TITLE: Rhapsody for Two
AUTHOR: fixomnia
PAIRING: Flack/Angell
RATING: This chapter's hovering at a "T", for some language and adult concepts.
SPOILERS: Various Flack/Angell scenes from Season 3-5, and Flack's season 6.

Chapter Summary: She's no angel, and he's not dead yet.

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Chapter One
No Wings Necessary
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Ooh-wah, ooh-wah, cool, cool kitty
Tell us about the boy from New York City
Ooh-wah, ooh-wah c'mon kitty
Tell us about the boy from New York City

- The Manhattan Transfer, "Boy From New York City"

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"What else can you tell me?"

"How far back you wanna go? She was a real spitfire back in the day, but she's growed up since."

"Attitude?" Lt. Sythe asked. Extra baggage was not what he needed. Homicide was still reeling from the bombing that nearly took out one of their most solid men. He needed someone to direct some of the routine cases, someone experienced enough to jump into a team mid-crisis, and junior enough not to mind being handed the scutwork.

Detective Sergeant Dawkins, an affable black Mississipian, had stepped up to the plate when he got wind of Sythe's call for recommendations for a junior Detective to join Homicide on a six-month deployment. Young Jessie was kicking her heels in his General Investigations Section, Dawkins said, and was more than ready for a challenge. He'd knowed her since she was a raw recruit.

Sythe harnessed the urge to ask Dawkins to get to the point, sir. There weren't many minutes in the day he had to spend listening to stories, but Dawkins was usually worth his breath.

"Nah, she's steady. There was just the one time she lost it real bad. The Cadets in her troop used to call her The Princess, 'count of her daddy - an' her looks - an' I guess she had 'nough, 'cause one day she takes on the tough guy in the troop. Guy's an ex-Reservist, liked to think he was a manly man. After class one day, they're all out on the soccer field, blowin' off steam, an' he would not let up. So this li'l thing hollers sump'in French in his face, practices her hard control technique on him. Guy ends up with her knee print on his neck, an' his arm twist' so far up his back he was sore for a week. Li'l Jessie got herself grounded to barracks for a coupla days, but she never got called Princess, ever again. Like a cat puttin' a house dog in its place. She never had no problems after that, an' never looked to make any."

"How long ago was this?"

"Must be eight years now. Damn, time slips 'way, don't it? She made Detective li'l over a year ago. The old-fashioned way, long hours an' no favors. She gonna be a lifer or I'll eat my hat, no salt. Anyway, Lieutenant, I'll be sorry to see her go, but it's a fine chance for her. Six-month dee-ploy, you say?"

"That's what I'd like to offer. There's no telling how long Flack's going to be out, or - between us - if he's coming back. Good news is, he's out of the woods. There was some infection and pneumonia, the first few days, but they've cleared that up. Man's barely talking, and he's already offering bribes for meatball hoagies."

"That's good news. His momma and daddy must be thankin' the good Lord," Dawkins said warmly.

Sythe found it hard to think of the stern, august Donald Flack Sr. as 'Daddy' , but he agreed with the sentiment. "No telling yet about battle-shock or mobility. We'll just have to wait."

"Well, I think you found yo' girl, meantime. Angell's a fine officer. It's her call. I want her back, mind."

"She's another of your kids, huh, Dawkins?"

"All'a them are, Sythe. Ever' one. Just don't be tellin' them that. College for three is enough."

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"He almost lost a leg, you know," her father said, "your new Lieutenant. Golan Heights, 1969, when he was a private. Found a land mine. Just a teenager."

"Jesus. And that didn't stop him signing on as a cop?"

"Never slowed him down, as far as I can tell. Ran marathons until a few years ago. Top you up?"

"No, thanks." Jess covered her glass as he wielded the cut-glass wine decanter. "You go ahead. So what do you know about this Flack character?"

Cliff sat back in his easy chair, the twin to the one in which Jess was seated side-saddle, her feet tucked under her. No matter how much of an adult she tried to be at her parents' house, somehow, she always ended up here, curled up in her father's study listening to him talk. True, in the last five years, he'd shared his Cabernet with her, along with his insight, but it still took an effort not revert back to her childhood role. Trying to impress him with some feat of daring, or calling him "Papa" when she was pleased with him

And there the pastoral vision ended, because Jess Angell had just outshot her father at their favourite outdoor range near the Hudson. Her punishment was to sit still and listen to another ripe and ribald installment of RCMP history, during the Quiet Revolution in Québec, and how political correctness and litigation had turned cops into babysitters. Cheap flattery still worked on him, though, and she'd patiently waited for a while before cutting in and asking him his learned advice on her new posting. He hadn't been fooled, but at least he'd been forthcoming.

"Senior or Junior?" he asked, swirling his wine glass prior to a sip.

"The son."

"Ahh. Blue-flamer. I taught his I&I course, at the Academy. He came back for the advanced modules, later on. Unlike someone I could mention."

Jess sighed. "Dad, I'm going to take it. Just not this second. I've done fine with the basic course."

Cliff chuckled, "There's a reason Don Flack's got a reputation for his suspect interviews, Jessie, that's all I'm saying. You want to work on the murder squad, you gotta learn you can't just play the tough-talk-trust line to get results. Going to have to learn some finesse and patience. You'll be interrogating some slippery characters, some of them a lot smarter than you. Or just plain psycho. Can't logic them around."

"Okay, okay. What else? I want dirt."

"You'll have to wait for that till you get there. I can tell you one thing, though - he's as serious a cop as you're ever likely to meet. It's not his job. It's his life. It's who he is. It was there all over his face when he was just a lanky kid in a Cadet uniform. Just like his old man."

"Just like my old man."

"Takes one to know one, I suppose." Jess wrinkled her nose in anticipation of it being pinched, and she was quickly proven correct. "Jess Angell, Homicide Detective, eh? Proud of you, Jessamine."

"Haven't even gotten started, Dad."

"Speaking of started - " Cliff peered towards the open study door, "is your mother ever going to call us for dinner?"

"We should get down there and help."

"And interrupt in the middle of her baked salmon and lemon asparagus? You don't mess with a master."

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Her first month at the 14th was the steepest learning curve she could recall. Even her early days at the Academy had been buffered by a lifetime of absorbing cop philosophy and cop lingo from her father and his friends. Seven years in General Investigations had given her a solid survey of the crimes that afflicted New York, but she felt like she'd landed in a Master's program in Murder, after years of undeclared studies.

The first surprise was how young Lieutenant Sythe was. From his voice on the phone, and the résumé she'd pieced together, she had expected one of the tough, divorce-stung military types one often found at the top of the command. When she pulled up his photo on the police database, she blinked. Sythe looked like a middle-aged, mid-level executive public servant from any department in the city. Decent brown suit, decent hair, first few wrinkles, and eyes that still held hope. Not at all like an ex-Private who'd been honorably discharged after being wounded on patrol.

The squad room atmosphere was, interestingly, far less cynical in Homicide than in GIS, and she rarely had to deal with being fresh meat with long legs. It was as though the constant nearness to death and the bereaved made them all more aware of one another, putting a higher value on every day.

Some things never changed for a rookie, though. Certain male cops looked so innocent, when she approached, that she knew weren't talking shop. Her first days consisted of endless phone calls, cross-matching reference lists and old files, doing Internet searches and passing on any useful information she dug up. Which was fine with her. It gave her a better idea of the depth required, and of the forensic tests particular to murder cases. She had a hell of a lot to learn, and needed to catch up in a hurry. She'd never heard of many of these tools in her previous daily round of fraud, petty thefts, and missing-kid calls.

She asked Detective Sergeant Benton, her training mentor, for his advice. He put her in touch with the second-in-command of the Crime Lab, an apparent Greek goddess with the imposing name of Stella Bonasera, for a tour of the lab and a brush-up on current Homicide forensics.

Stella turned out to be a good friend of Flack Junior's, and while stunning, was anything but regal, with a warm laugh and a variety of eloquent snorts. Jess recalled having seen her play for the NYPD baseball team - there was no mistaking that head of hair - and Stella's eyes lit up.

"You play?"

"All through school. Senior Girls' AA, went to State."

"Oh, you gotta start coming! Practices are every Tuesday, seven p.m. till we drop."

"We'll talk," Jess grinned, "Let me get on my feet here, first."

CSU was like a tight, nerdy family, even their taciturn supervisor. Though they all knew she was there because of Flack's accident, they welcomed her with casual warmth, eager to show off their toys. She noticed that, unlike the squad room, most of them used first names, except on business calls, or in the case of Sheldon Hawkes, the ME-turned-CSI, who simply preferred his surname.

Flack, however, was Flack.

"Flack's like an honorary CSI," Stella told her, as they walked through the glass labyrinth of the laboratory, with its enviable thirty-fifth story view of the city. "Definitely more than just one of the Murder Squad. He does a lot of the heavy lifting for us, case-wise, and we feed him the ammo for the prosecution. He and Danny Messer are like brothers."

Which explained the slightly strained greeting from that hyperactive Italian. He was still blaming himself for not being at the bomb site two weeks ago. He was lucky not to have been anywhere nearby - luckier than their boss, Mac, who'd been trapped in the building and had to administer rough field surgery to the downed Flack, or pint-sized Lindsay, who was still sporting a scar at her hairline - but it was clear he felt bad anyway. It was Jess' first indication that this Flack was not only a good cop and a talented detective, but had the ability to make and keep real friends on the job.

Some of these things were confirmed in conversation, the next day.

"You should see Flack and Messer in interrogations," Hanover said. "It's like watching a squash match, and the poor rube's the ball."

"You want some good Flack stories, you go talk to Ruth up in Records," Timothy added. "She's known him since he used to visit here with his old man. He's the only one who doesn't have to wait a couple days for file requests. Somehow, she was always just doing some work on them, and they're right at her fingertips."

"Charms old ladies, does he?" Jess asked, grinning. "Boy Scout type?"

"Boy Scout, my ass," said Timothy. "He starts telling stories, and gets her laughing so hard at some dirty punch line, you'd think she was a silly kid. But it gets the job done."

"Depraved Irish," Hanover shook his head. "It's not the same without him here. No offence."

"None taken." said Jess. "He sounds like a great guy."

"He is, but don't ever tell him. Only time anyone gets this kind of talk is when they're lying in hospital."

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He knew who she was, long before he met her. Not just that she was the daughter of a retired DS who still lectured at the Academy, or that she'd only missed graduating top of her Troop because of demerits from fighting a fellow Cadet.

Hanover reported that she was a real team player, and enjoyed coming out with them to Harper's on Friday nights. Sigurdson's girlfriend, who sometimes came along with Sig, had a hate-on for her, because Sig said once that the new girl Angell was both hot and smart. Angell didn't know this, and kept trying to be nice to her, which only made it worse, but was pretty funny to watch. She was definitely a bit of window-dressing for the bullpen, but she didn't seem to try, or even care. It was a pity she was only there until Flack recovered, because they all sort of liked having her around.

According to Danny, Angell's year had two seasons: hockey and baseball. She'd picked up a lot of murder forensics in a short time, and was always trying to learn more.

Hockey? thought Flack. Hot and smart?

"What, nobody's snagged her yet?" he demanded. "C'mon, boys!"

Hanover, sitting in the visitor's chair beside the hospital bed, shook his head. "Aw, she's kinda hands-off, if you know what I mean. Maybe it's because of her old man. Anyway, we've all been too busy while you've been catching up on your beauty sleep."

Hanover was taken aback at Flack's sudden dark expression.

"I know I look like hell. And nobody seems to want to answer any of my questions about getting back to work." Flack said. "I mean, I'm up, I'm walkin', and I'm starting physio in a couple days, but it's gonna be a week before I even go home."

"Flack, man, do you even know how bad you scared us? No, I'm asking you: do you remember what happened, how bad it was?"

"I remember most of it, right up to the blast. Then I woke up in the ICU with a tube down my throat. I'm sort of glad I don't remember the in-between."

"Right. So what I'm sayin' is, we almost lost you. And here you are three weeks later, bitchin' about the food and asking about your cases. That's awesome. Nobody's talkin' about giving your desk away. We got Angell around to help pick up the slack, is all."

"Yeah. Sorry." Flack looked away. "I'm just sick of sittin' here, gettin' stupid on pain meds. I'm sick of gettin' pissed off at nothing. And I hate being fussed over."

"That's good, though, right? Means you're getting better. And I dunno, man...pretty cute nurses around here. I heard you were still out cold when all the students were visiting...pity you slept through the sponge-bath class."

"Bullshit."

"Would this face lie?"

"Such bullshit." Flack grinned. "Didja bring me a sub?"

"Roast beef, everything but hot peppers. They said you're not allowed those yet."

"Good man."

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He was young and strong, and he was healing rapidly. So rapidly, in fact, that his physiotherapist warned him that he'd have to work extremely hard to counteract the tough muscle and skin that was replacing his old flesh.

"Scar tissue is meant to be strong," she told him, "So you gotta be stronger. Don't wait for therapy time. Keep doing your exercises, keep it loose, whenever you remember. You need your full range of motion."

He knew he was truly on the mend when his dreams and wandering thoughts took a turn for the sexy, and he began having a hell of a time keeping his hand off himself. He'd enjoyed a fairly active sex life, either with a girlfriend or an occasional sweet hookup, and this abstinence was not of his choosing. He felt like a teenager, praying like hell he wouldn't come in his sleep or get wood during a bed-bath, but thankfully, he was allowed to get up and shower before that happened. Even if sex was one of the body's normal staples, and wet dreams no great medical mystery to any nurse, it didn't have to be written all over him that he was horny.

Things got weirder still when Danny brought him the printout he'd asked for, of Detective Angell's profile off the NYPD Intranet. He'd expected her to look like one of the tough, tomboyish lady cops, with the cropped hair and tattoos all up the arms, all girl but definitely too much of a handful for the boys in blue. Angell was anything but. Her laughing dark eyes drew him in for long minutes before he even looked elsewhere. And then her generous smiling mouth and glowing fresh skin, and the pride that straightened her back and slim shoulders. Even pinned up as per uniform regs, he could tell she had long, wavy hair, somewhere between brunette and chestnut. And though her collar and tie were precisely folded and set, there was something cheeky going on there...

It would make it hard to look her in the eye when they actually met, but he was bored stiff, literally, and pretty much helpless to do much else than let nature take its course. More than once, as he continued to heal. He rationalized that she was the only non-scrubs-wearing girl he'd seen in a month, besides family.

He did read through her impressive profile, though, inwardly chuckling that he really was reading the articles, and kept it in a folder with other bits and pieces of paperwork that he managed to coerce out of his boys. He was still their supervisor, and even if they weren't taking orders from him at the moment, he could still stay fresh on current cases.

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Two months in, Sythe sent her out on her first murder solo without ceremony, handing her a printed slip. "You know the drill. Holler if you need anything. CSU will meet you there."

"Yes, sir."

She was clicking away, documenting bruises and lividity on a female vic in La Perla, when a familiar Staten Island accent hailed her from the mezzanine walkway.

"Messer," she nodded to him, and then Hawkes, as the two stood side by side like a pair of little kids hanging over the rail of the killer-whale tank at the aquarium. "Doc."

Danny smirked down at her. "What, I don't see Benton breathin' down your neck. He take the training wheels off?"

"You gonna bust my balls or let me work?" she volleyed back.

"Well, well," Hawkes said conversationally. "Looks like Angell got her wings."

"Oh, gimme a break." She rolled her eyes. That old line was worn out before she was even born.

Amazingly, they did. They joined her downstairs, and the three of them fanned out and began working the scene like they'd been doing it for years.

"It's a shame," said Danny.

"What, in particular?" she asked, with some dread.

"That's some real cute underwear she's got on. Thing with this job? You can't look at that stuff again without seein' a dead girl in 'em."

"Now that is a shame," said Hawkes. "You mean the longer you do this..."

"That is exactly what I'm talkin' about," Danny sighed. "Victoria has no secrets left, after a while."

There was, she thought, some sad truth to that. She decided to throw them a bone.

"Oh," she said, "I wouldn't worry. Victoria's always got something up her sleeve. So to speak. She'll always keep you guessin'."

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The whole gang took her out after shift to celebrate her first solo, which was really just a handy excuse to try to get her drunk and off-guard. Really, it was because Flack was back, if only for a half-shift. Friday pints were a staple of the Murder Squad, and Harper's was the usual watering hole. War-stories, family stories, game nights and paint-strippingly personal retorts made up a large part of the bedrock of the team.

Flack was already installed at Harper's by the time she and Danny joined the gang, fresh from putting away their poor little rich girl murderer. Danny cut a path through the crowd, to where Flack was holding court at a corner of a series of tables that had been pushed together.

"Hey, Flack -- Angell," Danny yelled above the noise, waving his hand between them. Flack stood up, all six feet two inches of County Carlow, and smiled politely and a little tiredly, holding out his hand.

"Welcome back," she said, not bothering to holler. Her hand felt very small in his, but she returned his grip.

"Welcome on board," he returned, with the accent of a born New Yorker.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned away.

So much for all the anticipation, she thought. That's it?

"Angell - " Hanover said, looming up beside her. "Some rocket fuel to go with those wings."

"Everclear?" she asked suspiciously, eyeing the shooter in his hand.

"Nah. Heard your vic'd been giving tequila body shots in fancy underwear. Thought you might wanna give us all a re-enactment"

"In your dreams. Scratch that - I don't wanna be hanging out in your head, it's creepy as hell in there."

"And how would you know? You been visiting?"

"Some busted old hooker I booked last week said so," she shot back loudly, "Something about you making her wear your mother's dress?"

Hanover covered his heart, wincing, as the hooting and jeering rose around him.

"Round one, you. Hey, Angell, good work out there," he raised his beer glass to her. "Call-out to confession in one day, people. Keep it up."

It wasn't a long night, as she had to work in the morning, but the last few minutes gave her by far the most material to chew over later. As the early risers switched to coffee instead of ordering another round, she heard her name.

"Two black, for Grierson and me. Cream and sugar for Carmody. And Angell, yours is cream and sugar too, brown if they have it?" Flack called over the dull roar. She looked up, startled, and barely remembered to nod.

"Thanks," she called back. He grinned and looked down, fishing in his wallet for a bill.

Done his research and shown his kung-fu was better than hers.

Sneaky bugger.

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They talked shop casually at scenes where they crossed paths, but there was a shadow between them. He never commented on the fact that she'd been deployed to Homicide while he recovered from his post-bombing repair surgery, or in case he hadn't. He never mentioned her father, though he must have remembered his old instructor. To his credit, and hers, he didn't check over her paperwork, after the first couple of weeks, simply scribbling his name at the bottom of anything that needed a senior detective's co-sign, and nodding as he handed it back.

Even so, she learned a lot about him. She knew that while he was laid back in the office, he vented his frustrations in the interrogation room, drawing murder and rape suspects tighter into his web of constant words, winning the legendary information-gains her father told her about. She knew he was meticulous in his records except when he was being ridden by a hard case, when he barely sat down long enough to write up his daily field reports, and that his constables stepped in and cleaned them up without telling him.

She knew he was single at the moment, and a chronic first-date flirt, rarely taking the same girl out more than twice, but that he didn't reveal much about his dating life otherwise. He wasn't as hip as he thought, reacting with dismay when he stumbled upon some new or fringey subculture that sideswiped his vision of the world. (A few years in GIS would have done him good, she thought. Nobody could have seen it all, but she'd bet good money that there wasn't much she'd missed.) His suits were sharper and kept in better repair than most of the other detectives', though she couldn't believe he was so oblivious in his choice of ties. It had to be deliberate dry humor, a small harmless rebellion.

And damn, he was arrogant as hell. He knew he'd been blessed with a lot, and he took pleasure in using it. Mostly this was mitigated by the self-flagellation he doled out when he missed something, and his single-minded pursuit of cases that others would have put on the back burner, as a sort of redemption.

Still, he was her ticket into Ruth's good books.

"Of course, dear," Ruth said, peering at the check-out card Jess handed her. "Is this urgent? Only, I have all these boxes to get ready to send down to Archives, and..."

"Nothing urgent," Jess said patiently, leaning on the counter of the Records Room service window. "Detective Flack's been pulling a lot of overtime on a case is all, so I said I'd help with some of the research. This one popped out of the database on a case-to-case query. Flack's vic can't get any deader, but it might help turn a manslaughter conviction into murder."

"I see." Ruth pursed her lips. "I tell you what, dear - oh, wait just a moment." She took the card and wandered out of sight. A minute later, she reappeared, beaming, file in hand. "Isn't that something! I knew I'd seen that name just recently! It was right next to a file I'd just pulled for purging."

He's not a Boy Scout, Jess realized. He's Cary fucking Grant. And he's got more than one of us running around like His Girl Friday.

Screw that

A few weeks later, he bought her lunch, as a sort of not-quite-apology for forgetting her birthday. He looked so damn earnest that she had to stop herself from laughing at him. The guys never did much for birthdays. Why would she have expected anything? But there was a look in his eye, something that he wanted to say.

It was funny, she thought, that she worked so hard to be one of the guys, with no special treatment or attention, but his gesture made her glow. Just a little.

She could admit that maybe she'd need to re-think her opinion.

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There was a shadow between them, but it took Flack a while to notice. He'd made a point of treating her with professional courtesy, and had made it clear he thought highly of her work, without invoking her father's name. He'd tried not to hover and go into big brother mode, giving her space to find her feet. It was hard not to hover, when she was conducting phone interviews in her rich alto, or when she made the small investigational slip-ups that everyone did, from time to time. She'd made rapid progress with Benton's coaching, and she needed experience, not help. She wouldn't want anyone to make her way easier.

Which was why he'd never tell her, but he'd shut down more than one locker-room conversation about her, and threatened to assign a few constables to Gender Sensitivity class if they made one more comment about her ass. Or her legs. Or her hair, or her smiling, snappy retorts.

"She's here to work, she outranks you, and you're talking about her just like the ignorant assholes we haul in here every day," he growled. "You think she'd find you amusing?"

"Aw, relax, Flack. We're just bullshitting. Jess can hold her own."

"Drinks night is one thing, but Detective Angell shouldn't have to hold her own, in her own office. And I shouldn't have to say so. You guys got nothing better to do than hang out here holding your own, or do I gotta find you some work?"

Hypocrite, he thought privately, though he hadn't invoked Fantasy Jess since they'd met in person.

Well, only once.

So he treated her like any of his boys, and left her alone otherwise.

He noticed, though, when the smudges under her eyes turned from soft lilac to dark grey, and he wondered what sort of things kept her awake at night. He noticed - how could he not? - when she dressed up for court days, in a nice tailored pantsuit, her hair up in a knot and the roses and thorns tattooed around her wrist covered up by the neat cuff of a blouse. He noticed how she and Stella had connected instantly, two tough-minded women in a tough profession, and that Danny considered himself on a short leash around her. He noticed when she was having an off-day, even if there wasn't much he could say or do about it. He just tried to stay out of her hair.

He didn't realize her birthday had come and gone until a week after it passed, and he was surprised how badly he felt about it. He hadn't planned to leave flowers on her desk or anything, but he had a nagging feeling he'd missed an opportunity to do something. Make some sort of contact, and let her know, if he could, that he didn't think of her like any of his other colleagues, and not just because she happened to be gorgeous and a real talent and yelled in French at the big-screen TV at Harper's during the Stanley Cup lead-up. She was a splash of beauty in the sordid world they inhabited in their work.

Though he sort of wanted her to know all that, too.

He managed to waylay her from paying for her lunch at the deli, a couple of days later, saying, "I forgot to bring a birthday candle, but..."

She blinked, and then that grin spread across her face, and her eyes lit up. He sucked in a breath, and realized just how badly he'd been lying to himself this whole time.

This girl's the real deal. But Hanover was right - there's something hands-off about her. Not someone to mess around with, in any sense of the word, unless a guy was absolutely serious.

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Six months after she first arrived, Sythe finally got Dawkins to give her up, and signed her onto the Murder Squad. They all hit Harper's that night, even Sythe, and Stella, Danny and Lindsay from the Crime Lab. It was nothing new; she'd been joining them since the first week, but she'd always paid when it was her round. Tonight she found herself with a line of shooters in front of her, and a gently steaming Spanish Coffee in a sugar-rimmed glass mug for afters.

"Who's drivin' tonight?" she demanded, after the first three shots. "'Cause I sure as hell am not!" There was a chorus of various forms of "Not me!", and then Flack spoke up, saying that he'd drawn a graveyard shift, and would make sure she got home. So she raised her fourth shooter to him in a toast, and grinned into his rather lovely blue eyes. She wondered if she'd get drunk enough to ask him why they were always a little sad.

For once, there was a parking space right in front of her apartment. They occupied it for a good hour.

She never did ask about his eyes, but she got him singing along with her to Springsteen on the radio, which was almost as good. She stated that '80's power tunes were still the best hockey anthems in existence. Any shadows in his eyes vanished in a blink, and they began talking. She told him about playing on an outdoor rink near her childhood house. She knew he played on the NYPD hockey team in the winter months, but learned that he also coached YMCA hockey and basketball programs for nine to twelve year olds, who he called "his little guys". She told him about her knee surgery in fifth grade, after sliding so hard into home base that she'd dislocated her knee and torn a ligament, but had made the home run.

"Jeez. Did you win, at least?"

"We did, actually..."

They sat outside her apartment until it was time for him to sign on, and while she had no gut feeling that he was hoping for an invite upstairs, it was clear that he was enjoying the company just as much as she was. Maybe he just wasn't into the small-talk routine. Or maybe he was just paranoid about seeming to be too friendly with a female colleague.

Either way, she thought, after she'd showered and brushed and crawled, wet-haired and still tipsy, into bed, tonight was like a whole new introduction for them.

And a whole new era stretched in front of her, as a permanent member of the Murder Squad.

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To be continued...