I own no one and nothing

Almost can't believe I finally managed to write this

It has been dancing around my mind for years

Right Time, Wrong Place

"Meow," thump.

Gary groaned, hazel eyes cracking open at the familiar sound. Carefully, he turned his head to one side, staring blurrily at the now blaring alarm clock. He was still a little sore from the spill he had taken the day before. As usual, it was an obscene hour.

"Just once," the man muttered to himself, practically falling out of the bed. "Would it kill the paper to come at nine?" It had been more than a week since he had managed to get a full eight hours of sleep, and the pace was starting to wear on him.

Still yawning, Gary snagged a robe from a nearby hook. It was old, and slightly ratty looking, but it kept him warm. That was all that really mattered. The sound of another meow caused him to sigh.

"Alright already," the brunette called. "I'm coming." He stumbled towards the door and opened it. The cat sneaking around his feet as he reached down to grab his early morning delivery.

"There," Gary said, waving the paper. "Satisfied." His feline companion merely blinked, causing the man to sigh. Huffing, he pulled a cartoon of milk out of the fridge, pouring Cat a bowl. Why did he even bother? It was bad enough he had starting talking to the creature.

As the brunette fixed his own breakfast, his eyes instinctively scanned the early edition of the Chicago Times. Looking for anything that needed his attention. Suddenly, he froze. The bagel halfway to his mouth.

'Star Witness Slaughtered,' the headline screamed. Below it was a picture of a somber looking blond man. Gary's gaze dropped to the article itself, quickly picking out the relevant details with the ease of long practice.

"At six thirty a.m.," the man read to himself. "A single shot rang out at the headquarters of the Chicago Police Department, ending the life of Aaron Wells." Well's testimony had been expected to put away the masterminds behind a large drug ring. Without it, the men would probably walk.

Gary looked down at his watch and swore viciously. It was 6:07 already, and the station was clear across town. Dropping his bagel, the man bolted out the door. Barely remembering to grab his trusty leather jacket.

To be honest, the brunette almost hadn't made it. If not for the timely intervention of a taxi driver whose young daughter he had saved the year before, he would have been stalled on third street. However, made it he had.

Anxiously, Gary practically ran through the halls of the police station. Hazel eyes periodically glancing at his watch. 6:27. The officers probably would have stopped anyone else. But, sad as it was, the brunette was a well known sight at this locale.

Then he saw him, Aaron Wells. The witness was being escorted to the Commissioner's office. His path taking him in front of a large window. It was six twenty-nine.

Gary would have preferred to shout a warning, but there really wasn't time. There was no guarantee the man would move. Then, he saw his opportunity. Not ten feet behind the blond stood a familiar figure.

"Hey," Well's would be savior shouted, making his way quickly across the floor. "Hey Armstrong." At that moment, several things happened almost simultaneously. Gary purposely clipped the blond, hard. Sending the witness stumbling out of the line of fire just as a single shot rang out.

A nearby marshal tackled Well's, sending them both tumbling to the floor. Meanwhile, another officer hit the lights, everyone else taking cover as the witness was hustled out of the room. Taken to a more isolated part of the station.

Through all this, the hero of the day remained where he was. It took him a moment to realize what had happened. Painfully, Gary turned his head to one side to see the pool of crimson spreading over his shoulder. "Oh," the brunette said somewhat stupidly. He had been shot. He pondered that idea for a moment. Well that sucked.

"Hobson," Armstrong hissed, crawling across the floor to the other's side. "Hobson you okay?" Brigatti was going to go ballistic about this once she found out. Come to think of it, his wife probably wouldn't be too pleased either.

"No," the brunette answered, staring at the ceiling. "Not really."

The detective laughed somewhat shakily. That was such a Hobson answer. "What were you thinking anyway? Pushing Well's out of the way like that?" He stripped off his jacket, applying pressure to the wound.

"I did not," Gary protested. More out of habit than any real conviction. "It was a coincidence is all. I was here to talk to you." He searched his mind for a viable excuse. "To file a complaint," yeah that was it. "About the hooligans loitering behind my bar."

Mentally the brunette patted himself on the back. That was a good one. His lying skills had certainly improved over the last few years. Though he still wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

However, Armstrong didn't look convinced. "Don't you ever get tired of that right time, right place shit?" he questioned dark eyes shining with concern. Hobson was way too pale.

A pair of hazel eyes blinked. "But this one works so well," Gary slurred. "It, it has a tradition behind it." He had the vague thought he had read that line in a book somewhere. But he couldn't recall which one.

Lips forming a thin grim line, Armstrong looked somewhat frantically around the room. It looked like Hobson was going into shock, not that the detective blamed him. "We need a medic over here." He ignored the other's protests that he was fine. He obviously wasn't.

A group of paramedics swarmed the scene. One taking over the detective's position as they shifted their patient onto a stretcher. This man needed a real doctor.

"Wait," Gary objected as they began to wheel him away. He couldn't go to a hospital now. There were still things he needed to do. He tried to get up, only to have one of the medics force him back down. "Armstrong!"

"What is it?"

"Here," the brunette yanked the paper out of his back pocket, shoving it into the startled detective's arms. "Take this." It wasn't the ideal solution, but it was the only one Gary could think of at the moment.

Armstrong stared blankly. "Just what am I supposed to do with this?" he asked.

A faint smile spread over Gary's pale features. "You're a smart guy detective," he said weakly, hazel eyes fluttering shut. "I'm sure you'll figure it out." The medics rushed the unconscious figure away, leaving Paul standing alone in the hallway.

Ten minutes later saw Armstrong standing in his office, flipping through the paper in frustration. Just what was he supposed to be seeing here? It didn't help that the material was spotted with Hobson's blood.

Suddenly the door slammed open, a no nonsense woman storming into the room. "All right Armstrong," she snarled. "What happened?"

However, the other officer was unmoved. "Hobson happened." Really, what else was there to say? The guy just attracted trouble. Frowning, Paul turned another page. He still didn't see it.

Brigatti paused, her tirade losing momentum. She took another step forward. "What are you doing anyway?" the woman asked curiously.

"Trying to figure out what the hell is so important about this paper," came the response. Sighing, Armstrong turned yet another page.

A frown crossed Brigatti's face as well, one gloved hand coming up to finger the bloodstains. "This Hobson's?" It wasn't that much of a stretch. Gary carried his paper with him everywhere.

The senior detective merely nodded. Pausing briefly at an article about a little girl being killed in a hit and run. How sad, his son was about that age. He didn't envy her parents.

"Huh," Toni sat down on the edge of the desk, eyeing the next page. "I didn't think the concert was 'til tomorrow."

One dark brow rose and Armstrong stared at the other cop. "I didn't picture you as a fan of Nine Inch Nails," he commented.

The woman flushed. "I'm not," she denied. "But my neighbor's obsessed. He's been talking about it all month."

Shrugging, the older detective went to turn another page, only to freeze. Hand stopping in midair. "Oh my God," he murmured, features going pale. At least, pale by his standards.

"What?" Brigatti demanded. "What is it?"

"The date," Armstrong choked. "Look at the date." March 15, 2010. Today was only the fourteenth.

The other followed his gaze. "You don't think," her voice trailed off. It was a misprint, that was all.

"Nah," Armstrong shrugged it off. "I mean, it is not like anyone could actually get the newspaper a day in advance."

"Right," the younger detective quickly agreed. "It's impossible."

"Illogical."

"Downright weird."

The pair paused again. Their minds flashing back to all the times Hobson had arrived at the perfect moment to prevent some disaster. Slowly, Armstrong turned back to the article of the little girl. His jaw clenched, a faint tick appearing in one cheek.

At the same time, almost without thinking about it, Brigatti slid off the desk. "I'll just go get the car."

A short while later found the two officers looking frantically around a park. Searching rather desperately for the little girl in the photo. "There," Brigatti shouted. Her eyes widening in horror as the child darted into the street after her wayward ball.

Armstrong ran. He ran faster than he had in his whole life, not sparing a single thought to his own safety. He grabbed the girl around the waist, pulling her out of the truck's path. It was close, too close. He could feel the wind from the passing vehicle ruffle his clothes. Almost immediately, the child began to cry.

"Alice!" a horrified voice rang out. "Oh my God Alice!" A beautiful woman with the same bright green eyes pulled the girl out of the detective's arms, tears running down her cheeks. "Thank you, thank you so much." She had seen the entire thing.

"It is no problem," Armstrong told her, feeling slightly flustered. "Anyone would have done the same." Except he knew they wouldn't of. But Hobson, he would have, the cop knew.

"Paul," Brigatti came up beside the other detective as the woman walked off, her daughter in tow. "You alright?"

"Fine," the man answered. "You?"

Wordlessly Toni held up the paper. The article about the little girl had vanished. Headline now reading Minnows Swim to Victory.

However, on the opposite page was a story centered around one of Chicago's more popular pizza joints. A gas leak had killed two people, many more hospitalized. The pair bolted. Armstrong not even noticing when he rolled up the paper, sticking it in his back pocket.

By the end of the day, the two detectives were starved, filthy, sore in more places than they had known they had muscles, and absolutely exhausted. On the other hand though, they had stopped an attempted suicide, three robberies, two muggings, called in four anonymous tips, and driven a woman to the hospital. Thankfully before she had actually given birth.

The grateful Mother had actually named the baby after them, much to the pair's embarrassment. Toni Armstrong Hardison-Sharpe, and what a mouthful that was. Kid probably would have been better off being called Gary. But he had been, and still was, unavailable. Unconscious in the same hospital where the detectives were now waiting.

"Man," Brigatti reached down to massage her aching feet. "How does Hobson do this everyday?"

"I don't know," Armstrong replied. "I just hope he heals quickly." The officer had spent years wondering how Hobson did what he did. However, now that he had his answers. Well, in all honesty, he wished he didn't.

Finis