Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. This is for entertainment purposes only.

Author's note: I make no pretences as to achieving what I did in Off Day. That story came straight from inspiration through my fingertips with no thought in between. I merely inscribed what was already there. And the tone… it's not easy to maintain with more people. Please read and review. I didn't think I'd be doing a sequel, but things happen….

A cold snow November. Two men argue, not shouting; the opposite of a shout passes between them. Words tight, hotter than flames, colder than the blowing snow. A WASP fight. They stand, the younger poised to flee, the older daring him to go. More almost soundless words are exchanged, then the younger does leave, gets into a car. Low-slung, sporty, expensive. Not suited for this weather, a car for dry pavements and clear lanes, not ice and obstruction. Moving too fast, fuelled by anger, frustration and only two glasses of wine: two too many and he knows it, but not enough to cut the pain, to weaken the stiff backbone. The elder watches for a moment, then goes back inside. Thanksgiving.

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"Did you phone him? Did he say when he expected to be back?" Jack paces, irritated. Boston-Irish temper wars with the fact that he has to watch what he says, what he does when dealing with things like this, and with this person. The walls have ears. Angry with himself for being angry, he sits down again, looking across the table, an accusation in his eyes.

"I phoned, Jack." Vivian stares back at him, patiently. Patiently because she's seen this before. She'd never tell him, but when it came to Martin, Jack acted like a resentful older brother. Forced to look after a little brat he didn't want, but protective nonetheless. Still, part of her worries. Jack is perfectly in character, but Martin's behaviour… "All I got was his answering service. Either his phone's turned off, or he's out of range."

"Isn't he at his parent's house for Thanksgiving?" Danny drops down into the chair next to Vivian's. He draped himself over everything, the ultimate in relaxed persona. Even when angry he never seemed overly tense, someone once joked he'd had all his bones removed, and the tendons cut. His habitual look of amusement is replaced with concern, now. "Did you try calling them?"

"I expect my agents to be available when I need them." Jack's face darkens at the mention of Martin's parents, or maybe just one in particular. "I expect them to be adults, I don't expect to be phoning Mommy and Daddy…"

"He's not there. His father said he left early, didn't know where he was going." Lithe, blonde Samantha joins them at the roundtable, seeming almost sad. "I didn't get the idea that things were exactly well between the two of them…"

Jack's expression says clearly I don't care. This outpouring of sympathy irked him more. He didn't have a special agent, he had a puppy. An expensive cute little puppy whom everybody seemed to feel sorry for. "We'll have to get going without him. Fiona Redburn, 13. Went missing this morning when she went down to the store…"

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He hurts. Airbag's only good if it deploys, if it's faulty it won't. It's cold, dark. Tomb. He can't move, something, maybe more than something's broken. Or maybe it's just the cold, too cold for comfort. Will they find me? When will they start looking? Forty-eight could be too late. But he knows that until then he's not really gone. He's en-route, or just out to cool off. Cooling off nicely, he'd say, though not enough. He still hurts deeper than these new bruises, all the way down to the old wounds. Even if… will the old man even call it after two, or just write him off this time. Which old man? The old man, or the one who he sometimes wishes was. Whatever. Cold dulls thought, makes coherence difficult. He's partly scared, more tired. Maybe it's better if they do wait… maybe it's just better. Maybe then…

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Little girl lost. Words which leave a parent nothing to be thankful for. Can't even have a holiday without those words. Bad enough any day, worse on a holiday and short-staffed. Still no answer from the brat. Not at home, and not on the cell he's supposed to keep turned on. No response to the pages.

"Jack." An agent escorts someone into Jack's office; he holds a jumpy teenager by the elbow. "This person says she has some information for you." Clearly, the agent doubts the trustworthiness of his attendee, can't blame him, she looks like she's ready to steal something, or run.

She's fifteen, maybe sixteen. Old clothes not in the best of shape. The jacket is torn, not good for this kind of weather; she makes up for it with an anomalous sweater. Lank, dark hair. But the face, oh the face tells all. Eyes sparking with anger, she hates him, hates this place, isn't too fond of anyone or thing in it. 'Don't mess with me' eyes. Features that could be pretty when the acne goes away, if she could learn how to smile. Doesn't look like the type of kid who'd be friends with a pretty, popular girl like Fiona. Doesn't look like she's from the same neighbourhood.

And the sweater. Not a girl's sweater, a man's sweater. Expensive. Jack's seen a sweater like it before, something about it pulls at his mind. "Thank you."

The agent escapes, gratefully. He doesn't want to be near this hell-spawn any more than necessary.

"Some information?"

"Are you Jack?" She throws a question back at him, not answering his. She wants his information before she'll share hers. Her pronunciation is a bit off, he can't place it.

He nods, holding his tongue, not answering back that she could use some manners. He doesn't have more than one name to be handing off the familiar to a strange child. He wonders where she heard it, why she's come to him.

"I want to report a missing person." She keeps her distance, arms folded across her chest, defensively, hands in view as though challenging him to call her a thief. Or something else.

Jack sighs. Why is it that people always think that the first thing to do was call the FBI? Always. "You'll have to make a report at your local precinct. They call us in if they need us."

Her look says clearly that she's not going to do that. It's here or nothing. This is someone with definite law-enforcement avoidance issues. Something's dragged her down here of her own accord, but she's not staying long.

"Fine. How long has this person been missing?"

"At least several hours now." She says it like it's forever. Which to a teen it probably is. A boyfriend? Most likely, she's not panicked enough for it to be a family member; she's got the 'I dare you to do it' look about her.

He sighs again. Can't people ever bother to learn the rules? "Until forty-eight hours have passed it's not a missing person's case. Unless you're talking a child. Are you?" His tone indicates that he doesn't think she is, and she reads him loud and clear.

"Forget it, Jack. It's obvious you don't care. I'm sorry for wasting your time." If her words could be any bitterer, they'd qualify as a poison deterrent. She fills the apology with every bit of sarcasm a teenage girl can muster.

Is this what I have to look forward to? His eldest would be thirteen soon enough, too soon.

She's leaving, heading out the door, moving quick.

"Sit down." He phrases it as a request, a reconciliation.

She doesn't listen, keeps going.

"Sit. Down." Parent tone now, maybe she'll listen to that. That something about her sweater is screaming at him now, telling him that there's more to this girl; that she's not all she seems. He's seen that sweater, can almost say where.

She doesn't sit, but she does halt. He crosses the floor to stand in front of her, block her exit.

"This missing person. What is their name?" If she wants to challenge him, she's picked the wrong guy on the wrong day. The last thing he needs today is a time waster, and he'll make her wish she hadn't chosen to do that.

She moves to step past him, her eyes angrier now, hurt. "No one you'd care about." She suddenly changes course, gets up in Jack's face, aiming to hurt him. "His name's Martin Fitzgerald."

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Phone. Supposed to be emergency rescue. He can see it, on the roof in front of him. Battery all the way over on the other side and up against the windshield. Useless. Darker in here now, he wants to sleep. No, don't sleep. Can't sleep. Stay awake. Can't think straight either. Pager buzzes again. Helps. Can't answer, but it serves as a reminder to the world. Somebody cares. Can't move to see who, but somebody cares. Who cares? Probably nobody. Wrong number. Pages only for the clockwork soldier, not him. Pages mean Job. Job wants his body, not him. They only want him because he fills the hole, if they had someone else… Who cares? Who…

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She says it Mar-TAHN. Like 'Jack' became 'zhahk.' Or, he supposes now, 'Jacques.' French. A little odd, but this is New York where the only thing strange is normal. He's more used to hearing the accent from Haitians, not underfed white kids with bad skin and somebody else's sweater. Then again, New York's not that far from Montreal either. And every runaway in the world works their way here eventually. What is odd is that an obvious trouble kid is standing in the New York offices of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, wearing the sweater of one of its agents who is presumably missing and not just off somewhere having a drink to cool down. Or driving his way back from Washington, for that matter, and not bothering to answer his phone. What is odd is how this street rat knows a well-heeled brat more than twice her age; that she's concerned enough about him to strike a deal with a devil to get him back. It's not the obvious-scandal thing, if there's any credit Jack's willing to hand off to his junior agent, it's the brains not to get caught in something like that.

"How do you know Martin?" He needs to know before he can go further. It's a starting point, something to grab on to.

"He volunteers at the centre." She's finally sitting down, but watching Jack intently, waiting for him to turn on her, or to tell her once again that there's no case.

A few more questions and he knows who she is (Jeanne-Elise Martin, talk about co-incidence) and where 'the centre' is. Not a nice part of town, not an area he expected Martin to be familiar with. Definitely not rich-kid territory. Jack's heard of the place she's talking about though. A lot of marginal kids pass through there, mostly on their way well beyond those margins. Where modern Saint Judes try to redeem the unredeemable. Searching for goodness under a lifetime of cynicism, goodness so withered it can't grow, even if they could provide fertile ground. To those kids cops are the enemy, right up there – in some cases – beside parents and social services. He knows of the centre, because of its reputation in law enforcement circles as a pain in the ass. Sheltering kids from talking to police, to agents, being as obstructionist as they can and still stay open. Defending their behaviour on the grounds that they need the kids to trust them.

Yet… Here he is, parent and Fed, and here she is talking to him. Someone's gotten through to her, at least a little bit. Jack would give half his paycheque to know how, he never picked Martin for the social worker type either.

"What does he do there?"

She shrugs, doesn't relax though. She's not going to relax here, never relaxes anywhere. "Tutors, mostly. Math. Sometimes English. He gave me some equations on the Fibonacci sequence to work through. Stuff."

Jack shakes his head. He's never heard of it. "Fibonacci?"

"1,1,2,3,5,8,13… He invented it to calculate rabbits." She smiles now; she's got something over him. Knowledge not possessed is a weakness. All those certificates on the walls, and he doesn't even know a number sequence.

"Not high-school math, then."

She shrugs again. "For those who need it. You think because I'm trouble I'm stupid. That I don't know things." She says it as a statement of fact, not even a challenge to it.

"I never said that." Parent again. It's hard not to be, dealing with kids. Especially the teenagers. Vivian can do it sometimes, Sam and Danny are better. Martin, though, somehow, he's the best.

"People don't have to say it. It's always there. A kid with their private school uniform's smart. They're worth teaching. One look at me, and it's out with the remedials." She sneers, throwing her head back. "One listen, and it's the reading primers, like I've never seen the Roman alphabet before."

Smart. Jack makes another note in the mental profile. Not only smart, but aware. Most kids her age, even the smart ones didn't pick up on nuance the way she did; only heard the words, didn't consider what they might mean. And she hasn't once, like so many people do, asked him why they're sitting here talking when he could be out looking. Like she knows that sometimes the shortest route to a missing person is through information instead of around by action. She did however, insist that he alert the PD between New York and Washington to be on the lookout. Reminded him that another front was moving in to blanket the Eastern Seaboard with another deep layer of snow. Only then, would she sit and answer his questions, however reluctantly or evasively.

He discovers that Martin volunteers Tuesdays and Thursdays when he can, today is Friday. "How do you know he's missing, if you wouldn't see him for another five days?"

"I had a question. I called him. He always answers, or calls back. Even if he can't talk, he always calls back. He promised, he's never broken it." Until now, which means something's wrong. Very wrong.

One last question, an important, nagging one. "How did you get that sweater?"

She pulls in, defensively; it's just like he expects. He's practically accusing her of stealing it, isn't he? How else would she come by something so expensive, something that even if it were left in Goodwill would be snapped up by a bargain hunter, never by someone like her, never would she be able to afford it, even second hand. "A couple of weeks ago. It was cold."

When this cold snap began, though he asked her how, not when. He waits, not asking for further explanation, but clearly expecting it.

"Martin saw my coat, knew it was cold. He said he had lots more at home." She's not going to tell him how she fought not to have it, didn't want the charity, no matter how many sweaters he had, no matter how good and heavy and unbattered his overcoat was. That he insisted, told her he never liked the colour anyway, that his aunt had bought it for him. She's not going to tell this stranger, this cop, how she could see Martin was genuinely worried, worried for her own survival. That he knows she has no warm place to live, that the rest of her clothes are in the backpack the bastards made her leave at the front desk, as though she were packing in a bomb or something. She's really not going to tell this guy that took the garment because she saw past those worried eyes, deeper down. To someone with great fear and doubt as to his own survival, not in a world of snowstorms and starving, but of lonesomeness and despair. That if a sweater gave him that much comfort… well she wasn't going to deny him that. It's the closest he's ever come to trying to save her. Anyone else could go to hell, but in that moment, she realised that Martin Fitzgerald could draw maps.

Jack accepts the simple explanation, it sounds like the kind of impulsive, yet ultimately stupid thing that Martin occasionally pulls in his more human moments. He lets her go, tries paging him again. She could be wrong; he could just be ignoring everybody.

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Another call for the Tin Man. To bad, he's not here. Hello, hello, goodbye. Will the kids miss him? When he's not there on Tuesday, or is it Thursday now? Time impossible to tell, hours, minutes, days. Eternity. Or will they just accept it as another one of life's lies; the fact that he cared. Even if they find he's dead. They know death, know it like he does. All of them: Jeanne-Elise, Eric, Bobby, Kris, Martin… they've all seen dead bodies. Both Martin and Bobby have been responsible for making a couple of them that way. Self-defence. A good lie. Not defence, the self. Who was he saving when the knife came out, and the gun roared? Not me, not he. If so, for what? Death is not a shock, not an excuse, either. Dead, we don't know you any more. And do they like him anyway, or merely tolerate? A mild amusement. He, the lost cause, not they. Hey, Jude…

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What the hell am I doing here? He fingers the keys in his hand, wondering which, if any of them, will open the door in front of him. This is not his apartment, he has no right to be here, only the word of a troublesome kid whose suspicions run contrary to his own. Bad enough if the invasion is justified, but how does he defend himself when it proves not to be? Martin is not a person to be transgressed against, not if you want a happy future in the Bureau. That's why it's only Jack here right now, leave the other safe, looking for Fiona. He'll shoulder the blame for this, it's his job, and only he has the leeway.

The third key slides in easily. No alarm beeps its telltales as he opens the door, no keypad hangs by the entrance. No need, really, in this high security building in this decent neighbourhood. Only reason Jack got past the doorman is an official ID and even more official expression.

"It's about time." A voice at his elbow makes him jump. An old lady of the 'I am more important than you can possibly imagine' class has managed to sneak up on him. Nice trick. "I've been after you people to come and do something about that man for quite some time now."

"Ma-am?" Jack's confused. This is Martin's apartment, the keys were in his desk, it's the address from his personnel file. There may be a lot Jack doesn't like about the man, but he never profiled him as an irritating neighbour.

"Once a week. The bleach. You can smell it everywhere. And he's always so quiet. No visitors, ever. That's the type isn't it? The quiet loners who end up shooting everybody in the building, and getting in the FBI?"

"I am the FBI ma-am." No sense telling her that her neighbour is too, it'll only get her going more.

"My." She steps back, glancing at the open door and back at Jack. "Then he has done something. I knew it. I knew that there was something up with that boy. He never says anything, and is always coming and going at all hours. Sometimes in the middle of the night. Sometimes the bleach will start, and then he doesn't finish, just leaves. Then doesn't come home for days."

That's life when you're an FBI agent, ma-am. Criminals don't file a schedule. "There's nothing illegal in that kind of behaviour, ma-am."

"This is a good neighbourhood. People don't do that sort of thing." She keeps looking at the door as though a drama is waiting to happen behind it. "I've spoken to the strata council, as well, but they refuse to do anything. I can't believe they let him in."

A family as connected as Martin's, it would have been stranger if they'd kept him out. You don't exclude the son of a man who has a phone number for the president. Not even in New 'Wonderland' York.

"I'm here to look into things, ma-am. I need you to go back to your apartment now." No sense in denying anything, she wouldn't believe him anyway. But he doesn't have all day to stand here listening to her, either.

She scuttles off, letting him enter the apartment in relative peace. Now that he's inside, he can see what she means about the bleach. Not that he can smell it, but that must be how Martin cleans the place, because it looks sterile. It's not a big apartment – even this is more than the average agent at Martin's level could afford – only about three or four rooms, but nice sized rooms. Good quality furniture, at least what he can see from here.

The kitchen is spotless, shiny. All chrome, glass, tile and copper. Hard surfaces, smooth surfaces. Surfaces where dirt can't hide, can't grind in. Through the glass on the cupboards, Jack can see dishes and food containers, neatly organized and lined up according to size, shape and… he looks closer, confirms it. Colour. Inside the fridge, the glass shelves are almost empty, so unlike Jack's fridge at home what with two girls always stashing something. Everything in here is neatly organized and in formation as well. He can catch a hint of bleach here; the airtight seal of the refrigerator has kept the fumes from dissipating like they have in the room. There's no dishwasher, though Martin probably wouldn't use one if there were.

Yet, he's never struck me as germ-phobic. Not to this level, anyway. He's seen the kid get right up close with people. In their face if need be. No, this is something else, entirely.

Living room is a little more to the normal. Television, stereo, both good quality. A large bookshelf occupies most of one wall, filled top to bottom with books, mostly hardcovers. Conrad, Faulkner, Fitzgerald (F. Scott). All the stuff they made you read in school, all the stuff Jack hated. This collection reads like a lit-top fifty, with variations. Ivory tower stuff. Many of them have page markers in them, some have more than one. Towards the bottom it gets more comedic. Satire. Swift. Adams. A few Jack's never heard of. They too, have their page markers. He grabs one at random.

Words are underlined on the page:

Obviously, he reasoned, if sticking screws up your nose was madness, then numbering them and keeping them in careful compartments was sanity, which was the opposite –

Ah. No. It wasn't was it…

He smiled. He was beginning to feel quite at home already.

Is this Martin's clever little way of trying to tell the world something? Or just a joke on himself? Or something else, a reminder to consider the other side of things. Or maybe he just liked the quote. Really, it's not that much different from the others Martin has taped up or otherwise posted around his desk. Jack closes the book looks at the cover. Thief of Time by Terry Pratchett. From the outside, it doesn't look like a book Martin would read (especially not when compared with those top shelves) it looks like a pulp novel, though there's a number here by the same author. On the back are a series of reviews, all from British newspapers. Ah. Satire again, from the sounds of things. Sarcastic. That is Martin's style. Jack doesn't know anyone who can get as sarcastic as Martin when he wants to.

He replaces the book, moves on to the bedroom, barely noticing how cold the place is. No sense leaving the heat on if you're not going to be home. In the bedroom, the same sense of obsessive neatness reigns. Hospital corners on the bed, clothes arranged in the closet and drawers according to type, colour and – he checks twice to be sure, this is entering the realm of the creepy now – washing instructions. Several suits hang in the closet, still enclosed in the dry-cleaning bags. All perfectly pressed, complete and ready to go. On the shelf above rest clean sheets and towels, carefully folded and stacked, exactly one quarter inch behind the edge. Other than that, there's no personality to the place whatsoever. No pictures, no artwork. Walls are a flat white. There's not even a bedside table. This room has only two purposes: sleep and garment storage.

On to the bathroom, then he's covered the entire place. The shower stall shows no evidence of soap scum or mildew. A wire rack holds the necessities: shampoo, conditioner, and a pump bottle of soap. No messy, melting bars and mouldering nailbrushes here. Again, everything lines up, everything sparkles. A single towel hangs on the bar, perfectly bisected. This entire apartment could be a showpiece set up by a realtor: This is what you can have for only thirty-five hundred a month.

He pauses for a moment at the medicine cabinet. The last great refuge, where all the dirty little secrets often hide. Slowly he swings the door open and sees the contents. And makes a call.

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Hhmn. No more buzzing. Real-world gone away. Gone forever. Never. So much for the 2.5, picket fence. Not that he'd ever get it anyway. Lied to Sam. Not normal. Want normal. Can't have. All gone, bye-bye. Miss you, all you. Sam, Viv, Jack, Danny-boy. Miss me too? Or just fill in another. Hello, Mr. Smith. Welcome to our team. There's your desk there, pretty soon we'll have it clean. No more pain in the butt. Funny. He's slowing, thinking strange. His book shelf would be running better. Cold good for those circuits, bad for his. Does he regret? Not yet. Never. Cold, dying, maybe dead already and too stubborn/stupid to tell, but no regret. I still don't love you, Daddy. No happy family here, despite what the world thinks.

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"How has Martin seemed to you? Lately." They sit outside, in the park. It's too cold for that, but this is not a conversation Jack wants to have with people around, especially not with Bureau people around, where an idle word creates seas of gossip. Vivian doesn't like the cold, but the question is enough that she knows why they're here.

"Martin? Fine, I guess for Martin. Why are you asking, Jack?"

He tells her about the girl, about the apartment, about the cabinet. "He has enough anti-depressants in there to start a small pharmacy."

"You think he's got a problem?" Vivian looks disturbed now. An agent with a drug problem is a very serious problem indeed. It's not his life he messes with, it's everybody's. She remembers too clearly the Reyes incident, with Martin out of character, out of control. Yet at the same time she tries to think of any of the other signs that should be there, none of which match up with her mental inventory of the man.

"Yes, but not with the drugs. Per se. From what I could tell, he never takes them." An addiction would be easier for Jack to wrap his head around, easier for him to deal with. And you're the one with the Psych degree. This is a thornier problem than a simple chemical dependence.

"He goes through all the work to get prescriptions, buys medications, and never takes them." Vivian's having trouble with the concept as well. "That is a very warped sense of priorities, Jack."

"Is it?" It's strange to be on the Martin Fitzgerald defence team, usually their roles are reversed. "Truthfully, Viv, If I hadn't told you, would you ever have thought that there was anything wrong with the man? Would you trust him any differently?"

She sighs, tilting her head back; her eyes are closed. "I don't know, Jack. Aside…" She's not going to tell him what really happened, she can't. "Aside from one or two times, I've never seen a crack in that self-discipline of his. And I've never seen him be anything other than responsible."

Jack gives her the eye at that one, there are a few incidents that spring to his mind, where the kid's screwed it up.

"I don't mean like that, Jack. I mean, when he has, he's always taken responsibility, always taken the heat, right? There are a lot of times he could've cried 'foul' and had you dropped in it, but he hasn't."

She's right, and seen from that angle, even Jack has to admit it. In fact, the kid's even put himself in the way once or twice, using his instant immunity to save the others. Even that Jack has trouble with, because it serves as a reminder of Martin's special status, that he can get away with what no one else can; it comes across as a charity that Jack's pride makes him resent. Not deny, but resent.

"And…" her lips twitch a little, she can't help it. "He does have the ability to admit when he's wrong. Not often, I'll grant you, but then I've noticed that to be a general male trait."

Jack doesn't look at her, that's the only acknowledgement he gives that little sting. Okay, so they've all got a little pride, that's what drives them, makes them good. Still. Something about Martin… maybe it's all those brains, kept so tightly hidden. The way he never showed any of himself except what you wanted to see. Until now, until Jack was forced to pry into that secret little world, and see not only pride and arrogance, but pain. Some of those prescriptions go way back, back before Martin could ever buy them himself.

Idiot. He kicks himself for not seeing it sooner. It's not like Martin's ever hidden it, it comes out in too many references, too many bitter tones.

That flash in his eyes whenever someone brings up Fitzgerald Sr.; an angry flash, dark and resentful. Even… even the way he does put himself in the line of fire. Taunting.

And the comments, from other agents, when they found out whom Jack had been saddled with. Sympathy from most, but one stands out, always has. A former colleague of the father, rumoured now to be alienated from the network. "Good luck with that, Jack." Always thought it was a sarcastic move but…he remembers now an almost sadness to it.

"Jack." Viv's voice cuts in, warning. She nods across the way to where a watcher stands. Threatening, if only because of his presence and appearance. Young, black, angry. A general anger, and a personal one, directed at him. Not saying anything, not doing anything, just staring. Watching. Viv is tense because situations like this often turn ugly. Jack…

Jack does something so un-New Yorker as to be scary. "What?" He calls out to the kid, makes sure he's heard. "Don't you trust me?"

Of course not, asshole. The look says it all. No words from this one, he's better at the intimidation game. Another one of Martin's 'kids', Jack's sure of it. Who else would follow him down the street, stand and watch him in this cold weather? They don't trust him because of what he is, maybe even for what he's appeared to be. He realises now that they do trust Martin to some degree, which means Martin's probably given them something of himself for them to trust in. But what?

Runaways. The word burns itself suddenly into Jack's brain. That's the link, the commonality that binds these apparently disparate souls. This kid, Jeanne-Elise, it's easy to tell. And now… Jack's willing to bet his career on the fact that Martin's been down that road too.

"There's not a lot of air in those things." Talking about a container truck, about hitchhiking across country. Odd sport for a kid with Martin's background, but not if it's not a sport. Letting him sympathise, empathise with trouble kids in a way no parent or social-worker – certainly no Missing Person's expert – can. Especially with these smart ones: they're him give or take a few circumstances

Abruptly, Jack's a little jealous. He works with Martin, puts his life in the guy's hands, and knows less about him than strangers who see him for a couple of hours each week. That the trust issue applies to Martin too: Martin doesn't trust him, not enough. And why should he? You've never denied that you thought him a spoiled brat.

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Warmer now. Air is thick, hard to breathe. Familiar sensation, he's been here before. Then, burning with spite, it almost felt good. Then, there was no one he felt sorry for, except himself. Now… there are still things he can do. One or two he doesn't want to leave behind. Not many, but enough. They haven't hurt him enough to deserve him gone, like this. Clarity comes in final moments, but still no regret. Won't be, ever. Sorry, Jack…

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They continue staring, a few more seconds, it's the boy who looks away first. Easy to make happen when you know a person's weak spot. Everybody has a rock. A profiler's saying. Everybody's got something, some point that they'll give on, where their guilt becomes too much. With this kid, it's authority and no way to challenge it. Kid needs Jack, is intelligent enough to know he won't get what he wants on his own. Knows he's got nothing to bargain with. Sucks having a soft spot, doesn't it kid. Welcome to the human race.

"Jack." Vivian doesn't know enough, to her he still seems crazy. You don't do this, challenge street kids and walk away with your guts still inside you. Not out here, alone and vulnerable. "What's going on?"

He sighs. He knew he'd have to say it eventually, didn't want to. "I've called it in, Viv. Official search, not just a Be on the Lookout." He waits for her reaction, has a pretty good idea what it will be.

She doesn't disappoint. "What? Jack, if Martin's missing, we should be doing something more than having a conversation in the park." Funny how making it personal could cause you to forget all the rules. "He's not the type just to take off… Have you told Danny, Samantha?" The tenor of her voice, the sudden change in her body language all tell the same story. She's betrayed that he strung her along, keeping her in the dark on how serious the situation truly is.

"No. Not yet. Viv, there's nothing we can do from here, that can't be done better by other people." The hardest thing to understand, the most essential to accept. Some times it's best to step back, hand things over to people who care less. "I haven't told Danny and Samantha, because I don't want to distract them. And if we do get him back…" He'd asked if Vivian could still trust Martin, but another big question remained: would Martin still trust them? If he knew that they knew his secrets, would he be able to still function on the team, or would he second-guess every word, every gesture? Wonder what filters they were applying to their interactions. And without that trust…

"Not if, Jack." Though she knows the truth as well as him. Most disappearances end in death, one way or another. Too rare are the times when a victim is found alive; they're always too late, too slow. But she nods in agreement to his other line of thinking. "He is a private person. He's not going to like that being broken." She suggests the compromise, as usual. "Tell them, but not everything. Tell them he's missing, tell them you've got people looking." She smiles, but it's sad. "They already know the first part, Jack. Give them some faith with the second."

How long? They wait, working, pretending to work. Waiting. Each tick of the clock, each passing second ups the tension like that rabbit sequence. 1. 1. 2. 3. 5. 8. 13. 21… Pretending to look for Fiona, but the brain can't focus, not properly. Guilt pulls them back to a little girl lost.

I've got some people looking. Jack doesn't tell them who, they'd never believe him. It's the quid pro quo he demanded, he hopes he actually gets it. 55. 89. 144. Still, they're motivated to find, there's something to gain there. 987. 1597.

The phone rings. Jack listens, puts it down. His face says it all, hurt, disappointment. For someone, the holiday now will always be black, will always bring pain. "They've found her." A body in a railyard. Already frozen, dead before they even began to look. Too late again. Case closed, like too many: victim deceased. But their job is done, she's found. The parent in him screams, rages, wants to keep looking, find who did this. The SAC says it's over, there's others still to find.

The others look away, disappointment for them too. Sad for Fiona, but still tense, still waiting. He watches Danny and Samantha, heads bowed together in concentration. They say they understand, but do they? Younger, closer to Martin, do they think that Jack still doesn't care? If I didn't…

The phone doesn't even complete its ring. Faces look at him, not daring to hope. He listens, comments, hangs up the phone. "Baltimore police just found him. He's going to be okay." They all have a million questions, many of which he has no answer for. "They're treating him for hypothermia, but it's mild." The fact that the heater had been going full blast when the accident happened, the insulating layer of snow, even that damned heavy overcoat he always insisted on wearing. Each one had extended his chances, just enough. Any later… Jack doesn't tell them that only a few minutes air remained in the car, that the biggest danger hadn't been snow, but suffocation. If Jack had delayed any longer… forty-eight would've been too late. He'd complained – at the Reyes shooting – that he was dealing with too many close calls. But better a close call than a funeral.

Belatedly he realises that one phone call never had come in. There's no way the man couldn't know, not when the full alert went out. He'd be the first person contacted, questioned. Yet he hadn't phoned, hadn't seemed to do anything. I would have. For my kid…no wonder Martin hung out with runaways, ran away himself. No love lost where there never had been any.

When they run out of questions, giving up when he has no more answers to give, he leaves them to their relief, to their small celebrations, heads downstairs, outside. They wait for him, across the street, a bigger group this time. Four questioning faces demanding more answers in their silence than the ones upstairs. He starts to tell them the same story, realises they'd never buy the lie. "They found him. He's going to make it."

They nod, walk away with no thanks given or taken. These are not ones to show gratitude, but Jack senses a small trace. Maybe for the news, or maybe for the fact that he knows what they know, what the people inside and all around never could. He'll make it. He told them, not the same words he said upstairs. Because he knows now what they know. That there is no okay.