Prologue: Which, Being About a Prologue, Is Somewhat Recursive

The rain hissed down in a barrage of fat, heavy droplets.

Outside, November reigned, miserable and cold. A stiff wind drove the rain into every crevice, penetrating the alley with tremendous force. Raindrops ricocheted off the buildings that rose on either side, pelting the roof of the dark sedan where it was tucked away, pinging sharply like a hail of bullets. Inside, the heater was turned on full, and the haze that had begun at the edges of the windshield had finally crept in, blinding the windows with fog like filmy, gray cataracts.

Ochoa swiped his hand against the glass with a frustrated noise, clearing his view of the opposite street. Right now, Detective Heat was in that abused old brownstone meeting with some source of Rook's who the journalist thought might be able to shed some light on their current case. Rook had been sure the man would be willing to help, but there was always the possibility that bringing the police into the complicated equation of their acquaintance could backfire with...uncertain results.

For that reason Ochoa was stuck waiting—probably for nothing, though you could never be too careful. Normally, the assignment would never have bothered him. He'd certainly been on enough stake-outs and late-night watches that often the cramped, fogged interior of the unmarked car was almost cozy.

But tonight, to Ochoa, it felt like a coffin.

Any other night, the long and mind-achingly boring hours of the assignment would have been passed in conversation ranging from the gloriously inane to the remarkably thought-provoking. This night, however, apart from the gun-metal sound of the rain, the car was silent as a grave.

Ochoa spared a glance at his partner. Raley sat in the passenger seat, his attention apparently fixed on the building as well. Which would have made sense if his side of the window hadn't been fogged completely opaque for the last twenty minutes. Not for the first time, Ochoa forced himself to recognize the fact that something was off.

It had been for the past few weeks. It was subtle at first, so much so that Ochoa still would be hard pressed to name just what had brought it to his attention. It was like listening to a familiar song played without the bass, all the words were the same, but none of the notes seemed to fall into the right place. Something was suddenly absent in the usual easy chemistry he had with his partner. And damned if he knew what it was.

It seemed as though the harder he tried to understand what was going on, the worse it got. It was a lazy cliché, but he and Raley normally worked like a well oiled machine. They'd always been good at anticipating each other, sometimes to an uncanny degree. A peculiar unspoken communication existed between them that had earned them their nickname around the precinct. He'd wished more than once he and his wife worked that well...

But lately that communication had broken down.

Eventually, Ochoa thought he'd figured it out. It seemed once or twice that his partner was second guessing himself. It had slowed things, thrown off the normal rhythm. And in trying to compensate, without even being conscious of it, Ochoa only seemed to cause Raley to withdraw. Their conversations had become shorter and less frequent when they were about anything besides work.

It had yet to reach the point where Raley avoided him, and he hoped sincerely that it wouldn't. But sometimes he couldn't help the feeling that the man was slipping away right in front of him. Like right now. It was unnerving to see Raley this quiet.

And, for the life of him, Ochoa still didn't understand why.

Shifting his grip on the wheel idly, Ochoa sighed. He'd been hoping that whatever it was would burn itself out on itsown, but it looked like it was all on him. Time for them both to man up.

With a subtle movement, he lowered his hand to the steering column and flipped on the windshield wipers. The blades scraped loudly against the glass, and Raley gave a startled jump. The glance and weak smile he threw Ochoa seemed a tad anxious, but at least it had broken him out of his daze. Thumbing off the wipers once more, Ochoa looked over at Raley.

"Are you ready to talk about it, bro?"

A confused line sprang up between Raley's eyebrows. It never ceased to amaze him how innocent the man could look, especially when caught off guard.

"Talk about what?"

"This whatever-it-is that's been going on, what? Two weeks now?"

Ochoa swore he didn't imagine Raley's whole body jerk subtly in an uneasy twitch. Which meant whatever-it-was Raley knewwhat it was, and hadn't seen fit to talk to him about it. That didn't sit right with him at all. And it definitely didn't fill him full of optimism. Schooling his expression to keep the flare of anger from showing in his eyes, Ochoa dug in.

"Something's been on your mind, and that something is getting in the way of...hell. Everything else."

Raley looked away, back through the blank glass, probably hoping that Heat would save him from facing the topic of their conversation. Or maybe it was just Ochoa that he had trouble facing.

"Whatever problem you have with me, we need to deal with it."

"I don't have a problem with—"

"Then you need to figure out what it is," Ochoa bit out sharply, cutting him off, "because it's wrecking what we have going."

He paused a moment, letting the heat drain from his voice.

"You're the best partner I've ever had," Ochoa said finally. Weakly. "I don't want to lose that."

As much as it felt like a betrayal to all the rest to admit it, especially out loud, it was true. In his entire career, there wasn't anybody he'd worked better with than Detective Calvin Raley. So it hurt that those words caused Raley to flinch. He looked almost as though Ochoa had smacked him. His reply, when it came, was so quiet that Ochoa very nearly didn't catch it.

"Neither do I..."

The air inside the car felt heavy, and Ochoa found any reply that he might have had choked right out of him. The rain swallowed their silence. The occasional glance would catch Raley looking at him, pretending not to. But for the most part he stayed turned away, finger tracing meaningless shapes in the condensation on the window. Ochoa didn't like it—he really didn't like it—but some nameless sense was screaming at him to let it go. He let his head fall against the cool glass of the window and shut his eyes, willing the rain sounds to drive the whole mess out of his head.

Maybe it worked a little too well, he figured as he almost nodded out, forehead sliding against the slick glass. If Heat finished up her meeting and caught him napping he'd never hear the end of it. Sitting forward slightly he rubbed his eyes, looking around the car for the thermos he'd brought. He spotted it on the dashboard in front of Raley. With a sigh he leaned over to retrieve it.

He never made it.

Perhaps he'd done more than nod off for a second, because it took him a while to process the feel of Raley's lips on his...