A/N: Songfic based on Great Big World's "Say Something." Set shortly after the series finale, with references to things that happened in that episode. I'm a little fuzzy as to whether Lilly's job offer involved a relocation, but for the sake of this story, it does. This is much angstier than what I usually write; I'm not sure what got into me.

UPDATE: This story in its original version included the actual lyrics to the song, but I have been informed by FFN's version of IAD that this is apparently not okay, despite the zillions of other stories I've seen on here that do the exact same thing. For whatever reason, I've been singled out, so I've had to remove the lyrics. Hopefully it doesn't hurt the story too much.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Cold Case characters.

Say Something

She's packin' up her desk.

She's packin' up her desk.

Never thought I'd see the day when Lilly Rush was packin' up her desk. And maybe…maybe if I'da kept my damn mouth shut last week, maybe if I hadn't called her bluff, told her to get her ass back up to the Feds and take that big job, then maybe she wouldn't be.

Too late for that now. Every crumpled piece of paper that hits the trash can, every coffee mug that gets wrapped up in yesterday's newspaper, every notebook, pen, tube of lip gloss, and bottle of aspirin that hits the bottom of that empty white box, all of it is just nails in the coffin of what we used to be.

What we coulda been.

What we…maybe… shoulda been.

God knows I had plenty of opportunities to tell her how I feel about her. Plenty of times when those three little words were right there on the tip of my tongue, just waitin' for my brain to unlock their jail cell so they could throw back those iron bars and run free, breathe the fresh air, take on a life of their own. So they could stop eatin' me alive.

But every time, somethin' stopped me. Don't know what exactly…it's just three words. Three short little syllables. Eight letters. Eleven, if you add her name in there.

I love you.

Never had trouble sayin' those words before. With Elisa, they just slipped out. Didn't even have to think about it. Hell, I didn't even know I was gonna say 'em 'til after I already did. And of course, she gave me that smile that melted my heart, every damn time…and she said 'em right back.

And maybe that's why I never said 'em to Lil. 'Cause I know she wouldn't say 'em back to me.

I know how she is with relationships. Someone tries to get too close, and she runs away. I saw what happened with Kite. With Ray. With Joseph. Don't know exactly what happened with Saccardo, but I know he ain't around. Let's just say I got my theories.

And I'd have to be a real stupid man, more stupid than I already am, to think I wouldn't be on that list if I'd let those three little words outta my mouth. By not sayin' 'em, though…by pretendin' I didn't feel what I felt, pretendin' she wasn't the one I dreamed about night and day since I don't know when…that made it so I could slip into her inner circle undetected. That let me stick around. Be there for her.

If I didn't ever tell her how I felt, then I'd never have to watch her walk away.

Or so I thought.

But now she's packin' up her desk.

I'm packing up my desk.

I'm packing up my desk.

This is the part I've been dreading. The part where I had to say goodbye to my squad, the little team of detectives who found the same crazy passion for the cold cases that I have. To Vera, who's always made me laugh, even when he's being a Neanderthal. To Jeffries, whose quiet strength has rubbed off on me more times than I can count. To Miller, who made being a lady murder cop a little less lonely.

To Boss, who's been like a father to me.

To…

No, I can't think about him right now. Not unless I want to break down sobbing right here in the middle of the office. Besides, I'm pretty excited about this new job. The FBI. The big leagues. It's the opportunity of a lifetime. I'd have been crazy to turn it down.

And there's nothing for me here. Not really. My niece is staying with my dad and Celeste; they'll do a great job taking care of her, and Chris, too, when she gets out of rehab. They'll be a family. They don't really need me.

Doesn't look like anyone does. So it's time to move on. Detective Rush, Philly Homicide, signing off.

I gotta relearn how to introduce myself. It's Agent Rush, FBI now. Agent. Not Detective.

That'll take some getting used to.

That among many things. Chief among them is the fact that I won't be working with Scotty anymore. I—I can't imagine what that'll be like. I don't even want to think about it, I've been trying not to think about it…but my heart won't let me put it off any longer.

I ain't slept much since I found out Lil was leavin'. Me and the bottle have become real good friends, 'cause frankly I got no idea how to do this job without her. She's the reason I stayed, if you want the truth. When I showed up and got paired with the one girl in the joint, this…crazy cat lady type with a bad hairdo who wouldn't know fun if it bit her in the ass; when I learned I wouldn't be on the front lines, runnin' around, kickin' down doors, and all the rest of the stuff I'd been itchin' to do since Academy, I thought it was some kinda… I dunno, crazy hazin' ritual or somethin'. Some joke Vera and Jeffries and the boss were all in on, where they'd make me solve fifty-year-old murders with the Ice Queen for a couple weeks and then sock me in the arm, buy me a beer, and welcome me to the big leagues.

What I didn't expect, in a million years, was for her to get into my heart. For these cold jobs to become my passion, too. I can't imagine doin' anything else, and I never thought she would, either. Oh, sure, she'll still be workin' cold jobs, but it ain't gonna be the same.

It'll never be the same again.

He was so cocky when he first started. So cocky. Had the biggest ego of anyone I'd ever met. He was obnoxious, too, especially his first job, when he kept pouting and sulking like a damn five-year-old about being stuck in the basement with me, working the cold jobs. I couldn't believe this was the guy who'd have my back, who I was supposed to trust with my life, who'd aid me in my all-consuming quest to make sure no victim was ever forgotten.

But oh, how that changed. He drank the Kool-Aid quick, channeled that passion, that ego, that drive, into the cold jobs, and we became the best team I've ever been a part of. And trust him with my life? In a heartbeat. He's been there for me when no one else has, cared about things nobody else has even bothered with, and put up with a lot of crap from me. I've shut him out, pushed him away so many times…anyone else would've gotten fed up and left.

Scotty stayed.

He's still here. Still staying. He's pretending to fill out paperwork, but I feel his eyes on me. He's watching me. Has been for a while now.

I wish he'd just say something.

That's pretty hypocritical of me, though. I can't fault him for staying silent when I've got something I want to tell him, need to tell him, should've told him a long time ago, but never had the courage.

I love you.

That's it. Three little words. Words I've heard said to me plenty, but always by people who ended up stabbing me in the back.

Words I've never been the first one to say.

Words I've never wanted to say to anyone, really, not until Scotty came along.

But I don't think there'd be much point. Scotty isn't shy about his feelings. Whatever or whoever he wants, he goes after, consequences be damned. He's not like me, always thinking everything to death. He acts first and considers the ramifications later.

So if he felt that way about me, at any point in our seven years as partners, well…he'd have said something.

And he hasn't.

I'm not his type, anyway. He likes the broken wings, the damsels in distress who need him to rescue them. He likes women who will let him be the man, let him be in charge, make all the decisions, feel like the hero. Women who are sweet and ultra-feminine, who wear skirts and curl their hair and look at him like he hangs the moon.

Women who are nothing like me.

Still, though, I couldn't help but have this silly fantasy that someday he'd figure out that what he really needed was an equal. Someone who'd call him on his crap, who understood him inside and out, who saw him for more than just his good looks or his Latin charm. In a crazy, bourbon-soaked moment over the weekend, I entertained the notion that maybe my departure would be the smack upside the head he needed to realize he couldn't live without me, to come charging through my front door and confess his undying love, to fall to his knees and beg me not to go.

It's so ridiculous I almost laugh. That kind of thing only happens in movies.

Here in cold, ugly reality, he's sitting here, not six feet from me. We're the only two left in the office. I can feel his eyes on me, and have all day…but he hasn't said a word.

I wish our last significant conversation hadn't been a stupid fight about Christina. I wish she'd never shown up, wish I hadn't lashed out at Scotty the way I did, wish he hadn't felt compelled to lie to my face like he always does when she's involved.

I was right all along; Chris really does ruin everything she touches. I wonder what would have happened between Scotty and me if not for her. It took me months to forgive him, and I don't think I've forgiven her yet. For Patrick, maybe. It was sixteen years ago now, and he and I never would've worked anyway.

But Scotty? He and I might have had a chance.

No use wondering now, though. It's too late.

Suddenly, I can't wait to get out of here. No lingering moments at my desk. No long goodbyes. I have to get out of here, get on with things, start over. Start fresh. See new faces, work new jobs, plunge myself headfirst into the world of being a federal agent so maybe I can have a chance at forgetting Scotty.

No. I won't ever forget him.

But maybe I can forget how much it hurts to love him.

She's picked up the pace of her packin'. Where she was puttin' stuff in there carefully, makin' sure it was all in some kinda order, now she's just throwin' it in like the place is on fire and she's got two minutes to get everything out.

If I were her, I'd feel the same way. Ain't like she's got much to keep her here. Just a job with crappy pay and even worse hours, a couple cats I know she's plannin' to take with her, a dad she barely knows, and her pill-head train wreck of a sister.

Seein' Chris the other day made a lotta memories come back, memories I'd do anything to have erased. I'm sure the Feds have got somethin' that'll do that; maybe I oughta ask Lil to hook me up. 'Cause those months after Elisa, when I was with Chris…that was what killed anything with Lil before it even had a chance to get started. I traded what coulda been a wonderful thing with Lil for a cheap fling with her little sister.

I am the stupidest man who ever lived.

'Bout two this mornin', after I dunno how many glasses of scotch, I wrote her a letter. Put everything in it I always wanted to tell her, but never had the cojones. It was more for me than her; just to get these words that have been trapped in my heart, swirlin' around in there, for as long as I can remember, to get 'em the hell out.

Dear Lil,

Congratulations on your new job. I really am happy for you, even though I've done a piss-poor job of showing it these last few days. I suppose I owe you an explanation as to why I've been acting like such a jackass.

You want the truth? Here it is. Deep breath.

I love you, Lil.

Not like just a friend and partner, either. I'm in love with you.

I wasn't planning to give it to her, but this afternoon, on some kinda crazy impulse, I put it on her desk anyway. What the hell, right? Can't screw up any worse than I have by not sayin' anything.

I've wanted to tell you for years, and not like this. I've wanted to look right into your beautiful big blue eyes, run my fingers through your gorgeous blonde hair, and just tell you. Like normal people do. Not the chicken-shit way, in a letter like this, when it's too little, too late. I wanted to tell you the right way, so we might have had a chance.

The letter's nowhere to be seen. Don't know what she did with it. She mighta tossed it in the trash, but more likely she's just got it stashed away somewhere. She's kind of a pack rat like that, savin' old stuff that ain't worth anything, but for some reason she likes to hang on to it anyway.

I don't expect anything from you. I don't expect you to return my feelings, and I certainly don't expect this to change any decisions you've already made. Selfishly, of course, I really wish you were sticking around. But I understand and respect why you're leaving, and I wish you nothing but the best. I know Agent Rush will kick some serious ass.

She's been glancing over at me all day, but she's had on the damn Ice Queen mask, that mask that never fails to turn my blood into boilin' hot lava. But now, sittin' here, realizin' this'll probably be the last time I ever see it…hell, I think I might even miss that.

I don't know why I'm telling you this now, other than I won't be able to live with myself if I don't. I know you've been lonely here, though, and part of that's my fault. I hope you won't be lonely in your new job. I hope you find people who will have your back, who will watch out for you and take care of you like I always tried to do. Like I will miss doing.

I wish she'd just say something. Let me know she read it. Let me down easy. Tell me, y'know, thanks but no thanks, Scotty; I'm flattered, but I just like you as a friend; it's not you, it's me. Somethin'. Anything, so that I can know for sure that there's no hope so I can watch her walk out that door and start the process of tryin' to get on with my life.

And whatever happens, I hope you'll remember that there was once someone who truly loved you, more than his lame-ass attempts at words could ever hope to express.

Goodbye, Lil, and good luck.

Love,

Scotty

But she ain't said a word. She's just throwin' stuff into that box on her desk, wearin' that damn mask. Looks like this is answer enough. This is how I'm gonna remember her.

Kinda fittin', really.

It's time to let her go. Time to say goodbye.

Just gotta figure out how.

The scraping of a chair jolts my attention from the last of the drawers to Scotty's desk. Apparently, he's finished pretending to do paperwork, because he's standing up and shoving a couple of manila files into the last of the evidence boxes. The last box, from my last case.

My last box.

Without looking at me, he picks up the thick black marker we always use for the boxes. He uncaps it, leans down, starts to write…

…and then stops. Looks at the box for a minute, and then slides his eyes in my direction.

It's the first time I've seen those eyes in two days. They're so dark they're almost black, filled with anger and pain and a whole swirl of other things I can't name. As I watch, they get even darker, if that's possible, and start to brim with tears. His jaw starts working, his lips tremble just a little bit…

Oh, Scotty, no. Please don't do that thing you do where you cry without really crying. Don't do it. Because if you do, these tears I've been fighting since Monday will win out, right in front of you, and I'll say things I'll regret.

He looks at me for a long moment, seems like he's about to say something, but then smiles slightly, leans over, and places the marker on my desk.

A lone tear escapes, one I hope I manage to swipe away as I pick up the marker, feel its heft in my hand, the cold metal against my fingers. He steps back as I get up and walk around the desk, but my left sleeve still brushes against the front of his shirt.

I can feel the heat from his body as I lean down, and mixed in with the pungent chemical smell of the marker is just a whiff of that warm, spicy aftershave he's worn since the day I met him.

This is it. Our last job. The last case we closed together, the last victim whose killer finally saw justice…

And he's letting me write on the box.

I can't think of a more fitting way for him to say goodbye.

A moment later, and it's done. The case. My career in Philly.

My partnership with Scotty, and any hope I might have had that it would someday be more than just a partnership.

CLOSED.

Well, I guess that's that. I never did say nothin'. Wasn't sure what I'd have said, anyway…but from the look on her face, I think maybe lettin' her write "CLOSED" on her last box…maybe that was goodbye enough.

My tears are about to spill over, looks like hers are, too, and the last thing I want is for us to be sobbin' all over each other like someone just died. Besides, it ain't gonna change nothin'. She doesn't feel about me like I do about her, and that's nothin' to cry about.

Not in front of her, anyway.

I pick up the evidence box, try to blink away the tears enough to look into her beautiful blue eyes one final time…

…but she's already lookin' away. She's puttin' the lid on the box of her stuff, grabbin' her coat off the back of the chair, and I gotta get outta here, 'cause no way can I watch her walk out that door without losin' my shit completely.

How strong does she think I am?

He's leaving. Oh, God, he's leaving. This is it. This really is goodbye. He's walking toward the door to the evidence room, and fast, too, from the sound of his footsteps. He's said his farewell, he's moving on.

So should I.

Hot tears blurring my vision, I pick up the box and head for the exit. I can't take a moment to look around like I'd like, take one last look around the place, because if I do, I'll be a blubbering mess, and he'll come up and find me like this, and he'll look at me like he does, and he'll make me start to question things, make me start to hope, again, for things that can never be.

How strong does he think I am?

Blinded by tears, practically sprinting out of the bullpen, I run smack into the door frame. The impact knocks me back a couple feet and sends the box flying, the lid spinning down the hall and all my belongings spilling out of the box and scattering everywhere.

All that stuff I just spent the last hour wrapping up and putting in the box, all the memories everything brought back. Now that I have to do it all over again, I want nothing more than to just sink down onto the floor and sob until there's nothing left…but I can't. Not here.

I take a long, difficult moment to retract my tears, manufacture some sort of detachment, then force myself to gather my things and throw them back into the box.

I'm almost done when I see a white envelope with my name on the front, the familiar authoritative scrawl tugging at my already bruised heartstrings. I never noticed it earlier. Must've gotten mixed up with everything else when I was packing up my desk.

Well, whatever it is, despite my curiosity, I can't open it here. Not when my composure is hanging on by a thread and he's bound to come back into the office any second. Maybe I should save it; read it tonight, when I'll be a sobbing mess anyway.

Or maybe some night next week when I'm in over my head with the Feds and feeling lonely and missing everything and everyone back home. Whatever it is might cheer me up a little bit. Maybe. But it won't change anything. Not really.

With a small, sad smile, I return the envelope to the box, replace the lid, and start for home.