You're at the kitchen table when I come out of the shower, thumbing intently through your iPod.

You ever gonna get some real music on there?

Contrary to the popular opinion of the Lone Star state, there is such a thing as real music that doesn't incorporate banjos.

Funny.

You grin.

I thought so.

You trying to tell me you think Marilyn Manson's a better singer than Garth Brooks?

That's exactly what I'm telling you.

Oh, give me a break.

There are two travel mugs of coffee on the table. Mine's plain brushed steel, a present from Momma last Christmas. Yours has polka-dots. Pink ones.

You tuck the iPod in your pocket while I pull my shoes on, start buttoning up your shirt. Sober blue stripes over a lime-green Family Guy t-shirt. Your obnoxious t-shirts didn't go away once you started in the field; they just went incognito, hidden under respectable button-downs and sweaters. Something I never realized before--before I moved in--and it makes me duck my head and grin a little because it's so you.

When I look up again you're standing right there, coffee mug in hand. You hold it out to me and I take it, smooth metal warm under my fingers, and somehow the way you step deliberately forward into my space seems inevitable. I can feel the heat of your body, smell the shampoo in your hair and the rich scent of good coffee. Your eyes are on a level with mine, dark and focused. Somehow, I always forget how tall you are.

Hey.

Greg, I--

Shut up.

There's a coffee mug in your right hand, but you bring your left up to cup my cheek, thumb sliding briefly over my brow. My eyes fall shut of their own accord, and I'm not even that surprised when you lean in and kiss me on the mouth.

Cherry chapstick and toothpaste and coffee and it only lasts maybe five seconds before you step back. The space where your body was feels suddenly cold. I open my eyes, and you grin at me, backlit by the sunset streaming in the windows.

Come on, we're gonna be late.

I'm so screwed.

The ride in passes in companionable silence, and when I'm pulling into the PD parking garage, you clear your throat.

You remember when I first decided to try and get out in the field?

I cut a glance at you, cautious, but it's dim in here under the concrete ceilings, and I can't read your expression.

Yeah.

It was tough. I made a lot of mistakes, Nick. I screwed up. I got scared. And, you know, it took a while, but I did it. Eventually, I got it right.

Yeah, man. You did.

Do you see what I'm trying to say?

Subtlety's never been your strong point. I have to smile.

Yeah. I do.

We're passing under a set of yellow overhead lights, cool asphalt-scented air coming in through the cracked window, and your returning smile lights up your face.

Good.

It's easier today. In a kind of painful way, but still. Isabel Gonzalez has been missing for two weeks now, and nobody wants to think the worst, but that rush of frantic energy we all get when there's a ticking clock kidnapping has cooled into something slower and harder. We'll find her, all right. Lowry hasn't given any indication of being some kind of criminal mastermind before he flipped a lid, so it's pretty much just a matter of time before somebody catches up to him.

Isabel, though--slender, pretty Isabel, who plays the saxophone and got accepted early admission to UCLA, whose mother couldn't stop crying when she came down to the station--her odds of survival are getting pretty close to zero right about now.

I'm wondering if you're going to take this one personally, but if you do, it isn't showing. We're in the A/V lab while Archie runs a trace on Lowry's cell, and you look tense and focused, arms tucked in tight to your sides and eyes narrowed.

Getting pissed off instead of miserable. I can get behind that.

Brass pages us around two, succinct to the point of rudeness like always.

PD found Lowry's car. Corner of Amherst and Charleston. Get here ASAP.

Archie's still working on it, and it doesn't look like he's getting anywhere fast. You quirk an eyebrow at me.

Let's hit the road.

There are three squad cars flashing red and blue all over when we get there, which I was pretty much expecting, and a ambulance parked in next to the curb, which I wasn't. Brass is standing across the street, feet planted, arms folded, face set in stone. I'm pretty sure I'm not imagining the way he winces just a little when he catches sight of you.

Nick. Greg. You made good time.

Yeah, Archie wasn't really getting anywhere with that trace, figured we'd try to get this show on the road. What have we got?

Lowry's car. It's--

You're looking over that way too, brow furrowed.

What's with the ambulance?

This time, Brass's wince is more pronounced. He opens his mouth, but then the crowd clustered around the back of the car shifts and explanations are rendered unnecessary.

The trunk is open, and two paramedics are gently lifting someone onto the waiting stretcher. Someone. Isabel Gonzalez. She looks fragile and tiny and Christ, so young. She's wearing a yellow dress that's hanging in bloody tatters and her face is a mess of bruises and blood and snot. She isn't struggling but there's something about her face, even from here, that makes me think of a rabbit in a trap. Eyes so wide the white is visible, limbs stiff, and God, it's familiar.

It's so familiar.

Brass clears his throat quietly.

He had her in the trunk. We don't know how long, but the responding officer heard her crying.

Christ.

You still haven't said anything, and it takes longer than I'd like to admit for me to make myself look at you. Your face is like a mask, knuckles white on the handle of your kit, and you're just staring while they load Isabel into the ambulance. Just staring. The door slams shut, and it's like the sound broke some kind of awful circuit in your head. A shudder ripples up your spine and you shake your head once, sharply, and meet my eyes.

Let's get to work.

Greg--

--once we get these processed, it should be a--

Greg. Look at me.

It takes a minute, but you do it. Your eyes are red-rimmed and a little wild, and your fingers are tapping out a frenetic, aimless pattern on the table. I don't even think you know you're doing it.

I'd like to blame it on the seven or eight cups of coffee you've had tonight, but I know that isn't it.

The hospital called. She's going to be alright. Isabel.

Your mouth quirks downward, brief and bitter, but you don't make the obvious comment.

Lowry was spotted at a gas station five miles down the highway. He's in a stolen vehicle.

So we should--

We should get home, Greg. Come on, man. Let Days take over.

Those guys are totally incompetent and you know it.

Still, you're shutting the scope down, movements precise and sure. You've been out in the field for years now, but somehow you still look so at home in a lab, an incongruous scientist with a flak vest and a gun.

From the other lab stool, Mandy watches us warily. You've been ignoring all her attempts at making friendly small-talk, and that's unlike you enough to worry her, I guess.

I can see her still watching when we head out into the hall, but that doesn't stop me from reaching out to brush your elbow, offering a point of friendly contact, and when you smile tiredly at me I'm glad I did.

I know what people are thinking, but right about now I really can't bring myself to care.

There's no discussion when we get home. I take my pajamas into the bathroom to change, then come back into your room without waiting to be asked. You're sitting cross-legged on the mattress when I get there.

Took you long enough.

There's too much in that comment for me to even think about unpacking it, so I just nod.

Sorry.

Yeah, right. Come here.

I do.

We don't do anything that day, but sometime after the sun's started into downward descent, I roll over onto my side and you roll with me, wrapping your lanky body around mine like a benediction. Your knee finds its way between my legs and your arm comes across my chest, too firm and deliberate for me to pretend you're still asleep.

Greg?

You squirm, adjust your grip, and let out a soft sigh against the back of my neck.

Go to sleep, Nick.

There's a gentle pressure just below my hairline, and it isn't until you pull away that I identify it as a kiss.

If I wasn't most of the way asleep myself I wouldn't do it, but I am, so I turn slightly in your arms, just enough to kiss you back. It's slow and sweet, comfortable in a way I'm nowhere near awake enough to analyze, and when I pull away I can just see the shape of your smile.