After a quiet, uncomfortable breakfast, Gibson and Martha returned to 
their game as Mary removed the dishes. Monica reached across the 
table for John's hand, and he hesitated before joining his hand to 
hers. "I don't think we have to worry about them reporting us to 
Skinner," Monica said, squeezing his hand.

He smiled, his eyes sparkling in the way they did only for 
her. "Leave it to you to find the silver lining in this." He 
squeezed her hand and looked longingly into her eyes.

"I'm sure we'll find many silver linings if we keep looking for 
them," she said encouragingly. They both drew their other hands to 
the center of the table, creating a small mound of fingers in motion.

Their lovers' stare was interrupted by a sudden shout from Gibson, 
whose eyes were intently studying the chessboard. "Get a room!"

Without looking up, Martha said in a non-comittal voice, "Why don't 
you two spend some time in the courtyard?"

They took the hint, and, holding hands, walked through the door to 
the inner courtyard.

The courtyard was nearly square, with porticos surrounding it on all 
sides, each wall containing several large windows, many with wavy 
glass that oddly refracted the bright sunlight despite being in the 
shade. They walked slowly, their arms swaying gently to the rhythm 
of their footsteps. When they had circled the courtyard they found a 
bench by some carefully tended roses, and sat down, their knees 
touching, John's arm around Monica's waist. She sighed loudly and 
leaned against him, and he responded by kissing the top of her hair.

"What are we going to do, John?" she whispered.

He pulled her closer and rested his cheek on her head. "I don't 
know, Mon," he sighed. "But we can't give up."

"No, we can't," she repeated, laying a hand on his thigh. He covered 
it with one of his own.

They sat there for several minutes, each making minute movements as 
they settled into each other, like a house settling on its foundation.

When they heard a rustling sound behind them they both stood up, 
instinctively reaching for their guns. They whirled as one toward 
the source of the sounds. Sister Mary raised her arms in mock fright.

"Relax!" she said as she lowered her arms. "You're among friends."

Reyes lowered her gun first. "Sorry," she apologized. "It's an 
instinct."

"A good one, I'm sure. I'm glad to see that Gibson is in good hands" 
Mary said calmy, advancing toward them. "He is a frightened boy. 
Don't let his bravura fool you." Mary continued walking past Doggett 
and Reyes, and they turned to walk with her. "But he trusts you," 
she continued.

"We promised we'd watch out for him," Doggett said matter-of-factly.

"And you have," Mary pointed out.

Doggett and Reyes stopped walking simultaneously and stared at her. 
"Why wouldn't we?" Reyes asked.

Mary continued walking, and the pair caught up to her in a few long 
strides. "What are your plans? He trusts you but he's anxious."

"Plans for him?" Doggett said incredulously. "We don't have an idea 
for ourselves yet!"

"We can't go home," Reyes asserted. "Not right away."

"But you do plan to take care of Gibson?" Mary asked.

"Of course!" Reyes and Doggett answered together. They looked at 
each other giddily, then reached for each other's hand.

"We'll see to it that he's safe before we do anything else," Monica 
added.

"He'll be safe here," Mary assured them. "People like him... like 
*you* ... are the reason this monastery exists. Do you understand?"

They had come full circle and were once again standing at the bench 
near the roses. A bee hovered over one rose, and as it started 
lowering itself to a petal Mary waved it away.

"No, I don't," said Doggett with some annoyance. "But if he'll be 
safe here... and happy.... that's good enough for me."

Monica fingered the petal of one rose, taking in its velvety 
smoothness as her eyes roved over the features of the 
cloister. "This is a beautiful, serene place," Monica said 
softly. "I like it here."

"You can stay as long as you like," Mary offered.

"What would be *your* plans for Gibson?" Monica asked, still 
caressing the rose petal.

"We don't have a plan, either," Mary admitted. "We haven't had a boy 
stay here 
for more than a few days. But we'll do what we can for him."

Monica looked to John, searching his face for an answer to her 
unasked question. "I'd like to talk to him before making a 
decision," she said seriously.

As if summoned, Gibson emerged from the heavy oak doorway and walked 
purposefully toward them. "You wanted to talk to me?" he asked 
Monica.

Monica sat down at one end of the bench, and Gibson sat in the 
middle. John followed suit and sat at the other end, his knees and 
Monica's forming a sheltering "V" on either side of Gibson's much 
shorter legs. 

"We need to know what you want to do next, Gibson," Monica said 
gently, placing a hand on the boy's forearm. "We will support you in 
whatever you want to do. I want you to know that."

Gibson's chest heaved a few times, and he blinked several quick 
blinks against gathering tears. John turned away, studying his 
fingernails, noting the oil and grease that had worked their way into 
his rugged hands, resolving to take better care of his appearance for 
Monica's sake... Anything to keep Gibson from sensing the pity that 
had started welling up inside.

"What I want," Gibson croaked. "ALL I want... is just to have a 
normal life."

For a long moment, Monica and John looked into each other's eyes over 
the top of Gibson's head, until Monica broke the stare with a sigh.

"I know," Gibson sighed, unconsciously mimicking Monica's sigh. "I 
can never have a normal life. And neither can you."