now than it was when she was supposedly the Golden Child at Wolfram & Hart -- but she wanted to make sure she did something for the few people she considered friends. Two bags sat in the chair next to the agent as she nursed her very hot mug, holding a few gifts she'd picked up for her boss at the FBI and Kathleen, with whom she'd formed a friendship with on top of their professional association.

Jill enjoyed how her mug felt in her grasp as the temperatures outside dipped into the single digits. She grew up in the cold in Baltimore, so Jill fully expected to have to bust out the coats and the scarves come December, but nothing could've prepared the agent for the frigid reality of winter along Lake Michigan.

Still, it beat living in the desert -- for any number of reasons.

New boots. In all his years, on his list of priorities, footwear was low on Whistler's totem pole. It never seemed to matter if the soles were worn, a small patch of newspaper inside covered the main issue. If there was a tear by the seam, he'd duct tape the inside. It got him by. Especially in Searchlight; it was a trivial matter to pull off his shoes outside the double-wide and empty out particles of sand before heading inside. And he could usually pass around the odd puddle if caught in a rainstorm.

But Chicago was a whole other story. The environmental beat-down was too much for his toes to bear. And of course he had to discover this right before Christmas. As much as he despised shopping for himself, he hated doing it during the busiest shopping season more. If only people knew the real Santa Claus -- the one who, yes, flew through the air in a sleigh pulled by reindeer, but disemboweled children as opposed to leaving them presents -- the malls might not be so crowded.

Fatigued, the hatted man pushed past a few stragglers at the door to the coffee shop and grabbed the nearest comfortable seat (which took a few looks and three minutes. And maybe a tiny mental push. He was that tired.)

Perhaps the only thing that felt better than the warm red mug cradled in Jill's hands was how the warmth seemed to spread over her every time she took a sip. The agent's coffee tastes weren't all that fancy -- just a regular brew, occasionally mixed in with sugar or creme of some sort. The lattes and cappuccinos of the world weren't really her cup of tea, for lack of a better term, partly because of their outrageous price comparatively speaking.

Seeing a familiar figure slump into a nearby seat, Jill couldn't help but grin a little to herself. It took the agent a few moments -- and two more sips of coffee -- before she finally remembered where she recognized the hatted man, recalling her encounter with him several months -- and a few dozen more degrees -- prior. While he'd initially freaked her out with his little trick of knowing stuff without being told, she felt at ease once he assured her he was on the Powers' side of thing and not the Senior Partners'.

Still, it was slightly disconcerting.

"Guess you don't have to read any minds to tell how cold everyone is," she mused, giving the man whose name she couldn't quite recall to show him she meant no harm.

Whaazzzit now? Whistler hoped he hadn't said that aloud. People tend to look at you funny when you speak in gibberish. He peaked under the brim of his hat to catch a fuzzy and slightly dripping (the snow melting off of his hat, get your mind out of the gutter) outline of a woman he'd met once before. He tried to place her ... right, the art sale exhibit-y thing. He'd managed to snake the statuette from her so Gerald could get freaky at all hours of the night, keeping the Agent awake (and scarred for his incredibly long life).

"Jill Andersen," he harumphed. The Powers wouldn't even let him have a coffee break? That wasn't fair. He pulled on the apron of a passing waitress. "Tall latte, extra foam, cinammon. And a biscotti. On the lady's tab." If Whistler was going to be working, wet feet and all, he might as well enjoy himself.

Eyebrows raised, and Jill actually laughed in spite of herself. The man -- was he a man? -- had some nerve, no doubt there, putting his order on Jill's tab, but for some reason it didn't really bother her. Maybe she was still somewhat unsettled by his apparent ability to dig around in people's heads and get whatever information he needed, and that left her keeping her temper in check -- or maybe it was just her renewed outlook on things. Jill had been much calmer since signing on with the FBI.

Or maybe she figured there were more important things to worry about, now that she saw up-close some of the fallout from the Lincoln Park tragedy. She'd heard how bad it was from those who lived in the city back then, but it wasn't until she saw the fire breather and what was left of Andrea Turnbull that the agent finally realized just how serious that whole thing had been.

"Now I feel bad," she said softly, "cause I can't for the life of me remember your name. Unless you want me to call you 'Statue Guy.'"

That gave him a tiny bit of comfort, though he wouldn't admit it. Being an Agent for the Powers That Be was a double-edged sword. You had a leg up on the badness that swirled in the world, especially post-expansion of the rift opening and portal creation in Chicago. Having people know that you knew... that put a target on your forehead. Giving out business cards to White Hats was the way to go; but with someone like Jill, whose aura still held a tint of black from her time with a demon law firm -- even if she was turning over a new leaf -- it might be dangerous. If she was being watched.

And these days, who wasn't.

Still, chances needed to be taken. If she was on the side of light now, a little trust would go a long way.

"Whistler," he offered, pushing up the brim of his hat so she could see his face properly.

Taking another sip of her mug, Jill mulled over the name for a while, fighting off the urge to shoot back with So, can you actually whistle? It was probably one of those things the man heard a lot, maybe even too often, and the agent didn't want to add to that. Besides, Whistler seemed nice enough, the whole digging into a person's head thing aside.

"Thanks," she said with a grin and a raise of her mug. "'Statue Guy' would've just been awkward."

Taking another sip, Jill closed her eyes and let the warmth spread over her again. She was getting low, so when the waitress passed, she asked for a refill. Even if it wasn't free, the agent wasn't going to pass up the chance to stay warm just a little longer.

"Since I'm paying for your drink, I guess it would be rude of me not to ask how you are. So ... how are you? See any tacky statues of late?"

"The things I've seen would put hair ... uh, nevermind." Best to keep the mind closed. He was tired and pressing thoughts would get the best of him. "My feet are soaked and I'm ready for the year to end." He gave a nod to the waitress as she brought his order. The biscotti was quick to disappear. "Keep puttin' off a trip down south, for the life of me I dunno why. Maybe it's all the paperwork they've got me doing now. I miss the old days."

Whistler shook two packets of sugar into his latte and stirred aimlessly. "How's life treating you?"

Oh, did Jill know the global pain in the ass that was paperwork. Most of her job, not to mention most of those within her department, was centered around paperwork. If she wasn't filing it, the agent was sifting through it, pouring through legal jargon and trying to find one little nugget of intel in a stack of papers that stood about a foot and a half high on her desk. Investigating wasn't always as glamorous and exciting as shows like CSI: and Bones made it look -- those shows always left out the dull bits involving paperwork.

"Oh, you know," Jill began, keeping out details and hoping Whistler was doing any unwarranted digging, "typical FBI stuff, hardly anything else. Just amazed they gave me a week off."

Then again, after everything the agent saw in the quarantine and at Argonne, she needed the time to get away and decompress. The briefing with Washington on the status of Lincoln Park wouldn't be until after the New Year, so Jill was comfortable with the notion of just taking a step back and living her life for a bit. There was no sense in worrying over a case for two weeks when there was nothing more to do for the time being, and now that Jill was far enough along that she felt comfortable with herself. She didn't have anyone to spend the holiday with, but the fact that she was alive to enjoy the holiday at all meant the world to Jill.

Maybe a quick trip back home was in order. Jill had actually been meaning to mend fences with Brian.

"No rest for the wicked, eh? Which probably explains why I was spared the fiasco of reliving the nineteen eighties." He couldn't help but chuckle at that. Granted, he'd gone through something approximating a school system many decades prior, and the thought of reliving that in a John Hughes-inspired nightmare would be more than he could stand. What if he'd asked Rhiannon for her panties to hold up in front of a bunch of strangers?

Oh wait, he probably still had a pair or two tucked away in a drawer. Whistler thought about returning them but, awkward much? 'Hi, in case you run out ...'

"How are you handling the Chicago posting, then?" he asked.

Clasping her palms around the mug once her refill arrived, Jill pulled the warm container closer to her person, taking a moment to enjoy the feeling before taking her first swig of the fresh brew. She cringed, nearly burning her tongue, but soon that pain gave way to the proverbial blanket that washed over her frame as the coffee worked down her esophagus. Few things felt better on a winter's day than a warm drink; the only way it could be better was if Jill was sitting in front of a roaring fireplace, her legs wrapped in a blanket.

Alas, there were no fireplaces or blankets in this particular establishment.

"Let's just say I don't miss Las Vegas," she mused with a knowing smile, giving the man in the hat a level gaze. "Was kinda wandering for a bit, but the Bureau finally gave me a solid, honest-to-God case to work on. It's pretty big important stuff."

That was probably as much as the agent could comfortably say without compromising the secrecy involving her intel. Lincoln Park was common knowledge, to a degree, but Jill understood that she knew a lot more than CNN, WGN or the Chicago Tribune ever bothered to tell anyone. If the federal government considered everything Jill now knew to be classified, there was a reason, and rather than question it, she'd just keep her mouth shut.

Then again ... if Whistler had this mental power thing -- and he did -- and he happened to align himself with some of the more powerful bastions of good in the city (like, say, Slayers), maybe there was no harm in him actually knowing what she knew. What she saw was the sort of thing she figured only Slayers and Watchers could actually deal with successfully, but Jill knew saying something could jeopardize her career, if not land her in prison.

But if she just let him peek into her brain ...

"Stuff I'm not sure the government can really handle."

"Nine times outta ten, the government shouldn't even attempt to handle 'it', Jill." Whistler took a sip of the latte. It warmed his toes nicely. "Even though the secret's mostly out, they're still outta their league. They should really leave the liftin' to the big boys and girls. We, uh, they know what they're doin'."

Jill's eyebrow arched. We? Well, now ... maybe that little hunch of hers was going to prove slightly prophetic after all.

"We," she repeated with a knowing smile, drinking from her mug against before setting it down on the wooden table before her, leaning forward in her seat to close the distance between herself and Whistler. The conversation was probably about to venture into "keep it down" territory, which was to say, the supposedly normal ones surrounding them didn't need to be hearing about this. Not when they were just out enjoying the season leading up to Christmas.

"And what is it that we know how to do?"

Given what he already knew about Jill, the Agent wasn't surprised to see how quickly she picked up on his purposeful slip. The question remained: if he let her into the inner circle, who benefitted more?

"Unless you've been out nights, tracking nasties with a piece o' wood and uber-strength, somethin' tells me yer better suited for intel, Miss Andersen," he offered politely. "But the sum's always greater than its individual parts. Without namin' names, there's enough of us around who could take down just about anything that came rumblin' through the cracks. As long as we knew about it before a big ol' foot stomped down the Sears Tower."

He took another sip of the latte, and grabbed a napkin as a few drips landed on his coat. "Ever watch Cloverfield? Imagine if the military knew what was comin' outta the water before it knocked over the Statue of Liberty."

Whistler had a point, and Jill wasn't surprised that he didn't give any names. If memory served, White Hats were just as secretive, if not more so, than the government itself. Why else would everyone have gotten so bent out of shape over some newspaper article about a year and a half ago? Especially when said article wasn't even the initial toot of the whistle ... well, so to speak.

Folding her arms over her chest, the agent glanced over her shoulder. Her experience as a lawyer -- and dealing with law enforcers trained in interrogation -- she understood what it meant to look for what someone didn't say and pounce on that. It wasn't always a pretty tactic, but there were instances where it was necessary. Given what Whistler did tell Jill, she figured he counted Slayers among his pals.

Which was more than the FBI could say.

"I can't say anything," she offered in a near-whisper. "For obvious reasons. But you're free to get in my head and see for yourself. I gotta warn ya, though ... this little show's got some fucked-up shit in it.

"Viewer discretion advised."

With an open mind and invitation, Whistler got the unrated horror show as if directed by Rob Zombie. Reign of Fire mashed with a twisted vision of Rosemary's Baby in IMAX. A fire-breathing dragon underneath the city. Cripes, that was bad enough. Kudos for the military managing to keep it from being unleashed. Whistler figured that was more luck than anything. But the idea of mutant births, babies eating their kin in the womb to survive and then starting in on itself ... that was a whole level of hell even Dante didn't dream of.

Beads of perspiration dripped down from his temples. "Okay," he breathed. "That's bad."

What was worse, was the Powers had kept him out of the loop. He was going to have words.

"Oh, yeah," the agent replied, her expression suddenly grave. She took another drink of her coffee, thinking she'd probably have gone pale if that wasn't already her natural complexion. The image of what she saw still haunted her, particularly at Argonne.

"Now you see why I want Slayers on federal payroll."

He tried to take another sip of his latte, but Jill's innocent comment would've caused a spit-take. "You were in Vegas, right? 'Cuz they tried that before, and it didn't end so well."

"Cause someone blabbed," the agent retorted, disgusted that the very agent who recruited her into Project: Integration was the one who blew the whistle on everything. For all the deceit and betrayal Jill had to face within Wolfram & Hart's walls, somehow Markowitz's felt worse. Maybe because he promised redemption and nearly brought about Armageddon.

"At any rate," she added, "my point is ... the government means well, but they're in over their head. Apparently, I'm the only one who sees that."

"Not just because they went public," Whistler corrected. "They didn't trust. They manipulated, threatened. Big difference."

Finally he took that drink. It had cooled enough that he was able to drink about half of the cup. As the caffeine rushed to his bloodstream, so did an idea to his brain. "Whatever knowledge they have, we need. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes, Jill?"

Again, the man in the hat had a point. Still, even though she knew next to nothing about Whistler -- other than the fact that he was real good at rooting around in people's heads and getting whatever information he needed -- the agent didn't really feel all that nervous about the prospect of letting him or any of his allies in on her knowledge. Maybe it was the fact that, as she'd said, the government needed help of the supernatural variety.

Or maybe it was just a matter of faith.

"Deal," she said. "I'm not sure we could've downed that fire breather without the Apache. I shudder to think what else is back there."

Whistler summed up the alliance easily to the agent. Jill needed plausible deniability to keep herself within the confines of the FBI, which meant minimal contact. Whistler was all about making contact. He could spread word to those who could act on the intel.

Jill had a chance to earn her angel wings without singe-ing her feathers. And Whistler could give a middle finger to the Powers. Okay maybe not literally...

"Accidentally drop your business card on the table when you leave, right?" he offered. "Don't make it too obvious. I'll be in touch with a secure line that you can reach me at in future."

Taking another sip, Jill nodded. It was a simple enough plan, and at least they were being discreet enough about this that if the government ever found out that "civilians" knew the real truth behind the quarantine, they wouldn't be able to trace it back to Jill. That was her biggest concern at this point: someone finding out that she was sharing classified intelligence and firing her, if not arresting her.

Fortunately, not having to say what she knew helped. If they couldn't prove she said anything or showed any documents, there was no real way to implicate her, was there?

"Thanks," she offered. "And thanks for not poking around my head uninvited."

"Nobody's perfect." Whistler finished the last of his drink, and wiggled his toes gingerly. They were still a bit cold, and his socks were soaked through. He'd need to get out of those soon enough or it would be the cold from hell, round two. "Hey, on your way out, could you get 'em to send over another latte? And ooh, a chocolate cookie. Those never go outta style."

Jill laughed, standing and leaving a couple dollars' tip under the empty mug. "Sure thing," she said, walking past Whistler and making sure to discreetly drop her business card at his feet. Her office phone number was on there, as well as her cell phone. A government-issued cell phone number was also on the card, as well as an email address. Three ways for Whistler to get in touch with her, if the need arose.

"Have a Merry Christmas," she added before approaching the counter, placing the extra order and paying.