I'm back! This was written in a junk food fuelled haze due to some poor decision making on my behalf. Either way, I'm fairly happy with how it turned out. Tasha and Reade have got stuck in my muse for the time being, and even though I had literally no idea where this was going, it happened. I am able and willing to write more of these guys, so please send me prompts if you feel so inclined.

Kudos to claupsmc07 for half getting this idea stuck in my muse, I hope you like it.

As usual, please review, leave me a prompt, even PM me if you just want to talk about Tasha and Reade.

"Zapata, are you drunk?" NYPD police officer Tasha Zapata spat on the ground once more and straightened up from her partially hidden position behind her cruiser, ignoring the cramping in her stomach. Wiping her mouth on her sleeve, she shook her head.

"No sir," she told the detective in front of her. He gave her a pointed look. "Bad sushi." The detective rolled his eyes and let her step past.

"Walk me through it," Detective Bonito stood in the corner of the room, waiting for Tasha to move. Standing outside the door, she took a deep breath. Her partner had been dead for just over a month, and this was the first domestic she'd been called to since... "Everything alright, Zapata?" Bonito called, snapping her from her thoughts. Tasha looked at him for a moment, before she stepped into the room.

"We got a call from dispatch," Tasha started. "10-34, possible domestic in progress. When we got here, the two kids were outside, soaked." The relentless rain from the past few days had only stopped a few minutes ago. "Joe and I heard yelling inside, so we headed in." Tasha squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, taking another deep breath before she continued.

"When we came in here, the guy had a gun to her head," Tasha gestured to the mostly covered body on the floor of the room. "Tried to talk him down, but he - " Tasha stopped when she suddenly couldn't breathe. She bent over, palms on her knees, gasping for air.

Detective Bonito quickly stepped over to her, placing one hand on her back and leading her from the room. He sat her down on the stairs, directing her to put her head down to her knees.

"Keep breathing Zapata, you're alright." Tasha wheezed, palms pushing into her eyes until finally, finally, she could breathe again. She looked up at Bonito, who was kneeling in front of her, one hand on her shoulder. "Hey," he said gently, squeezing her shoulder. "You good?" Tasha shook her head.

"Joe." She gasped out, breathing still erratic. "Is he-"

"He's going to be fine," the detective assured her. "The bullet barely grazed him." Tasha nodded, squeezing her eyes closed and letting her head drop again.

"The guy got angry and started shooting," Tasha whispered. "He shot the girl, then fired at us. Joe went down, I fired a few rounds, dragged him to cover, and when I looked back up, he was gone." Tasha pulled at her hair, trying to hide her shaking hands.

"That's good, Zapata. That's all we need." Another squeeze of her shoulder, and Zapata looked up at Bonito. "Head back to the precinct." Tasha nodded, and Bonito turned to leave.

"Detective Bonito?" Tasha vaguely heard a voice from the doorway. Her head was down, and she had no interest in finding out who the voice belonged to. "Special Agent Reade, FBI. Mind if I ask you a few questions?" She heard footsteps, and voices fading away.

A few minutes later, Tasha felt calm enough to stand. She did, carefully, clutching onto the bannister. Slowly, she walked out to her cruiser, fumbling with the handle. When she finally pulled the door open, she collapsed into the seat, trying to force the tears back. Tasha squeezed her hands into fists, then swiped at a tear that had escaped.

"Get a grip, Zapata," she told herself when she caught a glimpse of herself in the rear-view mirror. She slotted the keys into the ignition, took a deep breath, and then jumped at a knock on the window, right next to her head.

"Geez," Tasha breathed when she made out a tall African-American man with a FBI vest on. "Are you trying to get shot?" She asked him when she opened the door. He didn't react.

"Officer Zapata?" Tasha nodded.

"Who are you?" The man showed her a badge, and offered his hand.

"Special Agent Edgar Reade, FBI." Tasha ignored his hand, instead extricating herself fully from the cruiser. Reade let his hand drop, choosing to keep talking. "Can I ask you a few questions about the domestic?"

"Didn't you already talk to Bonito?" Reade nodded.

"He told me you were the responding officer." Tasha slumped against the car, scrubbing her hand across her face.

"I already gave him my statement. Nothing else I can tell you." Tasha turned back to the car, but a hand on her shoulder stopped her. "Get off me," Tasha spat at him when he spun her around.

"Look," Reade's hand dropped from her shoulder. "Either you talk to me now, or I talk to your boss, he makes you talk to me, and then there's paperwork and technicalities and-"

"Fine!" Tasha interrupted. "What do you want to hear?" Reade started walking toward a black sedan, leaving Tasha no choice but to follow. When she caught up to him, he had pulled a folder from the car.

"This the shooter?" Reade showed her a photo, and Tasha nodded when she saw the face, a sick feeling in her stomach at the sight. "And you said he disappeared after he shot your partner?" Tasha nodded again, her hand landing on the trunk of the car, knuckles turning white while she tried to keep herself upright. "Any idea where he went?" She shook her head this time, squeezing her eyes shut. "Nothing?" Reade insisted. "How he got out of the house, which direction he went?"

"I told you, I didn't see him!" Tasha's eyes re-opened, anger flooding her system. "My partner was shot; I was a bit busy making sure wasn't dead!" She took a step away from the car, and instantly regretted it when her legs wobbled and black flooded her vision. She threw an arm out in a futile grasp for balance, but she staggered forward and collided with something solid, and then everything went black.

"All your test results look fine," the doctor told Tasha, flicking through the papers on his clipboard. "Maybe some slight dehydration, but we've got you on fluids for that. I'd guess you're under some stress at work?" The doctor continued, briefly glancing up at Tasha, who just shrugged. The doctor frowned, but continued again. "Just make sure you're getting enough rest and eating properly, alright?" Tasha stared evenly at the doctor until he finally put the clipboard back on the end of the bed. "We'll discharge you once the fluids are finished." He turned to leave, nodding at Reade as he walked in.

"What happened to your face?" She muttered, slumping further in the bed.

"You did," he replied, dropping into a chair next to the bed. Tasha frowned. "When you passed out," he continued. "You kinda punched me." Tasha groaned.

"Sorry," she pressed a hand into her eyes.

"So are you feeling better?" Reade asked after a moment. Tasha just nodded, hand still covering her face. "We caught the guy." Tasha dropped her hand. "He was wanted for some domestic terrorism charges. We've been after him for months." Tasha nodded, staring at the blankets covering her legs.

"Sorry I wasn't much help." Reade smiled at her.

"Actually," he started, pushing a file toward her. "Turns out you were." Tasha frowned, and flipped the file open. "Apparently you clipped him while you were trying to save your partner." Tasha glanced up when he leant forward. "We couldn't figure out how he'd gotten out, so we took a closer look at the room. There was a hidden room in the floorboards." Tasha sighed in relief.

"Are you crying?" Reade asked.

"No," Tasha denied, shaking her head violently, swiping at a tear at the same time. Reade raised an eyebrow. "It's just been a tough month." Reade nodded.

"I ah, I pulled your file," he admitted a moment later. "After you passed out. I was trying to figure out why you got so mad at me." Tasha couldn't bring herself to look at him. "Your partner died, at a domestic?" Tasha nodded. "And this was your first domestic call out since then, and your new partner got shot." Another tear escaped, despite her best efforts. "It's not your fault, Zapata."

"Today was." Tasha told him. Reade frowned. "I was hungover this morning. And have been pretty much every shift for the last month." Reade reached out and put a hand on her blanket covered knee. "If I hadn't been hungover, if I didn't have a killer headache, I could've been faster. Joe might not have been shot."

"Look, Zapata, being hungover at work may not be the best idea, sure, but this guy was ready to set off a bomb in the middle of the city. Nothing you could have done would've made a difference." Tasha sobbed quietly. "And hey," he squeezed her knee, and she looked up. "You hit a guy who was firing an automatic weapon at you, while you were dragging your injured partner. Any FBI agent with would struggle to make that shot, even if they weren't hungover." Tasha smiled. "You ever get sick of being a beat cop, the FBI would love to have you."

Just then, Reade's pager buzzed and he pulled it up to read it. Sighing, Reade replaced the pager on his belt, and reached into his pocket, handing her a business card. "Call me sometime," Reade stood, patting her knee one more time. "See you around, Zapata."

6 MONTHS LATER

"Hey Zapata, long time no see." Tasha turned to see Reade standing behind her. "What are you doing here?" Tasha was about to respond.

"Edgar Reade, this is Natasha Zapata. She's a transfer from the NYPD." Reade nodded.

"Yeah," he nodded vaguely at Mayfair. "We've met." Mayfair frowned. "She was the cop who gave us the lead on the Hasselbeck bombing case." It was Mayfair's turn to nod.

"Alright. Show her the ropes for me okay?" Mayfair's phone rang, and she turned back into her office to answer it before either Reade or Tasha could reply. "We've got a lead on your case, Reade," Mayfair said, leaning out of her office. "Take Zapata with you, I'll call Weller and tell him to head your way." Reade nodded and started walking, leaving Tasha to jog to catch up to him.

"Looks like we're partners now, Zapata." Reade grinned when she slid into the passenger seat of the car. He held out a fist, and she bumped her fist against his. Immediately Reade made an explosion noise and pulled his fist away.

"Never doing that again," Tasha told him. "How old are you, nine?" Reade rolled his eyes, and started driving. "So, are you going to tell me what this case is about?"

Please review!