AN: This is the part where I apologize for the obscene delay in finishing this up. I can quite honestly say this is the longest I've gone in between chapters - ever. I think I sort of lost my thread and/or inspiration while writing. Anyway - this is the end of this little story. It's short, I know, but it just came to a natural stopping place. Thanks for sticking with me!

A Crack in the Silence

Chapter Four

He invited her out for dinner the next night. He made a point of including the word date.

For a moment or two, he had been afraid she would tell him no, that she'd had time to think over the frightening implications of his condition and wanted nothing further to do with him.

Instead, she'd said yes with a smile in her voice, and he'd hung up the phone with an answering grin playing around his lips.

It was dangerous, the road he was about to travel, but he was starting to think it was inevitable. More so than anyone, he knew how fickle life could be. People were alive in one moment and gone in the next.

And, perhaps, he was simply getting tired of being alone.

He dressed with more care than normal, paying close attention to the knot of his tie, the fall of his jacket. His cheeks were ruddier than normal as he splashed on cologne.

Abe poked his head in to wish him well before heading out the door. After the case a month ago, his Vietnam buddies had been keeping in much closer contact, and had started a weekly poker game. Personally, he was glad for his son. Friendships were too precious to not be cultivated and maintained.

Of course, these nights usually ended in the early hours of the next day. In fact, Abe had failed to come home once before, and, when he'd finally appeared, had been hung over in a manner that Henry hadn't seen in fifteen years.

The memory made him shake his head.

A quick check of the clock on the dresser told him he needed to be on his way or he'd be late. Not the impression he was going for.

She answered the door precisely five seconds after he knocked, which told him she'd been waiting and was now trying to pretend she hadn't been.

"You look lovely," he told her, eyes sweeping her frame up and down. And she did. Her hair was up, a few dark tendrils escaping already, and she was clad in an actual dress, not something he had ever seen before.

Her smile was soft. "Thank you," she replied. "You don't clean up so bad yourself."

"For you," he added, almost as an afterthought, distracted by how she looked, handing her the long-stemmed rose he'd picked up three blocks from her house. It was old fashioned and a bit cliche, but he couldn't help himself.

"Thank you," she said again, sounding a little less shy than before. "It's beautiful."

He stood a little awkwardly in the foyer as she scurried to the kitchen to put her flower in water. This really was starting to feel like a first date. She was back in a minute, extending her hand out to him. "I have something for you, too."

He frowned in confusion as she handed him the object, then smiled, looking down at his palm. His pocket watch glinted up at him, warm from Jo's hand.

"I picked it up off the floor the other night," she said in a rush. "You know, when..."

"I remember," he teased. Then, "Thank you," he said softly. He leaned forward, kissed her cheek, lingering a bit. He could smell her perfume, feel the softness of her skin. With a deftness borne of long habit, he reattached the chain to his waistcoat. It seemed the women he loved were always giving him that watch - or giving it back. "Shall we go?" he asked her.

Her smile was bright, a little excited. "Absolutely."

She took his arm as they descended her front steps, the same steps they'd sat on not so very long before, Jo spilling her grief onto his shoulder. It was incredible, how fast things changed.

They sat close together in the backseat of the cab, knees brushing, shoulders touching.

He reached for her hand after the second stoplight, and she didn't hesitate before lacing their fingers together.

The restaurant he took her to was quiet, intimate. It wasn't typically somewhere to take a first date. Instead, it was a place where lovers met. He had chosen it on purpose for that very atmosphere.

He kept their conversation light through dinner, flirting with her, trying to draw out as many smiles as he could.

After, they strolled aimlessly around the darkened streets, his arm at her waist.

"How long have you been in New York?" she asked once, head leaning on his shoulder.

He thought for a moment. "On and off since the late 1940s," he replied. "It's an excellent place for me to be. Always expanding, always new people arriving."

"An easy place for you to hide," she guessed, and he chuckled.

"That, too. Anonymity is found in the masses, after all." He kissed the top of her head.

"Henry," she sighed, pausing. She pulled back a step, looking up at him. "I have to admit that I'm still having some trouble wrapping my mind around all of this."

He felt a small thrill of fear. "Well," he said, going for nonchalant. "You've only had two days."

"I know," she said. "I think I'm just asking you to be patient with me." Her expression was very open, and he could see the affection in her eyes.

"I will be," he told her softly. "I promise."

She smiled. "Okay," she said.

He couldn't resist. Gently, he framed her face with his hands, then leaned down and kissed her. She was expecting it; he could tell by her instant response. Her arms linked around his neck, mouth opening at his coaxing.

She tasted sweet, like the red wine they'd had with dinner, and he slid his hands into her hair.

It had been a long time since he'd kissed a woman like this, with passion that went deeper than the superficial, with affection that might have been love.

They broke apart when a passing jogger whistled at them, Jo hiding her face against his shoulder, his arms around her waist.

He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, and he savored the moment.

There was nothing quite like feeling alive, and feeling in love.

After a minute or two, she looked up at him. She was blushing, which he found adorable.

So he kissed her again.

Several minutes later, they were interrupted by the insistent buzzing of her phone. He fought the urge to tear it out of her hands and throw it into the river and she stepped out of his embrace to take the call. It was work, he was sure.

"Well?" he asked, a touch impatiently, watching as she slipped the device back into her coat pocket.

She smiled at his tone. "Well," she echoed. "Now we go solve another murder."

He rolled his eyes. "Not precisely part of my plans for the night."

Jo laughed, then tugged at his hand, pulling him toward the street and haling a cab. "Mine either, but Hanson says this is a high profile case, and all hands have to be on deck, per the boss's orders."

He was nonplussed when she gave the taxi driver her home address.

"I can hardly wear this to a crime scene," she said, gesturing at her dress. "I need to change, and then I'll drive us out."

His expression was sullen, a bit petulant. Or it was, until Jo levered herself up so she could whisper in his ear. "This zipper sticks. Maybe you can help me undress."

On second thought, this night was taking a turn for the better.

"I believe I'm qualified for such an undertaking," he whispered back.

"We'll see," she teased, winking.

Oh yes. They would indeed.