Title:  Partners 

 

Category:  Episode-related: Deep Water

 

Summary:  Jim's record with partners over the years is a lot like his record with vehicles.

 

Rating:  PG (nothing you wouldn't find on the tv)

 

Notes:  As you are no doubt aware, TS canon can be somewhat...slippery...so I warn you that I had to make some tricky timeline choices to satisfy canon, police dept procedures, etc.  Hopefully, it'll work well enough for everyone to enjoy.  Also, there are a couple of references to my first TS story, Lost and Found, although they are extremely minor. Thanks to Toni Rae and Sheryl for beta services and Linda the Canon Queen for helping me with canon questions.  Hope you enjoy. 

 

Email me--I'm a work in progress!

 

============================================

 

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa.  Stop right there, Chief."

"I know, I know.  I'm never to refer to us as partners.  I'm strictly the observer."

--Siege

 

============================================

 

~~Fall, 1996~~

 

Pigs.

 

How many times had Blair heard the epithet from his mom or his friends or his students?  How many times had he used it himself?  A dozen?  Fifty?  A hundred?  He didn't know.  And how ironic to be standing awash in a sea of them this afternoon. 

 

Perspective is a funny thing.  Before the last year or so, he'd seen cops all the time.  He'd seen them the same way everyone around him had always seen them.  Breaking up parties.  Confrontations with protesters.  DUI checkpoints.  Giving that second look the long-haired college kid always got as they drove by him.  The usual things any good little pawn of the government did.

 

But he'd never seen them this way.  Never seen them standing near to each other on the green lawn around a coffin, black dress uniforms providing a stark contrast to the bright sun and lush grass.   Never listened to rote words read aloud from the Bible and witnessed that combination of sadness and guilty relief at the knowledge that there but for the grace of God went each one of them.  Never seen the way families were placed carefully in the front row and treated like cut glass by men and women they'd never met.  Never listened to the overlapping sound of Amazing Grace and a twenty-one gun salute.  Never saw the way an officer looked as he said good-bye to his partner. 

 

The thought made him glance up to sneak a peek at Jim.  The eternal enigma was perched on a concrete bench up on top of the short hill overlooking the cemetery, talking to Emily Carson.  Blair had known Jim would come here today.  When asked, though, Jim had just clammed up.  Said Jack Pendergrast wouldn't have wanted this funeral service.  And that Jim already said his good-byes four years ago anyway--he didn't see any need to do so in public.  Good old Jim.  God forbid he let anyone know he was feeling anything.  Blair had just smiled and nodded and come here knowing full well Jim would find a way to share this with his late partner. 

 

Blair smiled to himself.  His partner was just so predictable sometimes.

 

Partner.  He had a whole new perspective on the word after this week.  Truth be told, he was just the tiniest bit embarrassed at having bandied around the term so recklessly since meeting up with Jim.  He meant well, but he just hadn't understood.  And how could he, not ever having had one himself?  How could he have even begun to understand all the complex things wrapped up in that little word for men like Jim and Simon and Jack Pendergrast? 

 

One thing Blair did know, though--he would be a better one after this because he understood what it was about now.  It was about being there no matter what; it was about never giving up on a person; it was about two people against the whole world when it counted.  It was about giving a man what he needed whether or not he wanted it.

 

Jack Pendergrast had taught him that, despite being four years dead.

 

Which meant that he was glad to be able to represent Jack's former partner--his family--this afternoon.  It gave him the chance to honor Jack himself.  He'd come to realize, after this week, that Jack was as important to Blair's current partnership as he had been to his own.  He was Blair's forerunner, blazing trails through Jim Ellison's life that Blair was happily walking down.  He'd boldly gone where no one had gone before.  Seen through all Jim's defensive crap and been the man's friend.  And Blair had just spent a week watching the level of friendship and trust and loyalty Jim had offered back.  Watching what being Jack's partner had meant to him.  It was a humbling experience. 

 

And that left him with his own private purpose in coming here today.  He wanted to make sure Jack knew that Blair understood now.  He needed to tell Jack that he got it. 

 

It might sound a little strange to most people.  Or a lot strange.  Certainly if he got caught by any of the cops here today, he'd never hear the end of it.  But he wanted to do it anyway.  He felt he should.  He owed Jack.

 

The somber crowd was breaking up quickly now as the minister finished, leaving almost as silently as they had stood during the ceremony.  Blair deliberately lingered near the grave, though, waiting until Simon finished saying whatever good-byes a captain needed to offer his officer.  Finally out of earshot of the others, he had just a quick moment to do what he wanted to do.  What he'd come to do. 

 

He thought about the man they were burying here, about the bits and pieces of Jack Pendergrast he'd learned over the investigation.  About the bits and pieces Blair had learned about his time with Jim Ellison.  What did he want to say to the man now that he had his one chance?

 

How did he explain what he owed to Jack Pendergrast?

 

==========================================

==========================================

 

~~Cascade Police Headquarters, Narcotics Division, Spring 1991~~

 

"Officer Ellison.  Meet your new partner, Detective Nick Vanderhous."

 

In response to Captain Myerson's introduction, Jim took the proffered hand.  He took a scant minute to size up the man in front of him.  Average height and build, slightly graying hair, an unreasonably chipper demeanor, impeccably dressed, the casual click of chewing gum.  The man had been here a long time--he was more than at home in his environment.

 

"Jim," he introduced himself, standing at just the right distance so as to be pleasant but not too open.

 

"Nick."  The other officer moved forward during the handshake, stepping into Jim's carefully delineated personal space.  Intentional or not?  "So you're fresh off the Academy fast track, huh?"

 

"Guess so."  Jim stepped back marginally, out of the other's space.

 

"Before that?"

 

"Military."

 

"Army, right?"

 

Jim was surprised.  He knew he radiated 'military' but it was rare for someone to pin down the branch.  "How'd you know?"

 

"I know all sorts of things.  Like, for example, how was the weather down in Peru?"

 

Jim glanced sharply at the man who had slid away to lean casually on a file cabinet near the captain's desk, clearly sizing Jim up as well.  He absently noted that Detective Vanderhous was blocking the only exit from the room.  In the jungle, it would have been an automatic sign of aggression.  Jim fought the urge to respond to it.

 

Vanderhous just laughed.  "Relax, partner.  I saw the magazine cover last fall.  That's Lesson Number One--know the answers to questions before you ask them.  Good research will do half your job for you."

 

Jim forced himself to relax.  Reminded himself this wasn't the jungle, and his new partner wasn't an enemy.  "I'll keep it in mind."  The words were carefully toned not to betray his discomfort at losing the advantage, though.

 

"So," Captain Myerson cleared his throat, no doubt to remind his officers he was still there, "if you two want to continue this, feel free to do so.  Outside my office."

 

"Sure, Captain.  C'mon, Ellison."

 

"Jim," he corrected again.  If they were going to be working together, he needed to start by making nice to the man.

 

"Okay, Jim.  I'll show you where you can park your stuff and then we've got a briefing.  Bye, Cap."

 

Myerson barely waved them off, not lifting his head from the paperwork filling his desk. 

 

"By the way, partner, you're buying lunch."

 

"I am?"

 

"Sure.  You don't think I'm gonna share all of my wisdom with you for free, do you?"  Vanderhous grinned cheekily.

 

==============================

 

~~Late Summer, 1991~~

 

"Hey, Jimmy!  You listening to me?"

 

Nick tossed his hat at the back of his partner's oblivious head.  Jim turned around and gave him a regulation glare before retrieving the hat off the floor.  "That was mature, Nick."  He flung the hat back frisbee-style.

 

"Well, you know, the methods are determined by the audience."  Nick laughed, pleased with himself.

 

He slid the hat carefully back up on the shelf and shook out his jacket.  Across the room, he heard Jim throw his stuff into his own locker and slam the door shut before it rolled back out at him.  Jim hated this kind of thing.  Hated 'those fancy-damn-schmancy hen parties' he had to wear them to.  Nick had to drag his partner kicking and screaming to anything that even remotely smelled of formality or pomp and ceremony.  Jim just complained about the time they were wasting that could be better spent doing actual work.  Getting something accomplished.  The problem was that Jim never understood how much he could accomplish using his brains and his character around the brass rather than his gun and his fists down in the trenches.  No one was watching down there, not the people who counted.

 

"So, as I was saying," Nick continued with a pointed glare at Jim, "you have to learn how to work these things, kid.  Your good record--"

 

"Excellent record."

 

"--excellent record will only get you so far, Jimmy."  Nick adjusted his tie as he sauntered over to the mirror, never missing a beat on counseling his partner. "You missed some real opportunities to rub elbows with important people today.  That could really help your career, believe me."

 

"I do fine, Nick."

 

"'I do fine.'  We'll see what you say in twenty years when you're still in uniform.  Trust me, I learned my lesson way too late."  Then he forced his tone light again.  "But you can do better.  You shmooze a little here and shmooze a little there, then you get bumped up and get the kind of paycheck you deserve."

 

Jim stood up and checked his uniform in the same mirror.  Nothing out of place.  Perfect, just the way he liked it.  "I told you already, Nick, I'm not gonna go around kissing ass to get anywhere."

 

"And I'm trying not to hold that against you, kid.  Really, I'm not."  Nick held the door open for them.  "But that doesn't mean I stop trying." 

 

The guy's naiveté was just amazing.  Look at how he did something as simple as exiting into the hallway.  The moment Jim stepped out into the busy precinct, he was on alert.  He acted like every damn thing was some kind of mission.  Even in the middle of the building, he couldn't stop it. 

 

Nick, on the other hand, knew when to shut off.  Out there, that was their job, their responsibility.  In here was someone else's.  Nick would work the precinct a little before they headed out, leaving his own brand of lasting impression on everyone he passed.  It was how he operated.

 

"Hey, Nick!  You on for poker Friday?"

 

The call waylaid Nick before they even reached the elevator.  Jim stopped and waited.

 

"Would I miss a chance to rid you guys of your insignificant paychecks?"  Nick leaned in then and whispered a few vague promises to Tina behind the desk and got a giggle in response.

 

Nick spent another ten minutes idly joking with the other officers and harassing the civilians.  He knew how to work it--it was his specialty.  It got him good back-up, fresh coffee, plum cases, the occasional date or two, next week's poker winnings lined up.  He'd spent some time trying to get Jim to loosen up, to work it a little too, but the kid was a tough nut.  Too much Army, too little politics.  But he was determined to get through to Jim before too long.  Nick himself was coming too close to retirement with a crappy pension package and no real plan to let his partner end up doing the same. 

 

After all, he was Jim's partner.  That's what partners do.

 

=============================

 

~~Fall 1992~~

 

These were the days he loved in Cascade.  Walking the lazy path that led from the warehouse district down through the waterfront with the bright post-rainstorm sun beating down on them and a soft breeze wafting in from the bay, Jim had to smile.  This was good. 

 

Actually, this was great.  He felt great.  Everything around him seemed to just feel so alive today.  The sun felt warmer, the sounds louder, the breeze off the bay cooler.  The delicious aroma of a bakery hung around him and he breathed deeply to inhale it.  Conversations seemed to erupt all around him as they walked, his instincts snatching bits of them as they passed people.  Even the colors around him seemed brighter today.  Reds were redder, yellows yellower, blues bluer. 

 

It was a damn strange feeling. 

 

At least it was better than the dreams he'd had last night, though.  Twice he'd woken up from crazy dreams of the jungle, of the crash and the Chopec.  Bizarre images that dragged him right back to the dreams he'd suffered during the weeks following his 'rescue' from Peru.  Himself running in the jungle, or big cats and warriors.  A blue-tinged world.  He didn't know what to make of it all, the images both unsettling and somehow reassuring at the same time.  Either way, he was left with the vague feeling that something was trying to get his attention--he just didn't know what it was.

 

He shook his head to clear the cobwebs.  He hated that kind of crap.  Reality provided more than enough problems to deal with.

 

"Here, partner, go get us some lunch."

 

Jim broke out of his reverie to take the ten his partner was pushing at him. "I thought we were going to Giamella's today."

 

"You thought wrong.  Across the street."  Nick pointed at the hot dog vendor on the opposite corner.  "Just go.  You know what I want."

 

Jim held the bill, still confused by the sudden change of plans.  "Aren't you coming?"

 

"Me, uh no."  Nick was watching something over Jim's left shoulder.  Jim turned around, but there was nothing.  A bunch of cars, an alley, no people--nothing interesting in the least.  "I'll be along in a sec."

 

"Why?" 

 

"I just gotta go do something."  He gave Jim a slight shove toward the street.  "Go order us some dogs and I'll be right back."

 

Jim suppressed a frown as his partner took off across the street.  What was he up to?  Okay, technically, it wasn't like it was the first time Nick had taken off to 'handle something' while they were on duty.  The man had a lot of extracurricular activities, to be completely truthful.  He was famous for juggling the ladies.  And he had a penchant for taking on all sorts of unofficial troubles that came to his attention.  So why make an issue of this? 

 

The hot dog cart had a typical lunch line--harried businesspeople looking for a quick fix.  Jim waited patiently while the yuppies decided what damn brand of bottled water they were gonna have with their meal, trying to keep his jaw from clenching.  Finally, using his height and uniform to his advantage, he 'encouraged' the last one in front of him to make a decision and move on.  Soon, a heart-attack-on-a-bun in each hand, he briskly headed back to wait for Nick.

 

After a couple minutes of watching the alleyway Nick had disappeared into long-distance, he carefully crossed the street.  He got to the mouth of the alley and tried to look casual.  Right--like a 6 foot 2 inch cop in full uniform was gonna look casual anywhere.  Where the hell was Nick, anyway?

 

Jim's radio went off, a burst of static followed by Dispatch's shrill, tinny voice.  Something was going on down on Fourth.  He mentally calculated the distance and decided they could make it in on the action.  Assuming, of course, he could get Nick back out from whatever it was that had diverted his attention.

 

He gave up and ducked into the gritty, shadowed alley.  Nick and a couple of guys in suits were engaged in a heated discussion halfway down the small street.  Just as Jim came around the corner, he saw one of the Suits tuck an envelope in Nick's breast pocket.  The Suit looked way too familiar.  In a way that made Jim's hackles rise.  He knew that guy, but not from the corner grocery store or the dry-cleaners.  He had a quick mental flash of a mug-shot, but couldn't place a name to a face.

 

Still...

 

"Nick?" he called.

 

Nick turned around from the Suit, smiling as he did so.  He walked toward Jim without a backward look at the Suits.  "Hey, partner."

 

"Nick, what's going on here?"

 

"Nothing."  Reaching Jim's side, Nick patted his partner gently on the shoulder.  "Don't worry about anything.  What's up?"

 

"Nick," he repeated, not that easily distracted.  The Suits were watching him coolly.

 

Nick put his arm around Jim's shoulders and guided his partner several feet back toward the street.  "Relax, Jimmy.  Just some business.  What's up?  You can't be on your own for a minute, huh?" he added patronizingly.

 

Nick's calm demeanor was so forced, it was almost painful to watch.  It made Jim's spider-sense kick into overdrive.  "Nick, what are you not telling me?"

 

"Nothing you need to know."  That eerie, brittle smile remained plastered on Nick's face. 

 

"Nick..." Jim warned.

 

"Just relax, Jim.  Trust me--I'm your partner.  What's up?"

 

Jim's jaw unclenched slightly.  What was he making a fuss out of?  Nick was right--he was Jim's partner and Jim trusted him.  "A call."

 

"Okay.  Let's go."

 

Still uneasy, Jim looked behind Nick and saw the Suits just leaving the other end.  He reluctantly let Nick guide them both back to the street.  He needed to just put it out of his mind.  Relax, like Nick had said.  It was nothing.  He had to trust his partner.  There just wasn't any other option.

 

Just as they exited the alley, Jim thought he saw something move behind him.  He turned around in time to see what looked suspiciously like the tail of a large black cat disappear behind a dumpster. 

 

"What the hell?"

 

Nick turned as he hit the curb, a look of distraction on his face now.  "What?"

 

Jim looked back into the alley again.  There wasn't anything that didn't belong.  It must have been his imagination.  "Nothing.  Let's go."

 

======================================

 

"Jimmy!  C'mon!  I don't want to be here all night doing paperwork."

 

Amidst the raucous noise of the police garage, Jim gathered up the last of the fast-food wrappers from their car. Nick wasn't exactly fastidious about his vehicle, so Jim usually cleaned up after them both.  At first, he'd pointed it out to his partner; but after a few months of driving around with him, he'd learned it didn't bother Nick at all.  So Jim just took care of it himself and moved on.

 

But something white and crinkled was under the driver's seat, peeking out from under the wrappers.  He grabbed absently at the wad, intent on shoving it in the sack with the rest of the day's garbage.   No, not a paper.  An envelope.

 

The envelope.  The small, white envelope Jim had seen Nick take yesterday afternoon from the familiar-looking man in the suit.  He stared at it for a long minute. There might be fingerprints on it.  It might answer his questions.  Or it might not.  It might make more questions.  Or it all might all be perfectly explainable. 

 

All he had to do was tuck it in his pocket.  Or throw it in the garbage bag. 

 

Keep it or toss it.  Keep or toss.

 

"Hey, Jimmy, you comin'?"  Nick's voice startled him, booming across the garage. 

 

Keep or toss.

 

He fumbled the envelope into his jacket pocket and zipped it out of sight before yelling back at his partner and following him inside the station.

 

He needed to know.

 

=========================

 

Forensics was quiet when Jim forced himself to go inside.  He'd walked past it for two days now, ignoring its pull.   Two days, plus the whole weekend, while he thought of all sorts of reasons why he was completely wrong.  Why there wasn't any reason to go inside with the little white envelope in his pocket.  But, in the end, there wasn't really any choice.  He had to follow his instincts--they were all he'd ever had to rely on. 

 

As he pushed the door open, he tried to look casual even though he was sure he had 'I'm investigating my partner' written on his forehead.

 

"Hey, Ellison."  The chief was chowing down on his lunch across the lab.  He greeted Jim with a mouthful of sprouts.  "What's up?"

 

"Not much.  How's it going down here?"

 

He waved at the mess of his department, stacked high with files and evidence in various stages of completion.  "You know.  Same old same old."

 

"Great.  Um, listen, I've got something I need dusted for prints."  He held out the envelope.

 

The chief pointed to the counter with one mayonnaise-laden finger.  "Nick making you do the legwork again?"

 

Jim set the envelope in its bag onto the counter.  "No, um, this is just something for me.  A hunch I'm following up."

 

He grinned back, nodding in a knowing kind of way.  "Bucking for some brownie points, huh, Ellison?  Can't wait to get to Detective, can you?"

 

God, if only it were that simple.  "Something like that."

 

"Okay, sure.  You got a rush on this?"

 

He did, but a rush order would probably cause more flags to go up than he cared to deal with.  "No.  Like I said, just a hunch," he added casually.

 

"Okay, then.  We can probably get to it tomorrow or Wednesday."

 

"That'll be fine.  Thanks."  Jim turned to leave, eager to get back to his partner before he was missed.

 

"Hey, Ellison!  You want us to let you or Nick know when it's done?"

 

"No."  That hadn't been too abrupt, had it?  "No, I'll come by tomorrow for the results.  Nick..."  Yeah?  Nick what, Jim?  "...doesn't exactly know about this hunch.  I'd rather make sure before I bring it up to him, you know?"

 

"Sure." An exaggerated waggle of the Chief's eyebrows in his direction.  "I get it--you're not the first rookie who wants to look good for ol' Nick.  Not a problem."

 

"Thanks."

 

=========================

 

Forensics was as prompt as usual.  When he came in Thursday morning, they had a file all nice and ready with the results on the fingerprints they found on the envelope.  Jim had politely thanked them.  Then stuffed the file in his locker and ignored it all day.

 

But the day was done, and he was running out of excuses.  He had no choice but to either look at the file or admit he wasn't going to do it.  So he retrieved it from his locker but still couldn't quite get himself to open it.  Across the bullpen, he could see Nick idly flirting with Myerson's secretary.  Nick and Julie had been at it for months now, dancing the dance.  Currently the score was Nick 0 and Julie 1.  Nick was obviously trying to even the score. 

 

Jim couldn't help but think about the man Nick had been talking with four days ago.  He knew he'd seen the man before, but couldn't place him. He did know it was in the line of duty, whenever he had seen this guy.  That, in turn, gave him a really bad gut feeling about this whole thing.

 

The shift was changing and people filled the space between him and his partner, blocking his view for a few seconds.  When it cleared again, his partner was laughing, leaning in toward Julie.  He was probably telling her that unverifiable little story about him and the northern lights.  Jim had heard variations of it several times since he'd met Nick.  Nick paused mid-story to tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear with a feather-light touch. 

 

Jim's eyes dropped back to the file in his hands, still staring stonily back at him.  He was walking a fine line here.  If he did this...thing...he was considering, then he was saying he didn't trust his partner.  If he checked up on his partner, what kind of partner was he himself?

 

Yes or no, Jim.  Figure it out.  Make a choice, goddammit.

 

Nick laughed, reached over and tucked something into Julie's pocket. 

 

The man in the alley had tucked something in Nick's pocket, too.  The man Jim knew.  Who was he?

 

Jim ducked out into the hallway and across it into the men's room.  No one was inside.  He had it all to himself.  No more excuses and no better time.

 

C'mon, Jim.  Open it.

 

It was probably nothing.  It would be a relief to have it over.  He'd feel horrible to be sure, but he'd be able to look his partner in the eye again.  He hadn't been able to since he first took the strange envelope from their car.  Not when he knew Nick had never done anything to give even the slightest impression that he wasn't completely above-board.  In fact, he'd been nothing but good to Jim since they'd met. 

 

Most importantly, he'd been there for Jim.  In the ways that counted.  He made Jim whiskey shooters after his first time discovering a dead kid.  He taught him how to use snitches and how to make paperwork get done in half the time it was supposed to take.  He set Jim up with some of the most gorgeous women in Cascade whenever he thought Jim was just a little too alone.  He even took Jim in for a couple of weeks when his apartment went condo and he'd had to find a new place to live.  There certainly wasn't anything Nick had ever done to warrant this kind of distrust.

 

And when he did have it confirmed he was just chasing ghosts here, Jim realized he'd need to tell Nick about this.  It was a serious breach of friendship.  You didn't go around checking up on your partner--your friend--behind his back.  It was just wrong.  You couldn't trust a man who was doing that to you.

 

Open it, Jim.  Get it done so you can go grovel to your partner.

 

He opened it.

 

There was a mug shot clipped to the front cover.  Jim recognized the man immediately as the Suit in the alley.

 

Damn.

 

His eyes scrolled down to the name and specifics.  Martin Thompson.  A 36-year-old businessman with a little side-business.  Heroin.  'Little'--right.  'Huge' was more like it.  Thompson was probably responsible for half the heroin making the rounds of Cascade.  Four times, he'd been hauled in and four times he'd gotten off.  Laughing at them while he made dinner reservations for him and his high-priced lawyer.  No one could prove anything.

 

What the hell had Nick been taking from this bastard?

 

And why the hell did Jim have to be right about this?

 

===================================

 

Jim had been putting the subject off all day Friday.  But the day was almost done now, with only the drive back to the station left, and he really needed to get it over with.  He just couldn't figure out a way to bring it up.  Oh, he'd tried.  More than once.  But how exactly do you say, 'Hey, bro, what were you taking from that known heroin dealer last Friday?'  Over lunch?  During the drive back from the meth lab bust this afternoon?  Over drinks at Tony's?

 

"Hey, Jimmy.  I gotta get going."

 

Huh?  Jim was startled out of his thoughts. He eyed his partner warily out of the corner of his eye.  A horn blared down the street, diverting his attention for a quick second.  "Why?"

 

"I got some business to take care of."

 

"Business."

 

"Okay, pleasure maybe.  You know--places to go, women to entertain.  I'll catch you back at the precinct."

 

"Nick..." Jim ground the word out between teeth that refused to unclench.

 

"What?"  Nick smacked Jim on the shoulder when his partner didn't cough up an answer immediately.  "Jeez, kid, you're always so melodramatic.  You should'a been an actor.  So what's up?  You've been brooding all week."

 

"You've been disappearing a lot lately."  Every Friday, in fact, now that Jim had started paying attention to his partner's comings and goings.

 

"Hey, there's a lot of women in this city to please."  He headed toward the street.

 

"Is that all?"

 

"What, you want pictures?  Jeez, Jimmy, you not getting any?"

 

"Is something going on?"  There--he'd said it.

 

"Hey, kid, keep up that interrogation, you'll make detective in no time!"  Nick just laughed and turned away from Jim to cross the street.  Late afternoon commuter traffic held him on the curb for a few seconds.

 

"Nick," Jim pressed, countering Nick's move away with one of his own that brought them back into arm's reach of each other, "I'm serious."

 

"So am I.  It's none of your business, Jim."

 

"I'm making it mine."

 

"And I'm vetoing it.  Senior partner and all."  Nick glared at the traffic light, muttering about how long it was taking to change.

 

Jim pressed closer to Nick again.  He watched the back of Nick's jacket as he gestured frustratedly at the traffic.  "What were you doing with Martin Thompson last Friday?"

 

Nick stopped moving, but didn't turn around.  With his back still to him, Jim couldn't see his partner's face, but he could see the tension the question had brought up in his back and neck.  "Nothing."

 

"Not nothing.  He gave you something."  Jim pressed on, guiltily grateful his partner was looking away.  He wasn't sure he could keep going if he had to face Nick while he was doing it.

 

"Just let it go, Jim."  The tone in Nick's voice was controlled, deliberate and deadly.  It was a well-trained tone Jim had only heard used on perps.

 

"I can't."

 

Finally, Nick turned halfway around.  He pinned Jim with intense eyes.  "You have to."

 

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

 

"It means this conversation is over."

 

Nick walked away, leaving Jim staring after him, unsure of exactly what had just happened.  What was he supposed to do now?  Nick had all but admitted to being involved in something bad.  Very, very bad.  Nick wasn't prone to exaggeration when he was actually being serious.  And the look in his eyes said this was most assuredly serious. 

 

===================================

 

Jim faked a sickness for the first time in his life a week later.  Friday, exactly two weeks after the initial...incident.  He called in and told Julie he'd had bad fish the night before.  She'd sounded so sympathetic he almost couldn't bear it.  Then he borrowed a car, telling Frank Berretti that his truck was in for repairs.  Frank had been so sympathetic, too. 

 

Now Jim was parked on Fourth, in as nondescript clothes as could find, waiting for his target to come walking around the corner from the coffee shop on Wilkinson he stopped for coffee at every single morning Jim had known him. 

 

His target.  It was so much easier to fall back on Ranger training--to think of him as the target.  A quarry, that was all.

 

Sure enough, Nick came strolling around the corner at precisely ten-fifteen, Jim's fill-in in tow. Jim hunkered farther into the shadows cast by the car's roof and watched them.  He waited until the two officers rounded the corner and found their car. 

 

He spent the entire morning carefully keeping several cars back lurking on foot around alleys and doorways.  Old covert training making sure he stayed one step ahead of Nick's cop instincts.  He watched his partner work their cases, protect their city.  Watched him treat Mr. Replacement to lunch at Charlie's.  Watched him tell those always-inventive stories to the kid to keep them both entertained during the long shift.  Watched him laugh and joke with the kid.

 

Damn.  Why did it always seem to end up with Jim on the outside looking in?

 

Jim shook his head and forced himself back on track.  His target.  That was all this was.  He needed to remember that.

 

Right.

 

It was nearly two o'clock when Jim saw Nick send the rookie off into the diner on Alverson.  The kid had a notepad and received some instructions from Nick before his partner shoved him in the direction of the doors.  The kid looked scared to death.

 

Jim waited, his hackles raised.  This just felt way too familiar.  How many times had he been sent to take statements alone?  To interview potential witnesses, to follow what Nick always called his 'cop hunches'?  So often sent off alone.

 

And why hadn't it ever raised any flags?

 

Nick hung out on the corner for just a moment after his partner went inside.  Then, with a grim glance around the neighborhood, crossed the street into the alley that led to Smith Road. 

 

Jim hesitated, tucked in a doorway.  He couldn't seem to make his feet work.  Confused, he stared at them.  He didn't feel connected to his body any more.  This wasn't how it was supposed to happen.  He was supposed to have found nothing.  He was supposed to have felt embarrassed and gone back to work Monday with a hell of a lot to explain.

 

Dammit.  He closed his eyes and concentrated.  He had a duty here.  He had to cross the street.  It was such a simple thing, why couldn't he do it?  C'mon, Jim. 

 

One foot.

 

The other.

 

Left.

 

Right.

 

Forward momentum carried him to the opposite curb and to the mouth of the alley.  He crouched down well behind a rusty, foul-smelling dumpster and peeked around it.

 

Thompson.

 

Damn.

 

Thompson and Nick went into a door about two-thirds of the way down the alley.  Disappeared for several minutes.  Jim waited, silent and still, all the while hoping the earth would swallow him up right there.

 

When they finally emerged, Jim scooted farther back out of sight until he saw Nick walk past him on his way back to the street.  He waited another five minutes huddled behind the trash before he stood up and walked over to the door his partner and Thompson had gone in.  Took a deep breath and jimmied the lock as fast as he could.  Ten seconds later, he was hurried inside the door before he could think about what he was doing.

 

The small warehouse was old.  Abandoned and filthy.  It held little more than dust and broken boards.  A few footprints were scattered around, some old, some new.  He crouched down to examine them.  One set was easy to recognize.  Regulation boots.  They led to the back of the building where some crates sat tucked up underneath old, worn stairs leading to a bolted door above him.  Jim walked over to the boxes and ran a hand across the top of the nearest crate.  No dust.  New, unlike everything else in this building.

 

Giving the door one more glance, he looked around the warehouse until he spotted a small board he could use as a lever.  The crate lid popped open on the third tug, throwing him back with rebound.  He tossed the board down on the ground and pulled the lid the rest of the way off bare-handed.  Amidst the noisy echo of his efforts bouncing around the room, he looked inside.

 

Small packages in plain, unmarked brown wrappers.  He pushed his finger into one until it broke through to the inside.  With one quick taste, he'd confirmed his worst fears.

 

Shit.

 

================================

 

Ray looked up at the hesitant rap on his door.  Two swift, short knocks.  Efficient and unwavering.  Ellison.

 

"Come in."

 

His 'rookie' came in, swallowing the small office in two strides.  Ray, at a good 5 inches shorter than Ellison, resented the man's ability to just take over his captain's office by sheer presence.  Between the height and the military bearing left over from his last job, Ellison was a force to be noticed. 

 

And he was stewing.

 

"Ellison," he acknowledged.  "What's up?"

 

No answer was immediately forthcoming.  Ellison paced half a step back.  Looked outside through the open window.  Looked at Ray's hotrod pictures lining the far wall.  Looked back through the inside window to the busy bullpen.

 

Ray shifted gears into Captain mode.  "Sit."

 

Ellison looked up.  He looked like he'd forgotten why he had come inside.

 

"Sit, Jim."

 

Obediently, the man sat down in Ray's empty visitor chair.  Ray himself abandoned his work to come around the desk, perching on the front edge.  Closer to his prey.  "Tell me," he ordered.

 

Ellison's eyes continued to flit around the room, although the rest of him was ramrod straight and completely still.  Ray knew from experience that when Ellison got really upset, military training came to the fore.  It was not a good sign.

 

"Tell me," he repeated, drawing up his well-honed Captain's voice.

 

"It's probably nothing.  I mean, I'm not sure of anything...."

 

"What?"

 

"Nick."  The word was bitten out.

 

Ray started to get itchy about the direction this was taking.  "What about Nick?"

 

"I, uh, I saw him with Martin Thompson."

 

Ray was stopped in his tracks.  Thompson was notorious around CPD.  He'd gotten off more times than should be legally allowable.  How many times did they have to haul the guy in and have him waltz right out the front door of the courthouse and back into his business?

 

"What was he doing?" he asked carefully.

 

Ellison looked out the window again, suddenly looking incredibly interested in the sanitation truck making pinging noises as it backed up next to the window. 

 

"What was he doing, Jim?"

 

"He took something from Thompson."  Ellison still wouldn't look at him.

 

"Took what?"

 

"I don't know.  An envelope."

 

An envelope.  Envelopes carried things inside them.  Good things and bad things.  "Did you talk to Nick about it?"

 

"Yes."

 

"And?"

 

He turned to face Ray this time.  Reddened, tortured eyes.  Ray suddenly wondered if Ellison had slept at all since whatever this was had started to eat at him.  "And he warned me to stay out of it."

 

"God."

 

"Yessir."

 

"Wait, that doesn't necessarily mean anything."

 

Ellison squirmed in his chair.  Shifted first to one side then the other.  "I, uh, I followed him."

 

"You what?"

 

"I had to know."

 

"When you called in sick?"

 

Ellison just nodded, not even surprised when Ray made the connection.   "I followed him," he repeated.  "And he met with Thompson."

 

"Where?"

 

"Alley off Smith and Alverson.  There's an old warehouse."

 

"And?"

 

The eyes found a spot on Ray's desk and concentrated on it.  "Heroin.  Crates of it, from what I could tell, pretty recently moved."

 

"Shit."  Ray didn't know what to say.  The bullpen noises suddenly got too loud to think.  One of his people. Nick.  The man had been with CPD for more years than just about anyone in his department.  He was a cornerstone of this department.  What if it was bad?  How bad could it get?  Thompson wasn't a street corner hood; he was a multi-million dollar heroin dealer.

 

Shit.

 

The Captain in Ray took over.  He stood up, leaving all traces of informality behind.  "Do you have reason to believe Detective Vanderhous is involved in an illegal activity?"

 

Ellison closed his eyes.  "Yes."

 

It wasn't the answer Ray was hoping against hope for.  Ellison was the man's partner, his prodigy; if he was this sure, it wasn't something Ray could afford to take lightly.  "I'm gonna have to set up a surveillance.  Confirm this.  Get IA involved. Collect evidence."

 

Except for his damn eyes, Ellison was still a statue--had moved hardly at all since sitting down.  "Yessir."

 

"You okay?"

 

"Yessir."

 

Right.  He sounded just fine.  Right.  "Go."

 

"Yessir."  Released from his duty, Ellison popped out of the chair like it was red-hot and headed to the door without a word.

 

"Jim?  You did the right thing."

 

He stopped and turned back to Ray.  "I know, sir.  It doesn't help."

 

Ray watched Ellison leave his office a couple inches shorter than he'd been when he'd entered.  Ellison had left something behind in Ray's office when he left.

 

His soul.

 

=======================================

 

Jim was fidgeting. 

 

He knew it.  He could feel his fingers drumming on his thigh.  He could feel his toes scrunching in his shoes.  He could feel his jaw clenching and unclenching. 

 

He was nervous.

 

Which was bizarre.  He didn't get nervous.  Not in the middle of the desert, facing a sniper on the opposite side of an invisible political border.  Not in the middle of the jungle, facing a band of hardened guerrillas.  Not the first time he'd slipped out of a crowded bar and back to a woman's apartment.

 

He just didn't do nervous.  In his line of work, nervous got you killed.

 

But this was like nothing he'd ever experienced before.  No amount of training or bravado could make this moment any better for him. 

 

This was his partner.  The one he'd turned in.

 

IA had followed Nick for weeks now.  They'd been his and Jim's shadow, lurking around in the darkness.  Jim knew they were around because they'd called him in on more than one occasion to grill him.  They'd even been so kind as to let him know how the investigation was going.

 

Seeing as how he'd been the one to initiate it.

 

Now, it was ending.  He was standing outside an abandoned warehouse, listening over a wire to the sounds of his partner making a deal with Thompson.  Thompson's filthy blood money in exchange for Nick's silence about the warehouse, about the things hidden away in warehouses scattered around the city.    Listening as everything they had believed in was being thrown out like so much garbage. 

 

God, he was just so tired.  The police had reinvented James Ellison, had given him a life again.  He'd never felt so fulfilled as he had this last two years.  Until today.  Today, he was a ten-year old boy whose father just skipped the big game.  He was betrayed, cut to the core of everything he believed in.  It had all been a lie--everything Nick had taught him, everything he'd believed Nick was, their whole friendship.

 

He didn't even hear the order Myerson gave to bust in.  There was sudden activity, and Jim's feet carried him to the door of the warehouse just as it was kicked in and the well-placed officers surrounding it came out of hiding.

 

Nick and Thompson were standing in the center, taken completely by surprise. 

 

Why shouldn't they be surprised?  The only one who might suspect anything was Nick's partner--and who the hell would rat out his partner?  Certainly not the cop Nick had personally taken under his wing.  Nope, not him.

 

Damn it all to hell.

 

Thompson reacted calmly, silently putting his hands up with a resigned shrug.  Nick, on the other hand, automatically reached for his gun.

 

"Don't!"  The warning was yelled out by Captain Myerson, standing just inside the doorway.  "Don't," he added in a quieter, earnest voice, "it'll only make this a hell of a lot worse than it already is, Nick.  Don't make one of these officers have to shoot you."

 

Nick whipped his head around to face his partner.  "Damn you, Jim!"

 

"I'm sorry, Nick.  I couldn't...."  Jim didn't know what to say.  Why the hell was he apologizing?

 

"I was your friend.  Your partner, for God's sake!  I was good to you.  I deserved better!"

 

Jim flinched.  "I thought I did, too.  I guess I was wrong."

 

He turned and walked outside, followed by the screeching of his partner's fury.

 

=========================================

 

IA was at him again.  But he couldn't find any tiny part of him that gave a rat's ass about their inane questions.  They rattled on about evidence and drops and alibis and drugs.  Where was Jim during the suspected exchanges?  What did he hear and when did he hear it?  How long did he know?  How did he find out?  Did he see anything?

 

Jim eventually reduced to one-word answers, which melted finally into grunts.  Even IA cops got tired of trying to trying coax anything more out of him and let him go with mild threats and vague accusations.  Jim didn't care.  Why should he?  What could they possibly do to him that was worse than what Nick had done to him?

 

Pulling the door to the interrogation room closed behind him, he wearily scrubbed a hand across his face.  His head had started to throb somewhere during the three hours of being harassed by the Rat Squad.  Somehow, though, he didn't really think it was anything aspirin would be able to cure.  Maybe a stop at Tony's Bar would help.  Looking up, he was startled to find a pair of eyes watching him across the hallway in the doorway to the File Room.

 

And another in the Break Room.  And another in the doorway to the bullpen.  And another.  And another.

 

Eyes--dozens of them--watching him.  Silent and staring.  Angry.  Officers, civilians, support personnel.  The men and women of Narcotics were a sea of silent accusers.  A horde of pissed-off and hurt cops.

 

"What?!?" Jim yelled into the silence.

 

No one moved.  It was an eerie demonstration.

 

Fine.  To hell with them. 

 

Jim marched determinedly down the hallway and out the double doors, slamming them back on their hinges.

 

===============================

 

It only went downhill from there.

 

Jim showed up bright and early the first morning he was cleared to come back to work.  He knew he was chained to a desk until the investigation of Nick was done, but he needed to work--even if it was only paperwork.  It was something.  It was better than hanging around his suddenly claustrophobic apartment, staring at four walls.  He didn't really have much in the way of hobbies or crap like that.  His hobby was what he got paid for--work.  Police work.  So he showered and dressed and drove in to the station to do something useful with his time. 

 

And just like before, he was greeted by a room full of silence.  The cops--uniforms and detectives and civilians alike--seemed to watch him warily.  Watched him with the same cold and calculating look that they used for suspects and lawyers.  He'd never had it turned on him before, never imagined that venom from the receiving end. 

 

Here he'd been going along thinking nothing and no one could possibly make him feel worse than Nick already had.  Wrong.  This was Nick times ten.  Twenty, maybe.

 

For ten mornings after that, he continued to play the game.  Put on his crisp, clean uniform and came in every day precisely at eight o'clock.  He worked on paperwork and the detectives' legwork until twelve o'clock, when he ate lunch alone down the street, and left precisely at five o'clock.  He was resolutely ignored the entire day, given all the common courtesy of a leper.

 

On the eleventh morning, he was cleared for fieldwork again.  Internal Affairs had imperiously decided he didn't know what had been going on with Nick and generously granted him permission to get on with his life.  Jim had hoped it would get better when he could get out of the precinct.  Unfortunately, the only difference was that he was ignored long-distance. 

 

This morning had been the worst, though.  Jim spotted the tail-end of a convenience store robbery on his way to work.  It was a simple thing--should have taken three minutes, tops.  He stopped and called for back-up, then chased the suspects on foot.  He caught one, but lost the other when back-up failed to show in time.  Headed back to the Jeep, he cuffed the guy and waited for a cruiser.

 

None came.

 

He waited half an hour before hauling the guy in on his own.  Dispatch politely assured him all units had been busy.

 

Busy.

 

Yeah, busy covering other cops' butts.

 

"Officer Ellison."

 

Jim looked up from his paperwork to see Captain Myerson standing over his desk.  "Yes, sir," he sighed.

 

"I need to see you in my office."

 

Jim looked Myerson in the eyes, and he knew it was bad.  Very bad.  Only duty and obligation dragged him up from his desk to follow Myerson across the bullpen.  Not that he had to stick particularly close, considering he was being given the type of wide berth you could have plowed the Titanic through.

 

Myerson shut the door behind them.

 

"So, you heard." Jim saw no point in wasting time with meaningless pleasantries.

 

"I heard."  The captain sat down at this desk, motioning Jim to do the same.  Jim remained standing.  "This is going to be a problem."

 

"I know."

 

"Nick was the best, and everyone loved the man."

 

"Does that make this okay?"

 

"Of course not, Jim.  I'm just saying that it's not going to go away."

 

"Shit."

 

"I've got a whole department to think about here, Jim."

 

"Excuse me?  You are saying this is okay!"

 

"Settle down, Ell--"

 

"I can't believe this!  I canNOT believe this!  I'm getting blackballed, Captain.  For doing the right damn thing.  And you're hopping right on the wagon!"  Jim realized his hands had taken on a life of their own, and he jammed them up under his arms.  "I don't believe this."

 

"Jim, don't be so dramatic.  No one's blackballing anyone.  In fact, you're getting bumped up."

 

"Up?"  That stopped Jim in his tracks.

 

"Up.  A promotion.  Now I would have preferred to keep you here but, for obvious reasons, I don't see that as being in the best interests of my department."

 

"They're promoting me?  For ratting on my partner?  You're joking."

 

Myerson nodded.  "Your detective exam results came in.  Add that to an excellent record and what the department considers a display of moral fiber.  Character.  Doing the right thing."

 

"Damn."  The room suddenly felt hot.  His uniform scratched at him, the collar too tight.  He fingered at the tie, tugging it looser around his throat.

 

"This is a good thing, Ellison."

 

"This is crap.  Sir."  The damn knot wasn't loosening.  His fingers didn't seem to work right.

 

Myerson sighed.  Rubbed the bridge of his nose.  "I'm asking if you have a preference on assignments, Detective."

 

Jim couldn't think of a thing to say.  They were promoting him? 

 

"Fine.  I'll take care of it, Jim."

 

"Whatever."  And Jim left without waiting for a dismissal for the first time in his adult life.

 

===================================

 

Vice was willing to take Ellison.  To call Ray 'relieved' didn't begin to describe it.  He liked Ellison and, more importantly, respected him.  Okay sure, he was new, but he was also good.  Very, very good.  Nick had taken all those unmentionable Army Ranger skills left out of Ellison's personnel file and turned them into first-rate police instincts during the last two years. 

 

So Ray had taken Captain Tracy Connell from Vice out for some beer and conversation and had casually recapped the highlights of Ellison's time in his department.  Leaving out, of course, the recent brouhaha.  Tracy just smiled and said yes, of course she'd take the detective.  She was short one officer after Beth Edwards had gone on maternity leave, anyway.  No, she assured him, she didn't care about what had happened. 

 

Unfortunately, it didn't go as easily as Ray wanted it to.

 

What had apparently started the moment Jim Ellison found out what his partner was doing rolled steadily downhill.  Ray had seen it building while the kid was still in his department, but it only got worse when he was transferred.  Brand spanking new Detective Ellison became increasingly difficult to keep reined in.  He started to take unnecessary chances, letting nothing stop him in making cases.  He stopped calling for back-up.  He stopped chatting and smiling and engaging in any of the banter that made bullpen life bearable.  He was called on the captain's carpet twice for excessive use of force.  He was maneuvered out of interrogations altogether for the safety of the suspects and the cases.  He was seen working in and out of the precinct at all hours of the day and night, refusing to take any time off until it was made an order.  He was the first to volunteer for dangerous undercover assignments.  He made five trips to the emergency room in the line of duty in four months--kept finding his way in front of bullets.

 

Little by little, James J. Ellison was stopping living.  Whatever had been there before had died either on the day he'd turned his partner in or the day his fellow police officers had walked out on him.

 

Less than four months after Vice had taken him on, Tracy wearily threw Ellison's personnel folder back on Ray's desk and announced that,  'if he wanted the man to stay, he'd better find him somewhere else to work.  Because she sure as hell wasn't watching one of her people slowly kill themselves.'

 

===============================

 

Tonight, Ray was not a happy man.  He'd spent over an hour on a carefully-worded memo and sent it to every department in the whole of the Cascade PD. 

 

Nothing.  Not a single bite.  No department wanted him.

 

How the hell was he going to tell Ellison?  Shit, what was he going to tell Ellison?

 

The man had done the right thing.  He had.  But, like it or not, he had violated one of the most sacred trusts of the police department.  He'd turned on his own.  Now his own were turning on him.

 

"Sir?"

 

Ray tossed Ellison's personnel file disgustedly back onto his desk and looked up to find his secretary at the door. "Yeah, Julie?"

 

"Someone here to see you, Ray."

 

"Sure.  Show 'em in."  Not that Ray was really in the mood for visitors.  He had a migraine forming with Ellison's name all over it.  Then again, he did have a job to do, as well.  One that didn't care how late the hour was or how much of a headache Ray had.

 

A tall, well-manicured black man came in.  Picture perfect in a dark tailored suit and the ubiquitous raincoat of the Pacific Northwest, he was clearly a superb specimen of Cascade's Finest.  It was the real irony of Ray's career that he worked every day with the same burly, athletic, ass-kicking types that had beat him up all throughout junior high school.

 

"Captain Myerson," the man offered.

 

"Yep.  And you are?"  Ray stood and shook the man's hand.

 

"Captain Banks.  I'm fairly new to the department."

 

He put the name to the face now, and called to memory the few things he knew about his visitor.  "Right.  Sure, you just got Major Crime, right?"  He'd heard good things about this guy but hadn't gotten around to meeting him yet.

 

"Yeah."

 

There was a brief awkward silence as the chit-chat of greeting ended.  Ray sat back on his desk.  "So, is this a social call, Captain?"

 

"Not exactly.  I got your memo on Ellison."

 

"Yeah."  Ray was tired of having this conversation.  He'd had variations on it for a week. 

 

"And I'll take him."

 

What?  "You will?"  Ray tried, and failed, not to sound stunned.  This wasn't a variation he'd heard in the last week.

 

"I will."  Banks patted his pockets until he produced a cigar.

 

"He's a good officer."

 

"I know."  Banks lit the cigar with a fancy, etched lighter.

 

Not really understanding what was going on here, Ray pressed on, "And he's got a lot of potential."

 

"I know.   We've met already."

 

"You have?  And you know about...."

 

"Yes and yes."  The man was clearly amused now, smiling at him with a strange understanding smile.

 

"You still want him?"

 

"I didn't say that."  Banks smiled broadly at Ray's confusion.  "I said I'll take him."

 

Ray was almost afraid to ask, "Why?"

 

"Because of what he did with Vanderhous."

 

At that moment, Major Crime got a permanent ally in Narcotics.  Someone else understood.  This captain could see what was--and what could be again.  "Captain Banks, you have yourself a deal."  Ray pumped his fellow captain's hand, giddy with relief.  "And a detective."

 

=====================================

 

From the moment Detective Jim Ellison sauntered into his department, Simon knew he had bought himself some Trouble.  With a capital T.

 

He'd suspected, from the personnel file, but this was a bit much.  Ellison clearly had it down to a science--the whole Detective BadAss package.  Goatee, earring, rebellious surfer fashion statement.  Not even to mention the phenomenal chip on his shoulder and an attitude the size of the entire state of Washington.

 

Yep, Simon had bitten off a big one this time.

 

The question remained, then--why?  Why take on this Walking Mood?  No one else was willing to.  Simon knew every department had turned down the transfer request.  He could have, too.  He was captain of the most prestigious of the departments--he certainly didn't have to take in some dysfunctional hotshot.

 

So why do it then, Simon?

 

The answer was simple.  Ellison had gone against his entire department, the fraternity of the brothers-in-blue, and his own partner in order to do What Was Right.  That was the kind of man Simon Banks wanted on his team.  In the long haul, it would be good.  He could feel it. 

 

He just had to get through the crap first.

 

"Ellison!" he yelled through his open door.  "In my office, now."  Might as well get this show on the road.  Operation James Ellison was about to get going.

 

The man took his time following the directive.  Ellison strolled in, fading to a halt three feet before Simon's desk.  It smacked of careful calculation--just enough room that Simon couldn't intimidate him, but not enough to be disrespectful.  Simon came around the desk instead, countering Ellison's carefully-chosen spot.

 

"Detective Ellison."  Simon put out a hand.

 

"Captain."  There was no warmth in the response, and Simon suspected it was more of a habit beaten into an ex-military brain than any sort of deference.  Ellison pointedly ignored his hand.

 

"Well, Detective..." Simon let the handshake issue drop, moving instead to light a cigar.  Pick your battles, Simon.  "It looks like you'll be joining us here."

 

"Looks like it," Ellison mumbled.

 

"You don't sound particularly happy about it."

 

"Should I be?"

 

"I like to think so."  That's it, Simon, keep it nice and polite.  He smiled for effect.

 

"Whatever, sir."

 

The effect had apparently been lost on his new officer.  Simon was moving quickly from civil to annoyed.  "What crawled up your ass, Detective?"

 

"Nothing, sir.  Are we done with the little Meet-And-Greet?"

 

"Hardly." Operation James Ellison wasn't getting off to a good start.

 

"Look, Captain," Ellison finally looked up to face Simon.  It wasn't an improvement.  Part annoyance, part tiredness, he didn't seem to care to hide his distaste for being in Simon's office discussing the matter.  "We both know why I'm here.  How about I just do my job and you just do yours and we'll all live happily ever after."

 

"Last time I checked, Detective, you were here because you have an excellent record that I think would be of value to my department."

 

"Funny--last time I checked, I was here because Vice didn't want me anymore and no one else would take me.  I'm surprised you did."

 

"That is not the case, I assure you."

 

"Whatever, sir."

 

"Listen up, Ellison.  This is not therapy and it's not kindergarten.  You shape up and we'll get along just fine.  Which means leave the attitude at the door, mister.  Keep screwing around with me and you won't be here long enough to dust off your chair.  You hear me?"

 

"Loud and clear." He followed it with a short mock-salute.

 

"Good.  Welcome to Major Crime, Detective.  Now get out of my office."

 

Well, that hadn't gone well at all.

 

=====================================

 

Sitting at his desk facing his new partner, Jack considered this punk Banks was sticking him with.  It wasn't the first of these problem-children Jack had been saddled with.  James J. Ellison was just the most recent in a long line that stretched out over twenty years on the force.  Every captain Jack had ever been assigned to gave him these types of rookies, based on some misguided notion that he was 'Big Brother' material. 

 

He wasn't.  Not by a long shot.  But he did like a good challenge.

 

And this one would be a tough nut to crack.  As if it hadn't been perfectly clear from the start that Ellison had 'Bad Attitude' written all over him, just a few days of working with him had made it impossible to ignore.  Damn kid was an accident looking for a place to happen. 

 

Or a mine looking for a place to explode.

 

Jack understood why, though.  Hell, everyone knew why; just no one was talking about it.  CPD was a good-size police department, but all PD's had a grapevine about three inches long.  What happened with Vanderhous and how his department had reacted was common knowledge before the ink was dry on the IA reports.

 

Ellison had definitely gotten the shaft.  And taken it badly, apparently.  The story read like one of those crappy late-night talk shows: When Good Cops Go Bad.  After his partner had self-destructed his own career, this kid was clearly intent on following his footsteps.  And taking every damn civilian and cop within a mile radius with him.

 

Except it was going to stop here.  Jack Pendergrast had yet to be beaten by one of these hard case kids.  He had some tricks up his sleeve.  He could handle one punkass rebel, no sweat. 

 

Glancing at the clock, Jack stood up and grabbed his jacket.  Headed over to where his new partner was hunched over some files, deep in concentration. 

 

Jack wore a wolfish grin.  Detective James Ellison had just met his match.  It was about time to make him see that.

 

====================================

 

"Here."

 

Jim looked up from his desk.  Jack Pendergrast towered over him, smiling his usual smile.  Jim was beginning to hate that damn cheery attitude of his.  It was grating on his nerves more with every day.

 

He ignored Pendergrast, who continued to hover over his desk patiently. 

 

"What?" he finally asked after Pendergrast made it clear that he wasn't going away.  Jim would have to get this over with before he could get back to his work.

 

Pendergrast held out two tickets.  "Just ask me what I have here, slick."

 

Jim sighed.  "I can see what you have.  And stop with the 'slick,' all right?"

 

"Sure, kid."  Pendergrast smiled when Jim involuntarily flinched at the nickname.  Jim hated nicknames.  "So what do I have here but two tickets to the game tonight."

 

Another sigh.  "Good.  Have fun."

 

"We will.  Be sure to wear something with sleeves, huh?"  He strolled away from Jim's desk before Jim could react. 

 

Damn the man.  Jim had to get up and follow him several feet to stop him.  "Pendergrast, wait.  I'm not going to the game with you tonight."

 

"Why?  You got a hot date, Mr. Ladies Man?"

 

Okay, that just pissed Jim off.  So he hadn't had a lot of dates since Pendergrast had been partnered with him, but whose fault was it that the women around here hadn't been very interesting lately?  "It's none of your business what I'm doing.  Listen, we're partners because we got stuck together; we're not gonna be buddies or pals or whatever the hell you're trying to do here."  Not after Nick.

 

"Sure, whatever, slick.  So we'll go to the game and not talk or something.  You don't even have to like me.  And I sure as hell don't have to like you."  Pendergrast slipped one ticket into Jim's breast pocket and was gone.

 

Jim scowled after his oblivious new partner.  Obviously he hadn't made it clear to Pendergrast.  What part of 'we're not going to be friends' did the man not understand?  Okay, he'd go to the game--after all, he'd be insane to turn down the tickets--but he sure as hell wasn't getting attached to Pendergrast, either.

 

=====================================

 

Jack stormed full-throttle toward the locker room.  People had been getting the hell out of his path all the way up from the garage.  He was pissed.  Three months of working with Ellison and he still managed to pull a stunt like this. 

 

He just couldn't believe it. 

 

Apparently, the easy tricks weren't going to be sufficient. He'd tried the soft route first:  early morning coffee, night games, drinks at Tony's down the street.  Quality time to dig into the deep, dark recesses of his latest challenge and find the things that would get to him.  It was a plan that had all worked on his projects at one point or another in the past.  But not with one Jim Ellison.  No, this guy was determined to give Jack a run for his money. 

 

But this little 'incident' was the last straw.  Goddamned kid left the rest of the task force long behind to chase some scared shitless teenage drug dealer with an oversize assault rifle ten blocks and corner him single-handedly with nothing but his standard-issue 9 mm.  It wasn't just against procedure, it was downright stupid.  It was also suicidal. 

 

And Jack was damned if this guy was gonna commit suicide on his watch.

 

So Jack was giving up being Mr. Nice Guy.  Now it was time to bring out HardAss Jack. 

 

=====================================

 

The slam of the locker room door behind Jim preceded the storm cloud that was Jack Pendergrast as he blew in. 

 

"I CANNOT believe you did that!"

 

Still wet from his shower, Jim kept dressing, ignoring the outburst.  Pendergrast could yell at him all he wanted.  Wouldn't be the first ass-chewing he'd gotten in his life, or the last.

 

Pendergrast was fuming behind him, hovering over the bench Jim sat on.  "Do you have any idea how STUPID that was?  You nearly got killed!"

 

"I apprehended the suspect," Jim replied calmly.

 

A swoosh of air blew on his neck as his partner spun around, punctuated with another accusation.  "You made an idiot of yourself!!"

 

Jim finished the buttons on his shirt and pulled his jacket from the locker.  "What did you want me to do?  Let him go?"  He wasn't going to feel bad about having caught a perp, whatever the circumstances.  That was what they paid him to do, and that was what he was gonna do.

 

"No.  But I'd like to know just when the hell you were planning to call for backup? How about when you decided to bail on the whole damn raid team and follow some doped-up schmuck across half the city?  How about when he pulled that damn assault rifle on you?  How about at least telling me where the HELL you were going!"

 

"I didn't need anyone else.  I got the guy."

 

"You NEVER need anyone else.  Except you always do!"

 

Oh, like that made any sense.  "What the hell kind of pop psychology is that?"

 

"The kind from 20 years on the force, that's what.  You march around--don't need no one, no how, no where.  Well I've got a news flash for you, Detective Ellison--you need someone to look after your sorry ass more than anyone I have ever known!"

 

Jim finally turned to face his seething partner.  "Oh, please.  I don't need some lecture from you.  I've been looking after myself my whole life."

 

"Until you stopped doing it.  Which was about the time you came here, as I recall."

 

"Get off my back, Pendergrast."  Jim shouldered past his partner, headed for the door.

 

"No you don't."  He came around and stood between Jim and the exit.  "I'm not done with you, slick."

 

"I told you about the 'slick' stuff!"  He punctuated it with a jab to Pendergrast's chest, using his height to intimidate.  "Where the hell do you get off treating me like some damn ten-year old?"

 

"Since you've taken up acting like one!"

 

Jim made for the door again, to find Pendergrast refusing to get out of his face.  He turned his voice icy, using that predatory tone he'd learned so well in the Rangers.  "Back off."

 

"Fine, Jim.  As soon as you tell me why you're doing this."

 

Oh, please.  He eyed Pendergrast standing resolutely in his way.  "Doing what?"

 

"Trying to get yourself killed."

 

Jim stopped in his tracks.  "I am not trying to kill myself."

 

"You're not?  Could've fooled me.  You work twenty-four/seven, taking the most dangerous calls, volunteering for all the seedy undercover work, never--and this really pisses me off, slick--never call for backup.  What part of that isn't self-destructive?"

 

"I'm just doing my job."

 

"And I'm doing mine."  Pendergrast closed the distance between them.  Jim backed away, feeling smaller as his partner advanced on him.  "What are you scared of?"

 

Jim was forced to stop as the back of his calf impacted with a trash can, preventing him from moving any farther back.  "I am not scared."

 

"Oh, right, I forgot who I was dealing with.  Why don't I take a stab at it?  It's Nick."

 

Nick?  What right did Pendergrast have bringing him into this conversation?  That was none of his business.  "It's not Nick."

 

"Like hell it isn't, slick."

 

"Okay, so maybe it is Nick.  Why shouldn't it be?  Are you gonna tell me that I shouldn't be pissed as hell at him?!  That I shouldn't care that he betrayed every damn thing we stand for?!  That I shouldn't even care about getting screwed by him?  Go ahead, slick, tell me that!"

 

Pendergrast pulled back a few inches, finally giving Jim room to breathe. "Of course I'm not gonna tell you that.  Of course you should be angry, kid.  What Nick did was wrong.  Plain and simple.  What happened after that was wrong.  Plain and simple.  But he didn't do it to you."

 

"He sure as hell did."

 

"No."  He walked away from the door, toward the bench in the center, leaving the door unblocked.  "Listen to me, Jim.  What Nick did, he did to himself.  He lost his faith in the system and started looking after Number One.  That's all.  What happened after that was because there were a hell of a lot of cops pissed at Nick for being so goddamn human.  It didn't have anything to do with you.  It may be a surprise to you, but the whole world does not revolve around Jim Ellison.  You were just in the really wrong place at the really wrong time, kid."

 

"The man was my partner."

 

"Yes.  And you guys were tight, I know.  So why can't you stick with that and let go of this other crap?"

 

Why couldn't he?  Jim turned over all the reasons, but it really came down to one.  "I trusted him.  He betrayed that.  Me.  Everything."

 

"And you're giving up on everything.  Is that any more right?"

 

"I'm not giving up anything."

 

"Yes, you are.  You gave up on everything the minute you had to do what you thought was best.  But I'm telling you that Life Goes On.  Things happen, Jim.  They happen to all of us.  And when they do, you gotta decide how you're gonna deal with them.  Sometimes it comes down to two choices, slick--either curl up and die or survive to fight another day.  Nick did not ruin your life, but if you keep doing this, you're gonna do it yourself." 

 

Pendergrast casually moved around Jim to grab his jacket from the bench.  "You're the only one who can decide.  I'd love to make that choice for you, but I'd have to kick your ass from here to Chicago, and I'm late for dinner."

 

Jim stared after his partner as he walked the short distance to the door.  Curl up and die or survive.  It seemed like such an easy choice.  So why was it so hard to survive this one?  He'd been surviving his whole life.  Why did this one seem so impossible?

 

Because Nick had gotten under his skin?  Because Nick had been everything to a man who had just given up his whole way of life for something he knew nothing about?  Because, in the end, he'd trusted the guy with everything that made Jim who he was?  Because that made it so goddamn personal?  Not even with Alan had he felt so personally violated.  No one had gotten in where Nick had.  Not ever. 

 

But it looked as though Nick wasn't the only one who could find the chinks in his armor, either. 

 

"Jack?"

 

He stopped and turned around.  "Yeah, Jim?"

 

"See you in the morning."

 

His partner smiled.  "Sure.  You bring the donuts."

 

=====================================

 

~~Spring, 1993~~

 

Jim's home phone rang several times before the answering machine picked up.  Jack idly wondered what his partner was doing.  He'd been acting a little strangely for the past couple of days, ever since Jack had talked him into helping him move his stuff to Emily's earlier in the week.  The little scene out in front of her building probably hadn't helped.  Jack was still confused by her sudden change of heart about him moving in. 

 

Women.  Who'd ever figure them out?

 

Which meant Jim was probably feeling awkward around Jack since then.  Made sense.  Jack knew how to handle it, though.  He let the kid do the avoidance thing today, but he'd be sure to get things up and running between them tomorrow.  Jim needed someone to ride herd on him to make sure he didn't pull back into that ready-made shell of his like some damn turtle.

 

Jack had spent a lot of time breaking down that wall, and he was damned if he was gonna let Jim build it back up.  He liked Jim--knew he was a good kid--and although he sure as hell wasn't the easiest partner in the world, Jack was beginning to think he could get used to having this one around for a long time.

 

He waited for the answering machine to pick up.  Listened to his partner's terse, no-nonsense state-your-business-and-get-the-hell-out-of-my-way voice asking for a message.  Where was Jim anyway? 

 

As he left a message, he made plans to give Jim hell tomorrow for missing out on this one.  The Brackley case was turning out to be a hell of a lot more interesting than they suspected.

 

================================

 

Jim looked carefully around the quiet bullpen for Jack before coming inside.  Great--no sign of his partner yet this morning.  Confident that no one was paying attention to him, he casually strolled over to his desk.  Jack's desk, set kitty-corner from his, was still empty.  Great.  With any luck, he'd be knee-deep in paperwork and cases by the time Jack came in. 

 

Although he felt vaguely cowardly, Jim just wasn't ready to deal with Jack yet.  Not after last night.  God, if Jack ever found out about Emily and him, he'd kill Jim.  He would rip his head off his shoulders and beat him to death with it. 

 

Then again, Emily had called it off with Jack, hadn't she?  So it wasn't really any of Jack's business.  It was solely between Emily and Jim. 

 

Yeah, that's it.

 

Instead, Jim turned his thoughts to Emily.  If he concentrated, he could just smell her on his clothes.  Gardenia, he thought.  Some beautifully, female scent.  God, she smelled good.  And looked good and felt good and tasted good and....

 

Whoa, Jim, he scolded himself, slow down.  This will get you nowhere you want to be in the middle of the precinct.

 

Besides, who knew when Jack would stroll in, and Jim sure as hell didn't want to be entertaining thoughts of his partner's girlfriend when said partner did show up.

 

Ex-girlfriend, Jim, ex-girlfriend.  Let's remember that, shall we?  Emily called it quits and so nothing that happened last night was wrong.

 

Nothing.

 

Jim looked at the clock.  He was ridiculously early, he knew.  But after Emily left last night, Jim had been plagued by bizarre dreams.  He couldn't quite remember them, but images of the jungle had followed him back to the land of the conscious.  Then the neighborhood noises had gotten strangely loud.  They pounded into his brain from all around him, keeping him up for three hours.  It was like he was suddenly tuned in to every tiny fragment of sound around him.  By five am, he finally gave up and just came in. 

 

A foul odor assaulted him, making him choke.  God, what was that?  He looked around, but there was no one nearby.  Certainly nothing that explained that stench.  Wrinkling his nose, he tried to identify it.  It almost smelled like cigars. 

 

"Ellison!" 

 

Jim looked up just in time to see Banks standing across the bullpen in his office door, fuming--literally and figuratively.  A lit cigar was being chewed to bits in his teeth.

 

God, was that the smell, all the way across the room?  He'd have to suggest a new brand to the captain.  Those were obviously way too strong for anyone's good health.

 

Banks stormed over to Jim's desk, dragging the stink of cigars with him.  "Where the hell is your partner?"

 

Jim shrugged.  "Dunno, sir.  I'm not his keeper."

 

Banks was clearly not amused.  "Yeah, well, find him.  I want to know what happened last night."

 

That caught Jim's attention.  "What happened last night?"  All thoughts of Emily and the unpleasant odor were gone instantly.

 

"He didn't tell you?  The ransom was delivered last night.  He was supposed to call you."

 

"Well, he didn't.  And he hasn't reported in yet?"

 

"Would I be looking for him if he had?"  Banks could be incredibly condescending when he wanted to.

 

"Have you--"

 

"Tried his home phone, his girlfriend's phone, even the bar down the street, yes, I have."

 

Jim gathered up his jacket and headed for the door.  What had happened for Jack not to show up yet?  Why hadn't he let Jim know it was going down last night?  Why had he gone alone?  And where the hell had he gone now?

 

=============================

 

No one could find hide nor hair of Jack Pendergrast.  He'd vanished into thin air after receiving the ransom and instructions.  No messages, no notes, no luggage, no car, no money and no kidnap victim.

 

Major Crime searched for days, to no avail.  Internal Affairs started their own search, a much more focused one.  They went over Jack's life with a fine-tooth comb.  Pulled his financial records, no doubt taking one look at his gambling habits, and came to one conclusion.  Double-cross.  He had taken the money and run.

 

Jim fumed and yelled and cursed and denied all the foul things his partner was called.  But he was beating his head against a brick wall--no one who could make a difference was listening anymore.  The brass and IA had tried and convicted his partner in absentia. 

 

On the second evening after Jack disappeared, Jim went to Emily's house.  He knocked and then pounded until Emily's roommate came to the door. 

 

"I'm looking for Emily."

 

Tammy stood defiantly in the doorway, meeting Jim's anger with her own determination.  "I know."

 

"Is she here?"

 

"Yes."

 

"And?"

 

Her hand tightened on the door, almost as though she expected Jim to force it.  "And she doesn't want to see you."

 

No, this was not how it was supposed to go.  Things weren't supposed to end like this.  It was all crashing down around him.   "I need to talk to her."

 

"And say what?"  Emily had appeared in the doorway behind her roommate.  Tammy turned and left without saying a word, one hand skimming feather-light on Emily's shoulder as she did so.  Eyes red and puffy, sniffling slightly, Emily watched Jim.  So, she had heard.  Truthfully, he was grateful--he didn't want to have to tell her.

 

It was bad enough as it was.

 

"It's not true, Emily."

 

Emily sighed, one hand involuntarily raising to her chest.  "I knew that.  I'm just so glad to hear you say it.   Do you know what they came and asked me?  Do you?"

 

"Yes.  They asked me the same things.  But it's not true.  Jack didn't do what they think he did.  He wouldn't.  Period."

 

"What did happen?"

 

"I don't know.  I've been looking for him.  I'll find him, I promise."

 

"God.  What if something happened to him?"

 

"Don't jump to conclusions."  He laid one careful hand lightly on her forearm, all the contact he was willing to risk.

 

"What if it did?  While he was...we were....  God, Jim."  She wasn't willing to be soothed.  And he knew he didn't have the right to be, either. 

 

Both stood there, in the doorway, silent.  The implications hovered around them.  While Jack had been facing...well, whatever it was he was facing last night, his partner and his girlfriend had been cheating on him. 

 

Jim realized he hadn't thought once about his partner last night.  He wondered if Jack had thought about him. 

 

What the hell kind of partner was he?  What the hell kind of man was he?

 

"I'm going away."

 

Jim shook out of his thoughts at the soft statement.  "Huh?"

 

"I'm going home for a while.  I just can't be here any more."

 

He nodded.  At least she had someone to go to.  "Sounds like a good idea."  But he knew, somehow, that no matter how this ended, he'd never see her again.  With or without Jack, what they had done that night had severed the past from the future.

 

"Go, Jim.  Go and find him.  Let him be all right."

 

Jim nodded and turned halfway to leave.

 

"I'll never forgive myself if he's not all right."  Her unusually soft voice stopped him, making him turn back to her.  The only thing he saw, though, was the door closing on him.

 

"Neither will I."

 

===========================

 

Detective Jack Pendergrast was never heard from again.

 

===========================

 

Darkness.

 

Darkness inside as it filled his apartment, not a single beam of light able to invade.  Darkness outside as the rain pelted down on the city from above.  Darkness filling Jim's thoughts. 

 

Dark was good.  You couldn't see the crap in the dark.  And Jim didn't want to see the crap.  He didn't want to see Emily; he didn't want to see the captain; he didn't want to see the Brackleys.  And he sure as hell didn't want to see Jack.  Didn't want to see him staring back at Jim in every window and every mirror for days now.

 

He wanted to hide from it, from everything and everyone. 

 

Trouble was, he was hiding from himself.  And the dark couldn't solve that problem.  He didn't need to see to know his was the face he hated the most.  The one he didn't care if he ever saw again.  The face that made him physically sick to see reflecting back at him in the mirror.

 

Damn. 

 

He opened another beer.  If the dark wasn't going to help, maybe an alcohol-induced stupor would.  He'd never solved his problems that way, but maybe now was a good time to start a bad habit.

 

The beer was gone in two long swallows.  He tossed the can down to rattle against the others on the floor and wandered out over to the closed balcony doors.  It was raining hard, sheets of water pounding on the French doors.  Jim just stood there and listened to it.  Listened to the incessant, uncompromising rush of water; to the thunder booming over the mountains.

 

What had happened to Jack that night?  Why hadn't he called?  Why hadn't he even told Jim about the drop?  Dammit, why hadn't he trusted his partner?

 

Shit.  Trust.

 

What exactly did you give Jack to trust? 

 

Let's see, he'd given him anger and annoyance and silence and arrogance.  A pissed-off partner and a pain in the ass.  Not exactly things to build on.  Not to mention, for God's sake, that he'd been with Jack's girlfriend at the time whatever it was had gone down.  He certainly hadn't been where he should have been--at his partner's side, backing his ass up.  Come to think of it, Jim hadn't been where he should have been a lot lately.  A hell of a lot. 

 

No, he'd been wallowing in anger and guilt.  He'd been pissed at the world in general and partners specifically for way too long. 

 

Damn Nick anyhow.

 

How easily it all came back to him.

 

How dare he.  How dare he throw away everything Jim believed in.   How dare he screw up Jim's life this way.  Where the hell did Nick get off betraying everything they'd worked for?  Betraying his partner.

 

Like you just did?

 

Jim flinched at the niggling voice of accusation echoing in his head.  He hadn't, had he?  Done what Nick had done?

 

No. 

 

Yes. 

 

No.

 

God.  He had.  No, he'd done worse.  Nick had just betrayed the officer in Jim.  Jim had betrayed the friend in Jack.  And that was more unforgivable than anything Nick had done to him, wasn't it?

 

His own reflection stared back at him in the glass door, barely-visible in the dark.  He stared at and through himself, the rain leaving eerie streaks in his own distorted image. 

 

Shit.  What had he come to?  Jack had been right, hadn't he?  Jim had been hiding, licking his wounds, and the rest of the world could just go to hell.  And look what had come from it.  Look what he'd done to the only person who had honestly given a damn.

 

And here he was still hiding in self-pity and guilt--and failing Jack again--because it was so much easier to just shut off than face what he'd become, what he'd done. 

 

But he'd be damned if he was going to let himself off that easily.  He had done the crime, and now he had to do the time.  He had his own price to pay.  And that was to live with what he'd done.

 

He turned away from the balcony doors, unsteadily gathering up the beer cans littering the floor in front of the couch.  Turned on the lamp and surveyed the damage.  More cans, a few bottles he couldn't remember buying, leftovers, dirty dishes, clothes strewn around the room.  The loft looked like hell.  It looked like he felt. 

 

This would be the first order of business. 

 

He started cleaning.  At first, it was just the mess he'd made.  But it still didn't feel clean, feel done.  He still felt dirty, so he moved on to other things--scrubbing the kitchen counters and the floors and then the bathroom.  Emptied and scoured the refrigerator.  God, it felt good to be able to make something clean again.  It was exhilarating. 

 

He scrubbed and brushed and shined and polished.  He changed sheets and flipped the mattress and pulled down the curtains to clean them.  He hauled down boxes from shelves and tossed out half the contents.  He washed every window in the loft and all the panes of the balcony doors, even pruned the plants on the balcony itself in the pouring rain.  Still not enough.  He picked one of the chairs from the living room and shoved it into the storage room downstairs, followed by the other chair and the bookshelf.  Books and tapes and papers and prints and the throw rugs all joined the furniture downstairs.  Boxes of old paperwork, fishing equipment, the mountain bike, his skis.  All of it tossed into the storage room until he couldn't find anything left to empty out of his space.

 

He could almost breathe again. 

 

Finally, just as the morning sun was managing to filter weakly in through the balcony doors on the sparkling and now mostly-emptied loft, Jim surveyed his night's work.  The filth was gone, the air around him no longer stank of shame and betrayal.  He felt refreshed.  Not clean, not by a long shot, but less dirty than before. 

 

He stripped, showering and shaving with twice the care as he usually spent.  Shaved off his mustache and the goatee and pulled out the earring, tossing it down the sink drain.  Then he spent half an hour scrubbing the bathroom spotless again.  He needed it clean and empty.  Himself, the bathroom, the whole apartment.  All of it, just so he could push back the walls that had closed in on him. 

 

And exactly fifteen hours after slinking into his apartment in the darkness, he retrieved his gun and badge and headed back to the living world, leaving all the lights burning behind him.

 

==================================

 

"Ellison."

 

"Morning, sir."

 

Simon did a double-take as Ellison walked past him across the noisy morning bullpen.  If he didn't know any better, he'd say that was almost pleasant.

 

It was even more of a surprise when Ellison stopped and addressed him.  He looked Simon straight in the eyes, his posture almost...deferential.  Simon hadn't seen him do 'deferential' in all the time he'd been the man's boss.  The kid was clean-shaven for the first time Simon had seen, and he looked ten years older than the rookie Simon had taken on.

 

"Any word, sir?"

 

"Not yet.  We've still got people searching."

 

"Thanks, sir."

 

Another double-take.  Had Ellison just thanked him?  "Alright, who the hell are you and what have you done with my detective?"

 

Ellison smiled a rather paper-thin, unconvincing smile that failed to reach his eyes.  Otherwise, he didn't respond to the barb.  "I'd like to help with the search for Jack, Captain."

 

"Sure."  Simon's eyes narrowed warily.  "You feeling okay?"

 

"Not really, sir."

 

Oh, dumb move, Simon.  Just ask a few more stupid questions.  "Of course you're welcome to help.  Jack would want that.  See Simpson, he's on the case.  And avoid IA--they're on the warpath."

 

"Thank you, sir."  Again, if he hadn't known better, Simon would have sworn that was a hint of affection.  Even warmth?

 

"Jim..." Simon tentatively began, "I'm sorry about Jack."

 

"Thanks."

 

"Do you think he's still alive?"

 

"No, sir, I don't.  Jack wouldn't have disappeared if he was alive."

 

Simon considered his words carefully.  He didn't want to pick at a scab, but he wasn't gonna pussyfoot around, either.  First rule of being a good captain was to know when to do both.  "Unless IA is right."

 

"They're not."

 

"How do you know?"

 

"He was my partner, sir.  I know."

 

Simon digested that.  He'd had enough partners in his time to understand.  He just nodded, accepting Ellison's reasoning even if he knew Jack's partner wasn't going to be the most objective person on the subject.  But he decided he'd leave it alone for now, falling back on administrative details.  "I'd like you to work with Simpson for a while, anyway.  He lost his partner last month in that drug raid--"

 

"No, sir." Ellison was halfway turned away from Simon when the sound emerged.

 

Now there was the Ellison he knew.  "Excuse me?"

 

Ellison turned back around to face Simon, determination radiating from his eyes.  Simon stepped back mentally at the stark reminder that this wasn't the kind of green, wishy-washy rookies he usually got.  This was an ex-Ranger who no doubt had more experience than Simon probably ever would. 

 

"No partner, sir.  Not again." 

 

Simon met the icy tone with an equally firm one.  "That wasn't a request, Detective."

 

"Then I'll leave.  I'm not working with a partner again."

 

Oh, this wasn't good.  After all Jack had managed to do, here he went pulling right back in on himself again.  Jack would have been pissed.  "Jim..."

 

"No, sir."  A single shake of his head and a clenched jaw.  "It's not worth it."

 

"I thought Jack changed your mind on that one."

 

"He did, sir.  Then he changed it again."  The eyes that held Simon's determinedly weren't angry, nor sad, nor guilty.  Just stony.  A man who had gotten bitten twice and wasn't looking to risk a third.  Simon knew Operation James Ellison was far from over.  It would take more than a few weeks and a stiff upper lip to fix this one.  "Am I in or out?  Sir."

 

"In.  But someday, Ellison, you're gonna get tired of doing this alone."

 

That granite-hard look in his eyes again, Ellison gave Simon one last stormy scowl before turning away again.  "Not gonna happen, Captain.  I don't repeat my failures."

 

==================================

==================================

 

Blair could just hear the last of the mourners slamming car doors and idling engines.  Jim and Emily were still sitting motionless on the top of the hill, near and far apart at the same time.  Even though he could only guess at what was going on up there, he sure hoped Emily was somehow managing to relieve Jim of some of his guilt.  Because unless Jack Pendergrast got up and walked over to smack Jim upside the head, Emily was the only one who could knock some sense into the man about this.

 

Blair had just a quick minute before his presence here became presumptuous.  With one glance around to make sure he was alone, he took off his sunglasses and approached the silent, flag-draped coffin.

 

"You, ah, you don't know me, Jack.  I'm Blair."  That's it, Blair, introduce yourself to the dead guy.  He shook his head and plunged on.  "I just wanted you to know that, despite whatever you may hear there in the Great Beyond or wherever, Jim's not making a mistake here.  I know, I'm not a cop--believe me, Simon does not let me forget--but Jim and I, we do okay.  We do good, you know?  And, um, I guess I have to say thanks for sending him my way."  No, that didn't come out quite right.  "Not that I'm happy you had to die to leave the opening, believe me, but I'm glad I'm filling it."  He noticed he was starting to get an odd look from the cemetery caretaker.  He'd better wrap it up.  "I guess that's all.  Just that I know you had a big job and I promise not to screw him up again, so you don't have to worry.  Oh, and it was a nice funeral, man."

 

Blair glanced warily up to see that Jim had disappeared off the bench.  He was relieved.  If he was lucky, Sentinel ears were still on the pretty redhead and not on his partner talking to a dead man. 

 

Slipping on his sunglasses again, Blair headed for his car.  And found Jim leaning on the trunk when he got there.  Arms crossed over his chest, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, his face a carefully-schooled mask, his partner wasn't giving away any of his secrets today.

 

"Hey, man.  Nice service."

 

"It was," Jim agreed, pushing off the car.  Something briefly drew his attention across the lawn.

 

Blair turned to follow Jim's line of sight, even though he knew well and good that he'd never see whatever had caught Sentinel eyes.  But, like nodding to a person on the other end of the telephone, some instinctual part of him invariably looked.  If nothing else, at least Jim knew he was always paying attention.  "I thought you weren't coming."

 

"I changed my mind."

 

When Jim didn't elaborate, Blair tossed around the idea of pressing for more.  But he knew when he could push Jim and when he couldn't.  And today was definitely one of the latter.

 

So he just nodded acceptingly and slipped out of his jacket.  Folding it carefully and draping it across the back seat, he could feel Jim still standing silently several feet away.  A few birds chittered softly from somewhere in the tree above them.  The background noise of the city seemed so far away.

 

"I'm hungry," Jim announced suddenly, as though he had come to some kind of decision.  "You feel like Chinese?  I'll buy."

 

It wasn't what Blair had expected, but he'd learned long ago how to ride out the hairpin turns of life with Jim Ellison.  "Hey, if you're buying, you know I'm there."

 

"The Golden Pavilion.  Meet you there."  And with his usual abruptness, Jim turned and strode across the carefully-manicured grass toward his truck parked haphazardly across two spaces up the hill.  Blair spared one final glance at the grave behind them before climbing into his own car.

 

Rest in peace, Jack.  Your work is done, man.

 

======================================

 

"This is my partner, Blair Sandburg.  He's all right."

--Neighborhood Watch

 

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~finis~~