It started with Gwen. Merlin was distracted by the warmth of the prince’s room compared to the chilly halls, so he initially didn’t notice Gwen balancing on a chair near the doorway. He paused for a moment before the fire, then moved to drop Arthur’s folded laundry in the chest at the foot of his bed. When he finally turned around, Gwen was sliding the chair back into the table.

“Hello,” he said, looking at her askance.

“Hi.” She smiled, a cross between giddy and nervous, and started edging towards the door. “I’m just going to…” She motioned towards the door.

It opened before she got there. She bumped into Arthur, giggling slightly as she edged around him. “Pardon me, your majesty.” She dropped a quick curtsy and was gone, shutting the door behind her.

They both stared at the door.

“What was that about?”

Merlin shook his head. “I have no idea.” His feet carried him over to the table, to the spot where Gwen had been standing. “She was doing something with…” The words trailed off as he looked up.

“What?”

He was suddenly keenly aware of Arthur’s presence next to him. The prince looked at him, then looked up. A clump of mistletoe hung from a bright red ribbon above them, dangling off of one spoke of the chandelier.

A mischievous smile spread across Arthur’s face. “Well, it is tradition.”

Merlin barely had a second to react before Arthur’s hand was behind his head, pulling him closer. In the way of first kisses, theirs was a very strange kiss. Merlin stood frozen, his mind still not quite caught up with what was happening. Arthur pressed on valiantly. His tongue worked its way into Merlin’s mouth and that seemed to be the act that sparked life back into Merlin. He made a noise, a tiny squeak that was very, very unmanly, before melting into the kiss. Their second kiss, which followed close on the aftermath of the first, went much better, as did the third.

They were both breathless when Arthur pulled away. He stared at Merlin in incredulity, his mouth working but no words came out. The longer they stood there, the more Merlin wished he could create a pit, right then and there, that would swallow him up and hide his embarrassment.

“I thought you liked Gwen,” Arthur said, looking as surprised as Merlin felt.

“What?” It was Merlin’s turn to ask. Arthur still stood close to him, his mouth scant inches away. If he leaned forward, they could….

“You. Liking Gwen?”

Merlin shook his head. “No, I never did.”

A frown crossed Arthur’s face and he shifted on his feet. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

The realization that Arthur seemed to have actually enjoyed the kiss, and more specifically, enjoyed kissing him, was slowly sinking in, leaving Merlin feeling slightly giddy. “I did. Multiple times, in fact.”

“Well, you should have…” It was obvious that Arthur was stretching, trying to find some reason how his and Morgana’s ignorance was Merlin’s fault. “…been more specific.”

Merlin just smiled. “I’ll keep that in mind. And you, who do you like?”

The kiss was answer enough. Kissing Arthur was slowly becoming familiar, though he had a feeling he would always remember the tentative way Arthur’s tongue mingled with his, and the hesitancy as Arthur’s hand reached under Merlin’s shirt. He knew that Arthur was an old hand at seduction. The tales Arthur told to his friends were far too graphic, far too detailed to be fiction, yet the way Arthur held him showed none of that.

“I would think,” Arthur said between kisses, “that was quite obvious.” Their hips were pressed together, giving Merlin firm evidence of Arthur’s words.

“Then you should know that the feeling is quite mutual.” He never imagined he would have the chance to act on that attraction.

Arthur’s face was nearly split by his grin.

Boldly, Merlin reached down to unfasten Arthur’s belt. He watched the leather hit the floor, the buckle jingling slightly on the stones. The sound seemed to spark something in Arthur. It was as if that one act was the catalyst, sparking them both into action. Clothing fell around the room in a jumbled mess that Merlin knew he would have to clean later.

Arthur pressed him down onto the bed. The sheets beneath him smelled of Arthur, giving Merlin the impression that he was being enveloped by the prince’s presence. He didn’t mind. Arthur’s kisses had trailed away from Merlin’s mouth, wandering along his chin and neck, then down across his face. He could feel Arthur’s muscles, alternately tensing and releasing beneath his fingers. His hands explored Arthur’s shoulders and back, rubbing along Arthur’s biceps then moving up to tangle in his hair.

Merlin’s hips were parted. He shifted, making room for Arthur between his thighs. Their hips met, erections grinding against each other as Arthur thrust against him. Arthur reached down with one hand to grip Merlin, the callouses on his hand feeling strange against Merlin’s erection. Merlin mirrored the action, feeling slightly inadequate as he did so. His fingers were thin and bony but Arthur didn’t seem to mind.

“Merlin.” Arthur whispered his name softly, bringing his attention back up to Arthur’s face which was suddenly much closer than Merlin remembered.

Their noses brushed. Arthur twisted his hand around Merlin, wringing a strangled gasp out of Merlin and causing him to buck up into Arthur’s grasp. The gasp was followed by a series of similar noises, swallowed moments later as Arthur’s mouth covered his once more. He came minutes later, spilling seed into the prince’s hand and feeling, belatedly, quite embarrassed at the impropriety of it. His embarrassment only lasted a moment until Arthur followed suit.

Arthur pulled back, giving Merlin a good view of his bare back as he leaned over Merlin and pulled an old shirt from the floor. He cleaned the spilled seed off of both of them, apparently oblivious to Merlin’s sudden hesitancy. The shirt was tossed back to the floor. Arthur flopped onto his back next to Merlin without a word.

Merlin debated what he should be doing. He wasn’t exactly used to being tumbled in the prince’s bed. Should he leave? There was clothing strewn about the room, and Gaius would, in theory, be expecting him back at some point that night. He started to rise, but an arm around his waist pulled him back to the bed and tight against Arthur’s side.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Arthur asked with a slight frown.

He considered the answer to that question carefully. “I don’t really know.”

“The correct answer,” Arthur said, with the air of someone imparting great wisdom, “is nowhere.”

“Ah.”

Merlin shifted. If he was going nowhere, he would at least rather be a bit comfortable. He threw an arm and a leg over Arthur, and let his head fall against Arthur’s shoulder. “Is this more like what you meant?”

“Yeah, exactly.” There was satisfaction in Arthur’s voice.

They stayed like that until sleep claimed them.

*****

Morgana smiled as Gwen entered the room, a mischievous smile on the girl’s face. “So, it worked then?”

Gwen’s broad smile was answer enough.

“I’m just saying,” Harry said as he picked at the lock on the warehouse door, “there’s a slight chance she could…”

“Not gonna happen.” Perry was watching through one of the windows, occasionally checking the perimeter to make sure they weren’t seen.

“I’m not that bad looking.”

“No,” Perry agreed far too easily for Harry to feel good about it, “you’re not. You still don’t have a chance with her.”

Harry glared. Perry didn’t even have the decency to notice. “I used to be rather good with the ladies.”

“How long has it been?”

He frowned. “There was Harmony’s friend, back during the Harlan Dexter case.”

“That was six months ago, Harry.” Perry spoke slowly, his voice dripping with condescension.

Had it really been that long? Time flies when you’re solving crime. Or, when you’re helping Perry solve crime. Though really all he did was try and stay out of the way while Perry solved crimes. When had he turned into such a lackey?

“Okay, so it’s been a while. I still could-”

“Exactly how many times have I fucked you?”

Harry dropped one of his lockpicks. His face turned scarlet. Twelve, but he wasn’t counting. Or was it twenty? “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t mention that. I was drunk.”

“You get drunk a lot, for a straight guy.” Perry was smirking. His eyes roved once over Harry’s body, lingering far too long on Harry’s rear.

“Then maybe you shouldn’t take advantage of me when I’m drunk.”

“My cock didn’t jump down your throat.”

Perry had a point. Not one Harry would ever admit out loud, but there was a distinct possibility that he wasn’t entirely on the straight side anymore. He hadn’t actually been that drunk last time.

“But…”

“Harry, shut up and pick the lock.” He shut up. The lock clicked in a matter of seconds and he stood, opened the door.

“Good boy.” The detective ruffled Harry’s hair as he walked into the warehouse, kind of like how you’d pat a dog whenever it did something good.

“I’m not your pet.” He kept his voice low, despite the urge to shout at Perry. He hated it when the guy got all condescending, which was, like, always.

“Keep telling yourself that.” Perry moved with a kind of effortless stealth that Harry could only envy. He was built for this kind of job, that’s what he did, but Harry, Harry was just tagging along because… because he had nothing better to do, really. It was either stay here, play detective with Perry, or go back home. He didn’t really want to go back home.

His mind wandered back to their earlier conversation, about the sultry chick that had stopped in this morning, begging them to help find her missing husband. Harry had taken on the case, despite Perry constantly telling him that the missing husband was probably out having an affair. Considering the way the wife looked, Harry didn’t think an affair was even an option. Why go out for a burger when you’ve got steak at home?

“Keep an eye out for that box,” Perry reminded him, jolting Harry’s thoughts back to the task at hand. “MJ65552.”

They’d received a tip last night about a case Perry was working on as a favor for the local police, something to do with smuggling jewelry. Or was it jewels? Anyways, they thought this warehouse had to do with the ring, but they needed something to link it, some proof before the police came busting in. Plan was, break in, find the jewels, and in about half an hour, some of the guys from the police department were gonna come down to investigate. Perry’d already called in the 911 about a possible break-in. The thought of waiting around until the cops came still filled Harry with dread, even though the cops were technically in on it.

A strange barrel caught Harry’s eye. It was red, the old, rusty kind of red he’d always associated with tractors that had seen more than their fair share of years on the farm. That was one of the quirks about growing up in Embry, Indiana, he knew tractors. But, back to the point at hand, this barrel was sitting against the wall, shoved into a back corner, out of the way so that it wouldn’t be noticed. It was also the only barrel Harry’d seen since they walked in here. The rest of the warehouse was crates and boxes, and here amidst all that was one lone, unmarked barrel. Odd.

He walked over, pulled the crowbar from where it hung on his belt loop. It took him a few minutes to pry the lid off, and he set that aside, trying to be as quiet as possible, before he looked inside.

“Holy Jesus!” Harry jumped back quickly.

There was a person inside. A dead person, covered up to his neck in oil. He couldn’t help but stare. It was sick, really sick, and when he looked closer, he thought he saw blood mixed in with the oil. Something about the man’s face seemed familiar. He took a step closer, almost gagging as the smell hit him, and knowing it would be worse if the guy weren’t so freshly dead. Couldn’t have been more than a day since he had been killed, not if he was in such good shape, and it was really sad how he knew that. One of the down-sides of working with Perry.

This guy was really familiar. Harry’s fingers brushed the folded photo in his pocket and he pulled it out, staring between the face in the photo and the face in the barrel.

“Perry…” He called out, not as quietly as he should, but he was kind of freaked out at the moment, too freaked out for rational sense to tell him to shut the fuck up and keep quiet. “Perry, I found her husband.”

He turned, rounded a corner in the long corridor of crates back to where he’d last seen Perry and stopped as he nearly walked into someone. Someone who was definitely not Perry.

“Um… hi… I seem to be lost and…”

Something heavy hit Harry on the back of the head, cutting off the rest of the sentence as he exclaimed in pain. He turned to stare at another guy, this one holding a wooden stick, kind of like what the police used. Actually, now that he thought about it, that was exactly what the police used. He put his hand over the bump forming on the back of his head.

“You know, if you’re trying to knock someone out, you’ve got to hit them harder than that, otherwise it’s just annoy-”

He should have kept his mouth shut.

*****

When Harry awoke, he was not in the warehouse. He was also not, thankfully, in jail. Those two options eliminated, he took a moment to figure out exactly where he was. He looked up at a ceiling that was far more familiar than it should be. The sheets beneath him smelled like Perry.

Harry groaned. “Not again…”

Perry walked out of the attached bathroom with a smirk, wearing nothing but a loosely tied bathrobe and the towel he was using to dry his hair. “Sorry to disappoint you, princess, but you’re only in here because of that concussion.”

The scene from the warehouse flitted through his head. “Oh. Right.” He slowly sat up, wincing as the movement caused his head to pound like there was a flamenco group dancing inside of it. Harry discarded the idea of actually trying to get out of bed and leaned against the headboard. “I found the-”

“Missing husband?” Perry cut him off as he rummaged through his dresser for a pair of underwear. “Yeah, I know. Turns out there was a pair of dirty cops actually running the jewelry ring, so when my friends circulated the plan among their boys, those two rushed over to get rid of the evidence, us included. The husband was apparently the one who had found out about the warehouse and tipped the cops off. Apparently he’d noticed a discrepancy in the inventory logs.”

“Huh.” It was becoming a rather common occurrence for any case Harry took to overlap with one of Perry’s current cases.

Perry disappeared into the bathroom. “So, they knock you out, I save the day, real cops arrive, and you owe me ten bucks since I had to bribe the doorman to help me get you up here.”

That didn’t seem entirely fair but he knew better than to argue.

“And I’m in your bed because?”

“Would you rather be on the couch?”

“No, not really.”

Perry returned, sans towel. He dropped the bathrobe over the back of a chair, turned the light off, and slid under the covers next to Harry.

Harry glanced down at himself. At some point, Perry had changed him out of the clothes he’d been wearing earlier and into a pair of sweat pants. “You know, I could-”

“Go to sleep, Harry.”

He groaned as he shifted back to lying on the bed. His head was going to be a bitch for the next few days. The bed was warm, comfortable. This was not the first time he’d slept in it, though it was the first time he’d been sober while doing so. But then, maybe having a concussion didn’t fully qualify him as sober. He could feel Perry’s proximity as a physical force, a weight he wasn’t entirely used to having next to him.

This was also the first time he’d been in Perry’s bed without certain activities occurring.

“You aren’t going to-”

“Harry.” The word was accompanied by a long-suffering sigh. “You know that saying about rape and the willing?”

He thought about it for a second, not entirely sure he was comfortable with the analogy. “Yeah.”

“That applies to you.”

“Oh.” He didn’t really have much of an argument for that. At least, not one that Perry wouldn’t just laugh at. His pounding headache reminded him of something. “If I have a concussion, shouldn’t I be-”

“Awake? Like we are now? Yeah. I’m supposed to wake your sorry ass up every hour, make sure you’re not dead. So, since we only have forty five minutes now until the alarm is set to go off, I suggest you shut up and get some sleep.”

“Right.” He was touched that Perry would go through that much trouble for him. “Perry? Thanks.”

“You can thank me by going to sleep. And, once I’ve actually had a decent amount of sleep, your ass is mine.” Perry spoke the threat offhandedly, like it was more of a reminder than a real threat. Which really, given that he was in Perry’s bed and not thinking one-hundred percent rationally, was a pretty accurate assumption.

There went his chances with the missing guy’s widow.

Seiichi isn’t one for maudlin thoughts, not normally, but his memories, at least the ones his mind favors on nights like this, are not his happiest. Even the best of them, the ones where he pictures Tomoki alive and smiling, brimming with the vibrancy of life that would soon leave him, even those are tinged, tainted with regret and the bitterness of loss.

He closes his eyes, leaning back in his chair, and lets the warm summer breeze play across his face. There’s a glass of red wine ignored in one hand. The lights are off. Soft jazz croons from his sound system, barely audible. The wind rustles the curtains as it blows in through the open balcony, and the sound reminds him of laundry and one particular summer day.

In the short while that he’d lived with Tomoki, before Tomoki had passed on, he’d developed a fondness for the simple act of doing chores. There had been a washer but no dryer in the house they’d lived in, and thus they’d made good use of the clothes line strung between two T-shaped posts in the backyard. Seiichi would carry the basket out, smiling softly while he ignored Tomoki’s protests that he was well enough to carry the basket at least. He had been overprotective, he knew, but with reason.

Tomoki would hand him a piece of laundry and Seiichi would hang it, pulling wooden pins from further along the line. Shirts and clothing first, then a load of towels and sheets, until all three lines were full. Tomoki was still too short to reach the line on his own, though there was a small step ladder, now tucked away in a corner of the porch, for when he needed to reach the laundry on his own. Seiichi would gladly have done it on his own, along with the rest of the chores, but Tomoki insisted on helping. It made Tomoki feel alive, knowing there were still things he could do. When they finally emptied the basket, Tomoki would take the basket back to the porch before Seiichi could get it, smiling at the look Seiichi would shoot him, a look that mixed exasperation and fondness.

It was a bright and sunny day out and they had nothing planned for the day, which lead to the two of them stretched out just inside the house, the doors out onto the porch wide open. They lay snuggled close. Tomoki’s head was pillowed on Seiichi’s chest. Minutes passed with only the sound of the wind chimes near the doorway and the distant traffic from the street to disturb them.

“Seiichi?” Tomoki’s voice was soft and low.

“Hmm?”

“What will you do… when I’m gone?”

Seiichi opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. The wooden boards held no answer for him, but he kept his gaze fixed there while he thought. There were a number of ways he could answer that. He could ignore the question, let the quiet and sun lull Tomoki into sleep. He could distract Tomoki, leading his mind away from the question with soft kisses and touches until their hands found their way into clothing and Tomoki forgot all about his heightened mortality. A flippant answer was completely out of the question.

He shifted his arm slightly until his palm pressed against the small of Tomoki’s back, holding him close with very light pressure.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. It wasn’t a subject that he liked to give much thought.

“Will you go back to Blue Boy?”

He could. Reiji would welcome him back, but he didn’t know if he’d be capable of the same level of charm.

“I might.”

“I think you should,” Tomoki said, his voice quiet but there was determination thick in his tone. He pushed himself up, hands flat on Seiichi’s chest, until he was looking down at Seiichi.

Pain was evident in Tomoki’s face. The pain was constant now, though he tried to hide it. He’d need another dose of his pills soon. The doctors said that Tomoki didn’t have much time left.

“Seiichi.” Tomoki’s eyes held his. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He carded his fingers through Tomoki’s hair, brushing lightly across Tomoki’s head before settling on his neck. Tomoki leaned down. They kissed, chaste at first, then turning deeper. If the kiss tasted of salt, they both ignored it.

When they settled again, their clothes were askew and Tomoki was draped across him like a living blanket.

“Seiichi?”

He pressed a kiss into Tomoki’s hair, pausing for a moment there to savor the smell of him. “Hmm.”

“Promise me you’ll find someone. I don’t want you to be alone.”

The honk of a car horn pulled Seiichi from his memories. He opened his eyes to find the room darker than he last remembered. Standing, he moved to close and lock the glass doors to the balcony, drawing the curtains shut over them. He flicked on a light as he entered the kitchen. The wine went down the sink, the glass into the dishwasher. The clock on the microwave flashed the time in blue light. It was still early in the evening. He could head down to the bar, maybe meet up with some friends.

Seiichi wasn’t the type to hold on to lost love forever. Even Jin had moved on, though he still denied the attraction between him and Katsuki. Those two would be fine, given time, and so would he. He knew that he’d find someone again, someday. But, for now, the memory of Tomoki was still to dear to him, the loss too fresh.

With a flick of his hand, he plunged the apartment into darkness and walked out the door.

Iruka hung the last of the ornaments on the tree and stepped back to examine his handiwork. He didn’t move as far as he’d planned, a thick, solid weight at his back stopping him. Arms wrapped around his weight. The familiar scent that enveloped him kept him from reaching for a kunai.

“Welcome home,” he said as he leaned back into Kakashi’s arms.

Kakashi’s clothes were slightly damp, still smelling faintly of the woods and snow. A cold nose pressed against the skin behind his ear, followed a moment later by slightly less cold lips. “I missed you.”

He half turned until they were face-to-face, noses brushing. “I missed you too,” Iruka murmured. His eyes wandered, taking in his lover’s unmasked face, thankfully devoid of cuts or scrapes. This time, it seemed, Kakashi had returned unscathed.

Their lips gravitated together, pulled in by the mere presence of the other rather than any true conscious thought. Seconds passed as tongues mingled then parted.

“Merry Christmas.”

Harry Potter stared up at the brick townhouse with a bit of trepidation. His godfather, Sirius Black, was already bounding up the few steps to the door and pushing his way inside.

“Are you sure this is alright?” He asked, not for the first time that evening.

Remus Lupin clapped Harry lightly on the back, obviously waiting for Harry to precede him. “It’ll be fine. You’ll have fun. Severus knows to expect you, and it really is fun as long as you’re with the right group.”

A few of the choicer phrases the Dursleys had used to describe Dungeons and Dragons, and all the books and movies and games like it, came to mind. “Brain-rotting” had been perhaps the nicest, leading up to claims that it was all thinly-veiled Devil worship. Like all the other things the Dursleys had told Harry over the many years he’d lived with them, Harry quickly discarded that as complete rubbish and started up the steps.

The house was nicer inside than he’d expected. He vaguely mentioned Remus saying that their host – their Game Master or Dungeon Keeper or whatever it was called – was a professor at the university, though Harry’d yet to have a class with him despite being in the same department. Apparently Severus Snape taught the advanced classes, so he had at least another year before he’d have the chance to. According to Sirius, he was lucky in that regards.

From the way Sirius spoke, Harry was already starting to form a picture in his mind of Severus – someone greasy and unkempt, a snarling brute, cruel and heartless. Remus had been quick to counter each one of Sirius’ comments, often adding ‘he’s not that bad.’ Really, that didn’t help Harry feel any less intimidated. But the house that Harry walked through didn’t fit with the image Sirius portrayed. The place was well decorated, done in dark browns, deep reds and greens. There was a calming feel to the place, a sort of effervescent tranquility. It was neat and tidy, yet not entirely spotless. As they passed the living room, Harry caught a glimpse of a mug left out on a coaster on the coffee table, a book set next to it. There were dishes in the kitchen sink, and as he turned to follow Lupin down a narrow set of stairs, he noticed that the garbage was starting to overflow.

The basement that they descended into was fully furnished. A brown carpet covered the floor and wood paneling covered the walls. In the center of the room was a giant table, currently covered with a plastic-looking mat with grid lines on in, a number of books, soda cans, and what appeared to be the remains of several pizza boxes. Sirius was already seated along the table and chatting amicably with a rather rotund looking man. For a second, Harry thought he was talking to the infamous Professor Snape, but then Sirius called the man Peter. Next to Peter sat a woman with pink hair. She smiled widely at Harry as he stepped into the basement, waving briefly as she called out a greeting to Lupin.

“This must be Harry.” Her voice was warm and bubbly. “Welcome.”

“Hi.” Harry nodded politely to her, but found that his attention, along with his gaze, was drawn to the man seated at the head of the table. Process of elimination meant that that was Severus, the man Harry had heard so much about. At first glance Harry could understand why he was so imposing. A frown wrinkled Severus’s face, and he barely even glanced at Harry or Remus, instead his attention was fixed on the laptop in front of him as he scrolled through something. Yet, dark manner aside, he wasn’t nearly as off-putting as Sirius had lead him to expect, nor was he even remotely disheveled. He, like his house, looked considerably well-kept, falling just short of ruggedly handsome.

Any favorable impression Harry had of Severus vanished as soon as the man opened his mouth.

Severus glanced up from his computer as Remus and Harry started to sit down. His gaze traveled over Harry once, quickly, before turning away in clear dismissal. “Is this James’ brat?”

Sirius was on his feet in seconds. “Severus!”

The other two at the table glanced at Harry in surprise.

“No! Really?” The woman leaned forward in interest. “You’re James and Lily’s son?”

“Y-yeah.” He’d yet to get used to the sudden fame he’d acquired by coming to Hogwarts University. Everyone here seemed to know him, or at least know of him via his parents. It’d been overwhelming at first, the fame, and then finding out he had relatives of a sorts – Sirius and Remus – aside from his aunt and uncle back in South Dakota. He fit in here like he never had before.

“Manners, please, Severus,” Remus scolded lightly. “I hardly think five seconds is enough time to judge Harry by, even for you.”

The look that passed between Severus and Remus spoke of history. There were years of history between all of them, years that Harry could have been a part of if his parents hadn’t died, if he hadn’t been sent away to live with the Dursleys. They’d all gone to the same school – well, he assumed the woman had, he’d yet to actually catch her name. They’d been friends, close friends, the four of them – James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter. He’d heard the stories from Remus and Sirius, stories of their college escapades, their post-doctorate research, and how four of them – Remus, Lily, James, and Sirius – had all ended up teaching at Hogwarts.

“I’m Nymphadora Tonks,” the pink-haired woman said, extending her hand across the table. Her nails were painted bright blue and sparkled. “Just call me Tonks.”

“Harry,” he responded as he shook her hand.

“Peter Pettigrew,” the rotund man added. He opened the box next to him, revealing half of a pizza still uneaten.

“Now that we’re done with introductions, can we get along with it?” Severus said, his voice thick with annoyance. “He has a character?”

Remus pulled a piece of paper out of his bag and set it in front of Harry. “He does. A level one wizard.” Sirius had raged about Harry starting at level one, saying how unfair it was with the rest of the part at level thirteen. Harry hadn’t minded. He’d never played before, so he thought perhaps it would be best if he started at the beginning. Now he wasn’t so sure it’d been a good idea.

“Right,” Severus drawled. He leaned back in his chair and studied the group imperiously.

A pencil and set of multi-sided dice were placed in front of Harry. He nodded his thanks to Remus.

“When we last left the party, you were camped outside of the entrance to an underground structure. The doorway was hidden behind loose shrubs and piles of dead wood. A stone archway is set into the side of a hill. As you light torches, you can see a corridor of dirty gray stone sloping gently downwards. Iron sconces are set every thirty feet along the wall, slightly above a man’s height.”

“I’ll go in first,” Tonks said, “checking for traps as I go.”

“I follow immediately behind, sword out and at the ready,” Sirius added.

“I take the rear guard.” Peter spoke between bites of pizza.

“Which leaves us in the middle.” Remus glanced over at Harry with a smile.

“You pass uneventfully down the corridor,” Severus narrated. “After a few minutes of travel, you come to an intersection. The corridor branches to the right and the left.”

“Right?”

“Right.”

“We’ll head right, again checking for traps.”

“Roll Search.”

Tonks picked up a roundish die and tossed it on the table. It came up a seventeen. “Thirty-three,” Tonks said.

Harry’s eyebrow quirked in surprise. That was some bonus.

“You find a simple pressure trigger and disable it.”

“We’ll continue on.”

“You continue down the corridor. It turns to the left after several feet. There’s a wooden door to the right.”

“I check the door for traps.”

“You find none.”

“Is it locked?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll pick the lock.”

“Roll.”

Again, the die hit the table. “Twenty-two.”

“You unlock the door.”

“I’ll open it, and go in first,” Sirius said.

“You open the door to an old storage room. Dusty crates litter the floor against the far wall, some stacked as many as three high. Some appear to be broken, others have their lids partially removed. There’s a thick stone table set in the middle of the room, but no chairs.”

“I’ll enter and start to check the crates.”

A chorus of ascent sounded around the table. Harry was the last to speak up.

“Harry.” The way Severus said his name sent shivers up Harry’s spine. There was a smirk on Severus’ face. “Roll a reflex check.”

“What?”

Remus picked up the roundish die in front of Harry and handed it to him. “d20, add your Reflex Bonus.” He pointed to one of the many numbers on the character sheet, appropriately labeled ‘Reflex’.

He rolled the die. It came up a three. “Five.”

Tonks cringed. Severus rolled a triangle-shaped die.

“A creature grabs you from behind, lifting you off the floor. The smell of leather and must surrounds you. Fangs sink into your neck as the creature envelops you. Take six points of damage.”

Harry looked down at the hit points on his sheet. “That puts me at negative one.”

“Severus!” Sirius was glaring again. “It’s his first time playing.”

“Roll initiative. Harry, you’re unconscious.”

Each person announced a number. Remus went first. “I cast cure.”

Harry sat back and watched combat happen around him. He was beginning to get a hint of why Sirius called Severus a bastard.

*****

Harry knocked tentatively on Professor Snape’s office door, a thin folder clutched in his hand. His roommate, Ron, had said he was crazy for even trying this, but that didn’t stop Harry from trying. His character had actually lived to level four before Severus had managed to off it, which was at least a small testament to Harry’s perseverance.

“Enter.” Severus’s silken voice sounded from the other side of the door.

“Hello, Professor Snape.”

Severus glanced up from the pile of papers on his desk, frowned, and then looked back down. “Are you lost?”

Harry bit his lips and took a step forward. “No, sir. I saw that you were looking for an assistant.” He held out the folder. His resume, pitiful as it was, was held inside. “I’m here to apply.”

Slowly, Severus set down the red pen in hand. “Are you serious?”

“Quite.” Harry took another step forward.

Severus took the folder and flipped it open. Then, he laughed. The folder was tossed in the trash. “The position is for a Graduate student. You’re hardly qualified.”

“I’m aware, sir, but I’d hoped you’d consider me just the same.”

Severus snorted. “Not a chance in Hell. If that’s all?”

Harry turned to leave. “I’ll see you on Saturday. I already made up another character. Level one.”

As Harry started to close the door, he heard Severus speak, softly. “Make it level four.”

Harry closed the door and let a smile slip across his face.

*****

Harry laughed. He couldn’t seem to stop laughing. Everything was funny right now – the faces Ron’s older brothers were making, the jokes Seamus told, the way Hermione just shook her head at all of them.

“Come on, Harry. Let’s get you home.”

Harry giggled as Charlie Weasley threw Harry’s arm over his shoulders, lifting Harry out of his seat while Oliver Wood pulled Ron out of his chair. Ron was fairing worse than Harry, but then he’d also had quite a few more beers than Harry. Stepping out of the bar felt like stepping into a bubble, as all the noise from the bar was silenced as the door sung shut behind them. The cold air washed over his face. He shivered and thought of Severus, the allusion making him laugh again.

“Alright there Harry?” Charlie spoke next to his ear.

“Probably not,” Harry responded, laughing again. “No, probably not.”

There had to be something wrong with him of he thought there was even a chance of Severus liking him as much as he liked Snape. Hell, even his very liking of Snape was wrong. The man was a bastard, a complete and utter bastard, but that didn’t stop him from being drawn to him.

Yeah, there was definitely something wrong with him.

“Not much farther,” Charlie said. “Try to keep your stomach in.”

“What’s going on here?” The silken voice brought their progress to a halt.

“Sev’rus?” He slurred.

A long suffering sigh sounded faintly over the other boys’ stuttered greetings. “P-professor Snape.”

Polished shoes appeared in front of Harry. The words that followed were sobering. “I’ll take charge of Mister Potter if you don’t mind. I’m sure his guardians will have a few words for him.”

“Y-yes, professor.”

Harry felt his face flush as he was transferred from Charlie’s grasp to Severus’s. He kept his head down, his drunkenness more feigned than real now.

They said nothing as they walked. Harry no longer stumbled, but Severus still kept his arm tight around him. When they stopped, it was not in front of Sirius and Remus’ home, but rather Severus’s townhouse.

Severus pulled away. “Are you coming inside?”

Harry looked up, met Severus’s eyes. “Yeah.” He followed.

They went upstairs rather than down, feet thudding on wooden stairs that creaked under their weight. Heavy curtains blocked out the light from the street, keeping Severus’s bedroom in complete darkness until he turned on the bedside lamp. Stained glass turned the room a multitude of colors, bathing it in a dim light.

Severus stood next to the bed. He pulled off his jacket, setting it folded over the back of a chair. “Come.”

He stepped forward. A large hand settled on his lower back, drawing him closer as Severus leaned down. They stood frozen, lips centimeters apart. Harry breathed. Air ghosted over his lips as their breath mingled. Slowly, he pushed himself up, balancing himself on the front of his feet as he closed the distance between them. Their lips met and parted.

The first thing that struck Harry’s mind was the difference. Severus’s lips were chapped, coarse, his tongue thicker than what Harry was used to. It slid into Harry’s mouth, tasting the back of his teeth and the roof of his mouth. His hands fisted over Severus’s shoulders, balling Severus’s shirt in his grasp. A second hand joined the one on Harry’s back, leaving the other free to slip lower, to trail down his back and over his cheeks, squeezing lightly while the other held him in place.

Clothing fluttered to the floor around them, shed as slowly as leaves falling in Autumn. Severus sat on the edge of the bed. Harry followed, his knees on either side of Severus’s hips, his arms around the man’s neck for balance. Oiled fingers slid inside of him, making him shiver, first in pain, then in pleasure as they worked through him, spreading him. They wrought noises out of him that he’d never made before – tiny gasps, muted moans, and soft sighs. Harry pushed down, bouncing slightly in Severus’s lap as he moved his hips in time with Severus’s hand.

“Enough.”

Obediently, Harry stopped.

They rolled until Harry was flat against the mattress, knees held apart as Severus lined up, pressing inside in one long thrust.

“Yes!” Harry moaned. “Please.”

Severus stared down at him. A wicked smile crossed the man’s face and for a moment, for a brief moment, Harry thought he was going to stop. Instead, he pulled out, just enough to give space between their hips before he pushed back in again. Harry moaned in pleasure.

“Please.”

Severus kept moving, each thrust driving another noise out of Harry’s mouth.

“Don’t stop begging on my account,” Severus murmured, his low voice, right next to Harry’s ear, sending shivers up and down his spine. “I think you’d do well on your knees.”

Harry nearly came from the thought of it. “Oh, god.”

“Feel free to continue to address me as such.” There was a smile on Severus’s face unlike any Harry had ever seen.

He laughed, the sound cut off half-way through as Severus shoved inside of him particularly hard, his smile turning slightly more wicked as he did so.

“Oh, god, please don’t stop,” Harry said with a grin.

He was close, so very close. It was hard to hold on, not with Severus staring down at him and smiling, his voice low and sultry as he whispered dirty suggestions in Harry’s ear – how good it felt to fuck him, how much he wanted Harry on his knees, things he wanted to do to Harry. Severus pushed up on Harry’s knees, hooking them over his shoulders as he pushed inside of Harry. It was too much all at once.

Harry came with a shout, arching against the sheets and pressing himself tight against Severus. He shuddered as Severus continued to press into him. His knees slid off Severus’s shoulders as Severus quickened his pace, shoving hard into him. Reaching up, Harry wound his arms around Severus’s shoulders and his legs around Severus’s waist. Each movement strained on Harry’s overstimulated nerves.

“Severus,” he moaned. “Ah! God, Severus.” His fingers slipped into Severus’s long hair, playing the strands through his fingers.

After a few more thrusts, Severus came, his fingers tightening around Harry’s hips hard enough to leave a bruise. They stayed entwined, both breathing heavily. Harry’s legs ached but he didn’t want to move just yet.

“Are you alright?” Severus asked softly. He ran his hands along Harry’s legs for a few moments before carefully pulling them apart.

“Great, actually.”

Severus rolled off of him to pull the blankets up from the foot of the bed. He settled next to Harry, closing his eyes without another word.

“Do you think I still have a chance at that assistantship?” Harry asked as he rolled over, draping an arm across Severus’s chest. He settled his head on Severus’s shoulder, a smile stretching across his face.

“I don’t quite think it’d be appropriate to hire someone that I’m sleeping with.”

Harry chuckled lightly. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

Severus’s hand settled on Harry’s lower back. “I’ll think about it.”

“I can live with that.”

Closing his eyes, Harry started to fall asleep. “Can you at least try not to kill my character tonight?”

A soft laugh rumbled through Severus’s chest. “Maybe. Though, I promise nothing if you roll a one.”

The Santa Barbara Police Station fell silent in the wake a thunderous boom, so loud that the walls shook. Maybe it wasn’t just the sound, Shawn mentally revised. The walls continued to shake even as the noise faded. A second boom echoed in the distance, followed by another. The windows rattled and for a second he thought they were going to break. He shifted away from them, towards the center of the room.

“-path of a meteor shower.”

Shawn turned, along with all the others in the room, to the television as it flickered to life. The screen was half-blurred with static, and the sound faded in and out. It was a local station, though he wasn’t sure which one.

“We have reports… cities destroyed… Los Angeles… Those in the area… danger… tsunami. Citizens are advised… shelter. This… worldwide. It-”

The station was plunged into darkness. He could hear people moving, drawers opening and closing. Small beams of light cut through the darkness. Shawn glanced to his right at Lassiter. The detective stood close by, flashlight in hand. Their gazes met. Lassiter took a step closer.

“People!” Chief Vick’s voice cut through the room. “Downstairs, now.”

They all jumped to her command. No one pushed, no one ran, but they all filed downstairs as fast as possible. Shawn spared a backwards glance as he reached the stairs. Vick waited at the top, most likely intending to be the last person down. They walked one by one into the cells, siting in lines along the floor.

The booms got louder, closer, until that was all Shawn could here. All but one of the flashlights were turned out. Shawn closed his eyes and went through the blueprint of the building in his head, over and over again, trying to think of any place more structurally sound than where they already were.

A hand closed over Shawn’s. He kept his eyes closed, and stopped thinking.

*****

Shawn looked up. The noise had finally stopped. At first he’d thought he’d gone deaf, but he could hear the fabric of Juliet’s jacket shifting against her blouse as she moved slightly, and the labored, near-panicked breathing of Adam Hornstock in the far corner. Minutes passed without another of those booms, stretching into an hour.

Slowly, Shawn stood. His legs protested. He’d been sitting far too long. Stepping around people, he made his way towards the cell door. It creaked loudly as it opened. Someone with a flashlight followed him, lighting the way in front of them. They stopped at the bottom of the stairwell. Cracks ran along the walls.

Lassiter took the first step, pointing the flashlight in front of them. Shawn followed. The landing halfway up the stairs was clear but beyond that the stairwell was filled with rocks.

“Here.” Lassiter handed the flashlight to Juliet, who kept it pointed at the rubbled.

Shawn glanced down the stairs. There was a line of people behind him, all staring up at them.

“Shawn.”

He turned. Lassiter had a rock in his hands. Shawn reached forward to take it, then passed it down to Buzz. It passed down the line, forgotten as Lassiter handed him another rock then another.

Slowly, they cleared the way up the stairs.

*****

The people were gone. All of the people were gone, save them.

Shawn pushed his way through the rubble towards his old neighborhood. Buzz and Vick and the others were out looking for supplies, for food, for anything that could get them out of the wreckage of the city. It was strange to think that just yesterday everything had been fine. He’d stopped by his father’s house to return a hammer and stopped for a Jamba Juice on his way into the station. He’d argued with Lassiter, been threatened by Vick, flirted with Juliet. He’d barely spoken to any of them today.

He stepped forward onto a sheet of metal. It slid out from beneath him, clattering over the rocks and splashing into something he couldn’t seen on the other side of a wall of rubble. Shawn would have fallen if Lassiter hadn’t pulled him back.

“Shawn.”

He didn’t look at Lassiter as he tried to stand. He needed to make it over that wall.

Lassiter didn’t let go.

“Shawn.”

It was hard to breathe. Images of water kept coming to mind, something he’d seen.

“Shawn, you can’t go over there.”

“But…” He gasped for breath. Tears crawled down his cheeks. His body was already grieving even though his mind had yet to catch up. “But my dad…”

Their neighborhood was just on the other side of that wall. They were less than a block from his father’s house.

“Shawn, I’m sorry. It’s not there any more.”

Lassiter didn’t let go of him, even as his tears faded, leaving only the sound of waves lapping against a new shoreline.

*****

Shawn picked his way carefully through the rubble of the Santa Barbara Courthouse, climbing steadily up broken brick and concrete, over shards of twisted metal and shattered glass, until he reached a somewhat stable spot near the peak, high enough that he could get a clear look at the city around them. He stood slowly. Bricks shifted beneath his feet, threatening almost idly to send him toppling to his death. He didn’t move, uncaring of the danger.

The Courthouse hadn’t been the tallest building in the area, but it stood the tallest now. Gone were the skyscrapers and Spanish architecture that had once formed downtown Santa Barbara. Gone were the city monuments, the entire shopping district, the suburban homes, and the waterfront. Broken buildings filled the streets in all directions but one, mixed in with impact craters and burned wreckage. Not far to the west he could see water lapping against the ruins of what had been his favorite bar. He avoiding thinking of what lay under the water beyond that.

Shawn turned and pointed. “That way,” he shouted down at the others below. He could see a clear path through the rubble to the southwest, clear enough that they could work their way further inland before he had to scout again.

The trucks revved to life, the grumble of their engines echoing through the silent city. They turned slowly amidst the surrounding debris, one after another, to head in the direction Shawn had indicated. He half-skidded down the pile of rubble, moving faster than safety dictated. One of the trucks waited, idling nearby. A few loose rocks rolled past Shawn as he leaped to the street and hit the ground running. Gus held out a hand to help Shawn into the back of the truck, a slight frown the only sign that he disapproved of Shawn’s recklessness. Shawn slammed the tailgate shut behind him. The truck started moving as soon as Shawn was seated.

He glanced at the people in the truck with him, the sight of them, safe and mostly sound quelling the fear that had been coiled in his stomach from the day the meteors struck. Lassiter was driving. He spared a short glance for Shawn in the rear-view mirror as the vehicle turned. Things were still a little weird between them. Neither of them were quite sure how to act with each other. Hard to feel ill will towards someone, anyone, after what had happened, not when there were so few of them left alive. Over time they might even be real friends.

Too bad it took an apocalypse for that to happen.

Chief Vick – just Vick now, actually, since the Santa Barbara Police Department was no more – sat next at Lassiter’s side. She kept her eyes on the road, watching for anything that might block their path, anything that might be a danger to them. They all still looked to Vick for leadership. Force of habit, perhaps, or maybe it was because she was the most level-headed of them all. The loss of her family – especially the loss of her daughter – had hit her hard, and in their place she had adopted all of them as her new family.

Gus sat next to Shawn in the back of the truck, Juliet wedged between Gus and the truck cab. Their hands were carefully not touching, though it was obvious that they both wanted to. It wasn’t a relationship that Shawn had really seen coming, but he was glad for it. At the very least it was a distraction for both of them in the midst of so much loss. They both still cried at night, though Shawn pretended he didn’t notice. Sometimes he felt like crying too.

Two officers sat opposite them – Janet Davis, Dean Carter, next to Adam Hornstock. Buzz was up ahead, driving the truck that held most of their supplies. A third truck of officers mixed with civilian aides was further ahead, leading the way through the city.

Shawn let his head fall back on the edge of the truck bead. The sky above was a clear blue scattered with clouds. There was more sky now than he ever remembered seeing before.

He missed his father more than he ever thought he would.

He liked to think his mother was still alive, somewhere, mostly because he wasn’t sure he could handle her being dead, not on top of everything else. Instead he imagined she was safe, surviving just as they were. They’d find each other again someday, he was sure of it.

*****

The trucks rolled to a halt in a line along the top of a cliff at the edges of Red Rock Canyon. Doors slammed as they all slowly emerged from the vehicles to stare down at the huge lake below. Lassiter stepped over to stand next to Shawn, their shoulders not quite brushing. No one spoke. Shawn glanced briefly at the others, their expressions ranging from Lassiter’s blank stare to the look of open-mouth shock on Adam’s face.

Hotels popped up like islands in the middle of the lake. No lights shone from the drowned casinos. Chunks of the buildings were missing. Some had lost whole floors, as if a giant had come by with a razor blade and just chopped the tops off. The lake lapped at the base of the cliff they stood on and stretched off into the horizon.

They’d spent two weeks trying to make it this far, all for nothing.

Shawn was the first to turn. “So much for Las Vegas,” he said quietly as he swung himself back up into the truck.

*****

“Hold on, we’re almost there.”

There was something nice about being held in Lassiter – no, Carlton’s – arms. Better than he would have expected. He said so. “I don’t know why your wife divorced you. You smell nice.”

Carlton almost dropped him. “Shawn…”

His head fell on Carlton’s shoulder. “Just the blood-loss talking. Don’t mind me.”

“I don’t know if that makes it any better.” He could feel Carlton’s throat moving against his forehead.

Maybe it didn’t. He was a little too light-headed right now to think. If he was more lucid, he might have put blood loss and babbling together and figured out that he should stop talking.

“I was never really psychic,” he said instead. “I wanted to tell you after a while but you would have arrested me.”

Carlton was silent for several minutes. Shawn’s eyes had fallen closed at some point, though it’d been too dark too see much even with his eyes open. How long had they been traveling away from Santa Barbara? At least a month. Juliet would know. She kept track of things like that. The trucks had given out after two weeks. Hard to find gas to siphon out in the middle of the woods. Plenty of gas stations, but without electricity those didn’t help them much.

“Thanks for saving me from that coyote,” Shawn muttered against Carlton’s throat.

He had a new appreciation for just how good of a shot Carlton was. The animal must have sensed mankind’s downfall, or maybe it was just as hard pressed for food as everyone else. Shawn and Carlton had been scouting the area, looking for food, signs of life, anything useful, really. The coyote had jumped at him out of the dark, approaching silently and attacking before Shawn had had a chance to react. It was a scrawny, mangy thing, and for a second he’d felt sorry for it. That had been before it’s teeth had closed on his arm and its claws had dug into his side.

“You’re welcome,” Carlton said softly. “And, I wouldn’t have arrested you.”

“You would have.”

Carlton’s sigh ghosted over Shawn’s shoulder. “Yeah. I would have.” The arms around him shifted slightly as Carlton adjusted his grip. “Things are different now.”

“Everything’s different now.”

*****

Shawn moved slower than he used to. At least they still had a decent supply of Tylenol and anesthetic. His side twinged painfully as he jumped down from the back of the cart. It wasn’t as fast as a truck, but it was easier to find food for the horses than it was to scrounge for gas.

Juliet waved from the doorway of the warehouse they’d found. Buzz would already be inside, securing the windows and doors. They’d all found roles, though Shawn was currently kept from his while his side healed. He watched Officer Dean head out on foot with Carlton with a twinge of regret.

“Let’s see if we can get a fire started.” Adam jumped down beside Shawn, his arm slipping under Shawn’s to help him into the building.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Carlton glancing back at them. Their gazes met and Shawn knew he wasn’t the only one feeling jealous.

*****

“Move!”

Shawn was on his feet as soon as Vick shouted. They made room on one of the bedrolls as Carlton staggered in, half-carrying Dean. Blood covered both of them but it was Dean they laid down on the cot. Adam dropped to his knees next Dean, gauze and clean water in hand. Carlton waved off Juliet’s offer of help and stalked towards the back room – they’d found running water in the building and a tub. Shawn grabbed one of Carlton’s clean shirts and a towel as he followed.

“I’m not injured,” Carlton said as he pulled his shirt off. A flashlight was propped next to the mirror over the sink, giving them just enough light to see by.

Water splashed into the sink. Shawn watched as Carlton splashed water on his face, then down his arms. The water ran red.

“It’s not my blood.”

Shawn said nothing. He shifted closer and held out the towel. Carlton took it without looking. His dried skin was free of anything worse than a few dark bruises.

“I’m just a little bruised.”

“I’m glad you’re alright.”

Carlton looked over at him. A few drops of water dripped from his face. Shawn stepped forward, not really sure what he was going to do, but knowing he had to do something. He was just so relieved. The stubble on Carlton’s face pricked against Shawn’s palms. He leaned forward, stretching up just a little until his lips reached Carlton’s. A hand on his back steadied him. Carlton deepened the kiss and pushed down slightly until Shawn was flat on his feet again.

“I’m glad,” Shawn repeated quietly against Carlton’s lips.

*****

Shawn stretched slowly, waiting for the usual pain. His side was sore but he could move without any real pain. Lassiter watched carefully as Shawn moved his arm, testing the range of his mobility. A grin spread across Shawn’s face. “Looks like I’m back on patrol.”

Carlton snorted in muted laughter. “It’s not patrol, Shawn.”

He shrugged. “Still…”

Both of their gazes moved to the open doorway. They’d managed to find an old office building. Not the most comfortable of places to sleep, but at least there was a bit of privacy. Carlton moved before Shawn could, closing and locking the door before moving back towards Shawn, a smile growing on his face.

“Still, it’ll be good to have you back with me.”

“Yeah,” Shawn agreed.

He didn’t bother putting his shirt back on. Carlton’s arms went around Shawn. His hands splayed against Shawn’s back lightly. He leaned forward the same time Carlton did. Their lips met half-way, mouths opening, tongues dancing. Carlton stepped closer. One of his hands slipped down to Shawn’s knee, squeezing reassuringly as he gently pushed Shawn’s legs apart, giving him enough room to stand chest to chest.

“It’s good to have you back,” Shawn echoed. He leaned in for another kiss.

“Yeah.” Carlton pushed Shawn back onto the desk.

Shawn wondered what the former owner of this office would think at the two men currently peeling off each other’s clothing. Carlton climbed up onto the desk with Shawn, his weight pressing down and inside of him. Their bodies slid together with delicious frictions. Shawn’s hips lifted, rolled with each of Lassiter’s thrusts. His side twinged slightly in pain, proof that it wasn’t one-hundred percent healed but he ignored it and wrapped his arms tighter around Carlton.

Slowly, they both wound down. Shawn stared at the ceiling, breathing heavily while Carlton kissed every inch of skin he could reach. His hips stopped but they stayed connected.

It was a long time before either of them would let go.

*****

A smile stretched across Shawn’s face, and he stood up, one hand holding onto the side of the cart. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Yeah,” Juliet stood beside him, “I think that is.”

There were people. Whatever small town they’d arrived at seemed to have survived the asteroids. Buildings were standing, undamaged from appearances, and teeming with people. They weren’t the only refugees who’d found their way here. A wooden palisade had been erected around the town but the doors stood open. As they approached, they could hear shouts. People poured like ants from the palisade.

“Welcome!” A woman shouted at them from the truck that rolled up to them. “Welcome to Whitehall.”

Vick’s whispered what they were all thinking. “We’re safe.”

Previous Chapter

It was like they’d started all over again. Any progress Iruka had made in the forest had been lost, wiped away by a single change in location. The jutsu he’d found only worked if there was something to use as a distraction, something living to manipulate or hide behind or masquerade as. Up here, on the bare rock above the former Hokages’ heads, it was just the two of them and bare rock. There were a few things he could have done with the dust – use it as a smoke screen, create doubles, form things to hide behind – but Kakashi wasn’t giving him time enough to even gather his chakra.

He missed the tress. At least wood had a little give, slight as it was. Rock was less forgiving.

Iruka’s back smacked into stone – that would bruise – and he rolled, moving out of the way of Kakashi’s next attack. More than their location seemed to have changed, though the change in Kakashi was less obvious. He probably wouldn’t have noticed anything was different weeks ago, before they’d started training together, but he’d gotten to know Kakashi. There was something different. He could feel it in Kakashi’s punches, saw it in the blank expression on Kakashi’s face. Kakashi was still cordial, still polite and friendly but it was somehow less than what they’d had.

Maybe Kakashi knew about Yukio. He wasn’t sure how Kakashi would have found out, or why Kakashi even cared unless he’d been talking to Genma and Anko too much. But, this was a village full of ninja. Privacy was only an illusion, only something one had when their friends – or enemies – had better things to do with their time than spy. Besides, if he knew, wouldn’t he say something? Maybe it wasn’t him. The life of a ninja – an active one, frequently sent out on missions – had its ups and downs. There were a number of other reasons why Kakashi would be acting differently.

That didn’t stop Iruka from feeling guilty.

He turned a fraction too slow as he dodged a punch. Kakashi’s foot caught him in the side, sending him tumbling across the ground once more. Rocks dug into his skin. He could still feel them, even after he’d finally come to a stop. It was hard to force himself to his feet again, to keep fighting. Iruka opened his eyes and watched Kakashi stepping forward, fist balled. Night had fallen unnoticed. He still had exams to grade.

“Stop,” Iruka said.

Kakashi did, his face blank.

Iruka groaned as he pushed himself to his feet. “Oh, that hurts.”

“Learn to dodge better and it won’t.”

Iruka cast a startled glance at the jounin. Kakashi had his mask up, hiding whatever expression had accompanied his words. He swallowed the retort that first came to mind. “Y-yeah,” he said instead, “yeah, I’m working on that.”

“Not hard enough.”

At first Iruka thought he’d imagined it. The words had been muttered, sounding almost disconnected from Kakashi’s mouth. He wasn’t being paranoid – Kakashi actually was mad at him for something. Kakashi’s body was tense, his arms crossed.

“Sorry.” It was the only thing he could think to say that wouldn’t lead to a full-blown argument.

“Don’t be,” Kakashi said, and for a brief second Iruka thought he was going to apologize. He was staring out over Konoha, barely keeping Iruka in the corner of his eye. “Just try harder. We’ve been at this for weeks already and you can barely land a punch. We’ve both got better things to do with our time, unless, of course, you enjoy people smacking you around.”

Heat rushed through Iruka’s body, pooling in his face and leaving the rest of his body chilled. Kakashi knew. He had to. “I…” What should he say? Was there even anything he could say in his own defense? He wasn’t ready to be dating again, not really, but he liked Yukio, he really did. He might even be in love with him, maybe.

Kakashi turned before Iruka could answer, leaving Iruka to stare at Kakashi’s back. “I’ll contact you about our next session by the end of the week.” He was gone in a puff of smoke.

Iruka didn’t move for several minutes, staring at the spot Kakashi had just vacated. He couldn’t bring himself to blame Kakashi for what he’d said. It was mean-spirited, spiteful, rude, but there was truth to it. He wasn’t trying, not as hard as he should be. While he didn’t think Yukio was going to turn out like the others, he’d said the same of all the others, so if he wanted this relationship to have a happy ending – or at least not a painful ending – he needed to learn to fight back.

Slowly, Iruka turned away from the mountain top and started down the path back to the village. He wanted his relationship with Yukio to work, he really did, and if he was going to make it work then he needed to put some real effort into getting better, outside of these meetings.

Iruka sighed. There were exams at home that needed marked and then he had rolls upon rolls of scrolls to master. He doubted he was going to get much sleep this week.

*****

Kakashi frowned behind his mask as an unfamiliar blonde sat next to him at the ramen stand, a wide smile on his angular face. He kept his eyes on his bowl and pretended not to notice the stranger.

“Good evening, Hatake-san.” The stranger’s voice sounded like oil, smooth and greasy. There was something about this man that Kakashi didn’t like.

“Do I know you?”

“No,” the man answered, “but we both know Iruka.”

Iruka. The way the man said the chuunin sensei’s name told Kakashi everything he needed to know. It also made Kakashi want to pull a kunai and plant it in the man’s throat. He didn’t, but he couldn’t stop his hand from clenching around his chopsticks. They’d work as a weapon well enough if he really needed.

“Ah. So you’re the man he’s seeing.”

The stranger’s smile widened. “Yes. Mishima Yukio.” He held out his hand. Kakashi didn’t take it. After a minute, Yukio let his hand drop.

Kakashi made a mental note to find out everything there was to know about this man. He had a few friends still in ANBU who owed him favors. Some of them might even do it for free if he explained the circumstances.

“I hear you’re teaching Iruka how to fight.”

“He already knows how to fight,” Kakashi answered automatically. It was true. Iruka knew a lot about fighting, more than some jounin. He had to in order to train the village youth. Knowledge wasn’t Iruka’s problem, it was action.

“Still, it’s awfully nice of you to help him. I’m sure he’s learning a lot from the infamous Hatake Kakashi.” Yukio leaned forward slightly. “A teacher’s defenses have to be sharp. After all, it’s a rather dangerous profession.”

Kakashi stiffened. “What do you mean?” He shifted the chopsticks in his hand to a better grip.

Yukio’s laugh sounded cold, hollow. “Have you ever been around small children when they’re just learning to throw shuriken or a kunai? That’s not a profession I envy.”

He relaxed the barest of fractions. “Is that all?”

Yukio’s smile never faltered. “What other danger could there be? He’s just a schoolteacher. An incredibly cute one, but schoolteacher nonetheless.” Yukio stood. “Well, I just wanted to say hello. I’ll give Iruka your regards when I see him later tonight.”

It took most of Kakashi’s self control to let Yukio walk away, when every nerve in his body was screaming to kill this man, kill him now. Aside from a vague sense of unease and more jealousy than he really wanted to admit to, he had no reason to suspect Yukio of anything. Maybe it was jealousy, though that was the first that Kakashi had admitted the emotion to himself.

He wanted Iruka, had wanted him since he’d sat behind Kakashi on the couch while Kakashi had been playing poker, maybe even before that. It was more than just jealousy. He knew they’d work well together. They already did work well together but he wanted more than that, he wanted closeness, contact. He wanted Iruka to want him.

If Yukio turned out like Makitomo, like all of Iruka’s other failed relationships, Kakashi knew he was going to blame himself. He could stop it now, before it got that far.

Kakashi stood, tossing a few coins on the table to cover his meal. He had a friend to see and then after that… after that, he needed to talk to Iruka.

*****

The knock on the door wasn’t unexpected, though the person that appeared on the other side of the door was.

Iruka stepped aside quickly and held the door open for his guest. “Kakashi. What…” Questions flew through his head. He wasn’t sure which he should ask first.

Kakashi waved a quick greeting as he stepped inside. “Hi.” He toed off his shoes and moved past Iruka, checking each of the rooms of Iruka’s apartment methodically, like he expected someone else to be here.

Yukio was supposed to be coming over tonight. Iruka wasn’t sure he wanted to know how Kakashi had found out, assuming that was who Kakashi was looking for.

He locked the door out of habit and followed Kakashi into the living room. Should he offer Kakashi something to eat? It was late, well past dinner time, so he doubted Kakashi was hungry, but he felt like he should offer something, just to be a good host.

Curiosity won over politeness. “Is something wrong?” Something was off with Kakashi. He seemed odder than usual which, given the jounin’s usual state, was saying something. He kept glancing around, shifting from foot to foot.

Kakashi’s eyes – both of them, Iruka only now realized that the Sharingan was uncovered – focused on Iruka as Kakashi pulled his mask down. “I’m sorry about what I said earlier.” He paused for a moment and shifted on his feet, one foot shuffling slightly towards Iruka. “But, I want you to stop seeing Yukio.”

Part of Iruka had been expecting this, or at least expecting some sort of confrontation, but he had to wonder how Kakashi knew Yukio’s name. Had Kakashi met Yukio, did he know him from missions, or had he just just seen Yukio and Iruka together? “Why?”

“I don’t like him.” Kakashi’s voice lacked emotion.

“Kakashi…” He knew he should defend Yukio but the words stuck in his throat. Yukio was perfect, almost everything Iruka liked in a guy. He’d learned long ago that perfect never was. Maki had been perfect, in the beginning. “Why?” He repeated.

Kakashi stepped towards him. Iruka reflexively started to back up, to give Kakashi space, but an arm around his waist stopped him. The arm pulled Iruka closer, into an unexpected kiss. Unexpected, but not unpleasant. His hand rose to press against Kakashi’s chest. For a second he was about to push Kakashi away but his hand wouldn’t move. Iruka’s eyes closed as Kakashi’s arm tightened around his waist.

He didn’t think he could move away. He didn’t want to move, but he knew he should. This was wrong. It felt too good to stop. Kakashi’s tongue worked its way past Iruka’s lips and moved slowly over Iruka’s own and against the roof of his mouth. At some point, Iruka’s arms had wound around Kakashi’s neck, leaving the barest fraction of space between their bodies. Neither of them made any move towards stopping.

Kakashi was the first to pull away, their lips parting hesitantly, leaving just enough room for each of them to gasp in a quick breath, lips brushing, before Kakashi’s mouth was back over his own. They moved. Kakashi led, shuffling Iruka backwards until his back hit the wall. The bedroom door stood tantalizingly open not far to Iruka’s left.

Kakashi’s hands shifted, moving down Iruka’s body, pressing against his clothing. They paused for a long moment to cover his ass. Fingers dug lightly into his flesh, squeezing, kneading, and then moving on. Knees pressed between Iruka’s legs. Kakashi’s hands lifted him as they slid down, pulling Iruka’s legs up around Kakashi’s waist. Something hard pressed against Iruka, between his hips.

Iruka groaned into Kakashi’s mouth as the jounin ground his hips against Iruka.

He needed to stop. Yukio… he was dating Yukio and this was bad, very bad but he couldn’t bring himself to let go. He should tell Kakashi to stop but instead he was rocking, shifting against the wall and into Kakashi’s hands, moving with the hard press of Kakashi’s hips. This wasn’t like him. He was faithful, almost to a fault, and while he had been accused of cheating by several of his previous boyfriends, this was the first time it was actually true. He felt horrible and wonderful all at the same time.

Kakashi stepped away from the wall, pulling Iruka with him. For a brief second Iruka was afraid Kakashi was going to drop him but the jounin barely strained under Iruka’s weight. They moved through Iruka’s apartment, going from the dimly lit living room to somewhere darker. The mattress dipped beneath them as Kakashi sat down, his arm back around Iruka’s waist to keep him from falling. Iruka reached forward first, peeling off Kakashi’s jacket and tossing it behind him.

They moved together, rolling to the side until Iruka was on his back, never breaking their kiss. Skin was slowly revealed to eager hands and explored by equally eager lips. Any remaining thoughts of Yukio were chased away by a talented tongue. This was wrong and right and every shade between, but Iruka couldn’t bring himself to care.

He liked Yukio, might have even loved him in time, but this was Kakashi. Kakashi, who brought him kiwi and taught him to be a better fighter and trained Iruka’s precious students and was a mentor to Naruto and played poker with Iruka’s friends. Kakashi, who might get mad but would never hurt him. Kakashi, who tasted like miso and ramen, and fit against Iruka like he belonged there.

Iruka broke the kiss with a touch of regret and sat up, pushing Kakashi down as he moved. He shifted to straddle Kakashi’s hips. His breath came erratically, escaping in loud pants as he reached into the drawer in his bed side table, moaning as Kakashi’s fingers traced over the curve of his ass, distracting him. He ripped the condom package open with his teeth. Kakashi watched, both eyes half-lidded and intent, fixated on Iruka as he rolled the rubber down over Kakashi’s thick erection. He squeezed a small measure of lube onto his fingers and left the tube uncapped on the table.

Kakashi held Iruka by the hips, steadying Iruka as he rose up onto his knees and slipped slick fingers inside of himself as quickly as he could. If he had more time, he would have been tempted to make more of a production of it – to tease Kakashi, to urge Kakashi’s finger in with his own, or to take Kakashi’s erection into his mouth. He didn’t have the patience for that now, but he was hoping he would later. He wanted there to be a later.

He wiped his fingers on the side of the bed sheet before grasping Kakashi’s biceps. A loud moan escaped his lips as he lowered himself onto Kakashi, shivering as Kakashi inched inside of him, stretching him, filling him. It felt so good. From the look on Kakashi’s face, the jounin felt the same. His eyes hungrily followed Iruka’s every move, as if the mere sight of him was an aphrodisiac.

Iruka paused once he was fully seated and watched Kakashi watch him. It was hard to stay still when all he wanted to do was feel Kakashi moving inside of him, and he could tell the lack of motion was testing Kakashi’s patience as well. Kakashi controlled himself well, at least at first. His hips stayed flat on the bed, his fingers tight on Iruka’s hips but not encouraging any movement. Seconds passed as he watched Kakashi’s patience slowly slip.

The patience broke.

Kakashi lifted him by the hips. Iruka moved with them, letting Kakashi control the movement. Kakashi’s hips slammed up as Kakashi pulled Iruka down, hard, forcing another obscene moan from Iruka’s lips. This was better than perfect, not gentle but certainly not unpleasant. Iruka tried to quicken the pace and suddenly they were fighting for control, fighting for the same end. Neither of them could move fast enough. Iruka barely lifted himself up on his knees before Kakashi pulled him down again.

It was everything he needed and not enough.

Apparently Kakashi felt the same. He grabbed Iruka by the arm and pulled, rolling them until Iruka was once more on his back. Kakashi leaned over him, staring for a second before closing the gap between them and locking his mouth onto Iruka’s. Arms moved under his knees. Iruka’s hips were lifted from the mattress as Kakashi sat up and leaned forward for another kiss. Kakashi thrust inside at a new angle and suddenly it was enough.

Iruka shouted into Kakashi’s mouth as he came, his body arching up against Kakashi’s. He was going to be feeling that for days, possibly longer since Kakashi showed no sign of slowing down. Kakashi leaned back, pushing Iruka’s legs up until they were hooked over Kakashi’s shoulder. Moans filled the room. Iruka was pleased to note he wasn’t the only one making noise, though he was certainly responsible for most of the volume. He twisted his fingers in the sheets and held tightly.

After what seemed like an eternity of sharp thrusts that sent jags of pleasure straight up his spine, Kakashi finally came. His eyes closed for a full minute. All sound fled the room save for Iruka’s ragged breathing.

His legs tingled as they were lowered back onto the mattress, a pleasant ache settling between his hips. They exchanged soft, slow kisses while they untangled their bodies. Kakashi pressed a kiss against the sides of Iruka’s mouth, kissing one side, then the other as he slid out of Iruka’s body. The condom was knotted and dropped into the trash can. Kakashi started to stand.

“Wait.” Iruka grabbed Kakashi’s arm before the jounin could move away. His earlier worries returned tenfold, only now he was afraid that Kakashi was disgusted at him or hated him or….

“I’m only going to get a washcloth.” Kakashi’s smile was all Iruka needed for reassurance.

He relaxed back onto his bed and matched Kakashi’s smile with a muted version of his own. He couldn’t bring himself to regret what they’d done, not when it felt like quite possibly the best thing that had ever happened to him. Instead, he wondered why they hadn’t done this sooner.

Tomorrow, he’d talk to Yukio. Tonight, he was with Kakashi.

*****

Iruka waited in the field outside of the Academy, his back against a tree as he watched a group of children – younger than what Iruka usually taught – playing soccer on the opposite side of the field. He was dreading the conversation he had to have with Yukio, but at the same time he was giddy as well. There were no words to describe how he felt about Kakashi, how good it felt to be with him.

A smile broke across Iruka’s face. Kakashi made him happy, happier than any of his previous relationships had ever made him. Instead of questioning when and how he should tell his friends, he wanted to tell Genma right away. They were having lunch together in a few hours. Iruka doubted that he’d be able to keep his mouth shut. Genma would know something had happened just from the way Iruka couldn’t stop smiling.

That was, of course, assuming he could make it through his conversation with Yukio without things turning ugly.

“Good morning, Iruka.”

Iruka jumped, his head snapping to the right. He hadn’t even noticed Yukio approach.

“H-hi.”

“Did I startle you?” Yukio smiled widely, his eyes twinkling with laughter.

“A little, yeah.”

“Did you miss me last night?”

Iruka’s smile died as he realized that he hadn’t even heard a knock last night, assuming Yukio had been there at all. Yukio wouldn’t have stood him up, it wasn’t like him. At the least, he would have shown up late or arranged for some way to get word to Iruka that he’d been detained.

Yukio knew.

“I’m sorry,” Iruka blurted.

Yukio’s hand landed on Iruka’s shoulder. His smile was still firmly in place, not even dimmed. “Don’t worry. This only makes things more interesting.”

Something in Yukio’s hand – held in his hand, Iruka belatedly realized, he could feel it pressing against his shoulder – popped, and a cloud of orange dust surrounded Iruka’s face. He started to cough. His lungs contracted but the air never left his lungs, frozen along with the rest of his body.

Iruka fell.

“Much more interesting,” Yukio said as Iruka passed out.

*****

Kakashi didn’t have to find the ANBU he’d asked to investigate Yukio, she was already waiting inside Kakashi’s apartment when he returned for a change of clothes. The red and white tiger’s mask was pulled off her face as soon as Kakashi shut the door. Arena spoke quickly.

“We couldn’t find anything on Yukio,” she said with a frown.

It took Kakashi a second to digest that statement. There couldn’t be nothing. Every person in the village had a file from the second they were born, even the most ordinary of citizens. There should have been a school record at the very least, or an address.

Kakashi’s fingers curled around the hilt of a kunai. “He’s not one of ours.” A dozen scenarios filtered through Kakashi’s head, some disregarded, others were possible but didn’t make sense with Iruka involved.

“Should I alert Tsunade?”

Kakashi nodded slowly. He didn’t yet know what Yukio was up to, but he would soon.

“And, find Iruka.”

“Harry, we need to talk to you.” His friends caught him in the hallway, just as he was about to head upstairs to put back the book he’d been reading. Ron looks worried and Hermione, resolute, and he’s glad that for once, the three of them are alone.

“Sure thing,” he says and leads the way upstairs.

They’re at the Burrow for the holidays. He likes it here, always has, but it’s hard staying here sometimes. It always reminds him of what a family’s supposed to be like. He could have been raised like this, if the world had gone a little different, with loving parents and a home that made him feel safe and maybe even siblings. Even with Sirius, it could have been like this. Not exactly like it but close. After all, Sirius was no mother, but he’d been a friend when Harry needed one. Sometimes, when his mind wanders into “what if”, he thinks of the kind of life he could have had if Sirius hadn’t been charged with his parents’ murder. Would he still have been sent away or would a godfather have been a good enough guardian? Would Harry have turned out more like his father under Sirius’ guidance? He wasn’t sure he wanted that, but at least Sirius would have cared for him.

The three of them file into Ron’s bedroom. Hermione shuts the door while Harry puts the book, a history book that Hermione swore covered all the same topics as their assigned textbook and made far more sense, back in his bag. He can tell by both their faces that he isn’t going to like what they have to say, and yet it has to be important if they’re confronting him about it over the holidays, in a house where you never know who might overhear.

“It’s about Draco,” Hermione begins.

He’s not surprised. If anything, he’d expected to have this conversation sooner. Harry raises a hand to cut Hermione off. “Stop. I know what you’re going to say, and you can’t talk me out of it.”

Harry doesn’t remember quite how it started, or which one of them first instigated it. He doesn’t even remember what their first kiss was like or where it’d happened, he just knows that he liked the feeling of Draco’s tongue down his throat and Draco’s hands on his hips, and he’s liked most of the other things Draco’s done to him or with him since. It doesn’t matter that they’re both boys, that they’re in rival houses, or even that they’re technically on opposing sides of the war that’s brewing around them. Their relationship is wrong on so many levels that it’s hard to count, but it feels good and that’s what keeps him coming back.

He has no idea what Draco gets out of it.

“You can’t possibly like him!” Ron is outraged, as expected, his face almost as red as his hair.

Harry knows what he should say to calm his friend down, but he doesn’t want to. He’d been waiting for this confrontation, for someone to tell him why he shouldn’t be with Draco, but that doesn’t mean he intends to give in. “I certainly wouldn’t be shagging him if I didn’t.”

That’s not exactly the truth. They’d started shagging long before there was true affection, at least on Harry’s side. Lust had been their driving factor at first, but it wasn’t all of it. Maybe it was love, wrapped up in a myriad of confusing emotions. Maybe he just likes feeling like he belongs, like someone cares for him, not because they’re supposed to but because they want to.

It was obvious that Draco wants to be with him. He wouldn’t be risking his parents’ ire otherwise. They’d talked about it once, after Draco had nearly pounded him into the mattress that had appeared for them in the Room of Requirement. Draco had lined out exactly what his parents would do if they found out. He’d be disinherited, or sent to another school.

“Why are you shagging him?” Hermione asks. There’s no censure in her tone, as far as Harry can tell, just curiosity and maybe a bit of concern. “I thought you two hated each other.”

He didn’t have a ready answer. The whole ‘why’ of it all had never really crossed his mind. Harry was just glad he had someone, anyone, that he hadn’t questioned it.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “It just happened, and I like it. I like him, Draco, and I know you don’t approve Ron, but being with him really does make me happy.”

“How long has this been going on? I mean, you two still seem to fight like cats and dogs.”

That had been Draco’s idea, and at first, Harry had felt a little hurt and confused that Draco wasn’t acting the slightest bit different around him after they’d started shagging. Then he’d started fighting back, and in a way, it was kind of fun. They’d work up a good row between them, in front of the rest of the school, made it seem like they were still at odds, and then, when they finally managed to slip off, they’d finish the fight on their backs, with tongues and cocks. No one had been the wiser, until now.

“I guess you could say the fighting is a cover,” he reasoned out loud, letting his thoughts slip directly out his mouth. “It’s easier to have a relationship when no one knows you’re in one, and it is kind of fun teasing each other. As for how long it’s been… I really don’t know. Since late fall, at least, so a couple months, maybe.”

“Months?” Ron looked ready to start foaming at the mouth. “You’ve been shagging Malfoy for months and you didn’t think to tell us?”

“Technically, Malfoy is shagging me, and I really just didn’t want to fight over it.”

Hermione was quick to play the peacekeeper. “We’re not fighting. Right, Ron?”

Caught between his best friend and his girlfriend, Ron was quick to give in. “No, we’re not. But that doesn’t mean I approve.”

The look Hermione shot him meant that she’d be having a few words with Ron later. Harry honestly hadn’t expected either of them to take it this well. He was sure Ron would make him choose between Draco and his friends.

“I’m okay with the whole ‘gay’ thing,” Ron continued, “but couldn’t you have picked someone less… Malfoy? I mean, even Blaise would have been a better choice. Or, how about someone not in Slytherin? Like, anyone not in Slytherin?”

He knew that they were the worst possible match out of all the Hogwarts students. Malfoy could do so much better with anyone besides Harry, someone he didn’t have to hide his relationship with. It’s not like he’d planned to fall in love, it’d just happened, and now that he was here, he didn’t want to give it up.

“I don’t want anyone else.” That was the only excuse he could think to give.

*****

“Ron and Hermione know.”

Draco froze halfway to Harry’s mouth. “What?”

In retrospect, that was probably not the best thing to blurt out during foreplay, particularly not when they’d finally gotten rid of all their clothing and were moving towards the good part.

Draco pulled away, looking somewhat like he’d just swallowed a bad prune. “You told them?”

“No, of course not. They figured it out on their own.” Would it have been so bad if he had? He felt relieved now that they knew. He’d never been particularly good at keeping secrets from his friends, and while it was still secret from the rest of the school, he at least had someone he could talk about it with. Not that Ron would be much help. Ever since they’d gotten back to school he’d been pointing out guys to Harry.

A dark look crossed Draco’s face. “Is that why Weasley keeps trying to set you up with other guys?”

There was no mistaking that tone. Harry was momentarily stunned. Draco Malfoy was jealous. He wasn’t sure quite what to say.

Draco leaned down until they were almost nose-to-nose. The other boy’s hands settled possessively over Harry’s hips, his fingers digging slightly into Harry’s flesh. “Tell that weasel that you’re taken.”

“I did,” Harry answered quick. He kind of liked this new, possessive Draco, but he didn’t want Draco getting the wrong idea. “He’s just being obstinate. I made it clear that I didn’t want to date anyone else.”

Draco snorted, his lips curving into a familiar smirk. “Since when were we dating?” His hands slid firmly down Harry’s thighs in an almost-caress.

Harry just rolled his eyes and spread his legs wider, giving Draco room to kneel between them. “Fine. Shagging, then.”

“Is that what you want, Harry?” Slick fingers slid inside of him as Draco spoke and he forgot the question.

“What?” It was hard to think when Draco was touching him.

Draco removed his hand and leaned back, his expression serious. “Do you want to go on a date? Is that what you want? Flowers and chocolates and all that romantic nonsense?”

He thought about it for the briefest of moments. It was hard to imagine Draco actually being romantic.

“Would you? If I said yes, would you actually go through with all of that?”

“Yeah.”

Harry relaxed back into the mattress and hooked one of his legs over Draco’s hips. “You don’t have to. I can’t really picture either of us doing any of that mushy stuff.”

“Fine with me.”

Draco lifted his hips and then suddenly he was inside, sliding into Harry with the ease of much practice. Harry sighed in contentment. All of break, he’d been missing this – the feel of Draco’s hands on him, the warm slide of skin on skin, the delicious heat their bodies made.

“I guess you could say we were dating, sort of,” Draco continued as if he’d never stopped talking in the first place. Hot breath traced the line of Harry’s jaw, moving down along his neck until Draco finally stopped over Harry’s shoulder, first placing a tender kiss on the bare flesh, and then biting down sharply.

Harry moaned and titled his head to the side, silently asking Draco for more of the same.

“It’s kind of like,” Draco paused to make a dark hickie at the junction of Harry’s shoulder and neck, “us getting together like this and shagging,” Draco punctuated his words with a sharp thrust of his hips, “it’s kind of like dating.”

Harry lifted his arms around Draco’s shoulders, scratching lightly every time Draco hit inside of him just right. His heavy breaths almost drowned out Draco’s words, making it twice as hard to stay focused on what Draco was saying. He couldn’t have answered back if he’d wanted to.

“Our kind of dates just involve shagging. But you don’t mind that do you, Harry?”

He was getting close. Draco knew all the right buttons to push to get Harry going, just like Harry knew exactly how to get Draco excited. Teeth, nails, hard thrust, gripping hands. It was too much for Harry to keep up with and try to hold a conversation.

“Harry?” Draco practically purred in his ear, knowing full-well how incoherent he was making Harry, and loving every damn minute of it.

Teeth pressed into his skin hard enough to leave bruises and that was all Harry needed to push him over. “Oh, fuck.” His body tightened around Draco as he came, forcing Draco even deeper inside. He floated on waves of pleasure, trembling as Draco still moved, waiting the last few minutes until Draco finally spent himself inside of Harry.

“You never answered the questions.”

Harry groaned. Draco knew better than to ask him anything during sex. “What question?”

“You don’t mind if our dates only involve shagging, do you?”

He didn’t want to get out of bed any time soon. He wondered if anyone in the dorms would notice if he didn’t sleep there tonight. “Dating, shagging, it’s all the same to me.”

Draco laughed, the sound reminding Harry of why he’d fallen in love with Draco in the first place. “Good. That’s good.”

It didn’t really matter what they called their relationship. It was enough. Any little scrap of affection Draco wanted to give him was enough. He could live with that.

When he was a child, his father had taken him to an amusement park. Not any specific amusement park, just an amusement park, any of the ones scattered around Santa Barbara. He’d begged for nearly two months to go and finally his father had agreed. It was the first and last time they’d gone, though Shawn had been to others since. Just not with his father, and not that same one.

According to his father, amusement parks were a waste of both time and money. To Shawn, they embodied everything a child could possibly find fun, all rolled into one big complex. He’d been so excited that he’d barely slept the night before. It had been fun, for the first five minutes. It probably would have been more fun if he’d gone with anyone other than his dad.

They bought nothing beyond the price of admission and a hot dog each. They rode two rides, each of which had involved nearly ten minutes of cajoling. His father had been adamant against him going on the really big roller coasters, but he’d talked his father into letting him ride the Tilt-a-Whirl and a wooden roller coaster that stayed close to the ground. They visited none of the shops and spent most of their time going from show to show mostly park-run attractions that featured employees in stereotypical country garb singing country songs older than his father. Shawn was always the youngest person in the audience.

He’d had a horrible time, but that was generally true of any place he went with his father. Shawn had never been back to that amusement park since. In fact, he tried to avoid the whole neighborhood entirely unless he was merely passing through, normally in Gus’s car. He’d turned down dates because they lived too close to the park. The reason he avoided the park, beyond the horrible memories of his father, was a young woman, about 5’8″, with curly brown hair and eyes that smiled at his every word.

He’d been on his way to the restroom, counting his steps since his father would ask him exactly how far it was there and back, and how many men wore hats and exactly which attractions he’d passed. She’d been sitting inside a purple tent set between a shop selling cheap western-themed toys and a cotton candy stand. The tent stood under a large maple tree, the flap pinned open to let in the summer breeze. Shawn had paused, his innate curiosity piqued by the way the woman was smiling at him. And she was smiling at him, there was no doubt about it. The crowd moved around him but her eyes never left him, following him as he started to walk away. She seemed strangely out of place among the bright, colorful lights and chintzy souvenirs, so he’d done what any curious child would do.

The fabric of the tent felt deceptively heavy under his hand, almost like velvet, possibly double the normal thickness. He could feel the temperature change as he stepped into the tent. It was like something out of a movie, the kind his father always told him were horridly unrealistic and not worth the film they were made with. There was a crystal ball on a gold stand in the center of a round table. A green cloth, embroidered with black swirling symbols, lay across the table, hanging down to the dirt floor. Silver stars hung from strings off the ceiling, swaying gently as he approached the table. Open crates lined the walls, forming a sort of temporary shelving that displayed a strange assortment of baubles and trinkets. He wondered if the skull sitting atop one of the crates was real.

“Welcome.” Her voice was low and thick, tinged with a strange accent. Or maybe it was a mix of accents since it didn’t strike him as anything recognizable, and his father had made him learn all of the common accents. Austrian and German, maybe?

“Hi.” He shuffled forward slowly, his eyes still wandering around the room, trying to take every detail in.

She leaned forward, gold bracelets jangling as she extended her hands towards him. “May I?”

He wasn’t quite sure what she wanted so he held out one hand. She took his hand in both of hers, turning it palm up and tracing her thumb along his skin. It tickled but curiosity kept him from pulling away.

“I was waiting for you.” Her words sent shivers down his spine. “I’m glad you’re here, Shawn Spencer.”

His father had warned him about strangers who knew his name. He’d told Shawn all the usual tricks such charlatans used to get their information. Shawn glanced down at his clothing, but there was nothing with his name emblazoned on it. Maybe she’d overheard his father say his name when they’d walked past here earlier, though Shawn didn’t remember passing the tent before.

“Do not worry. How I know you, and the name that comes attached, is not something to worry over. Never before have I met a child who shone so brightly.”

“Ah… thanks.” Now he understood why his father said never to talk to strangers. They were kind of creepy.

Her thumb traced a line straight down the center of his palm. “Fate is strong with you. That’s how I knew you. One day you’ll see. There are many things you’ll see, things your dad taught you, and things your father could never have prepared you for.”

He smiled warily and shifted his feet. Shawn was usually good with people. He had that kind of personality where he get along with everyone, but this lady was different. “Um… I’m not really a big believer in all that psychic mumbo-jumbo. I mean… it’s neat and all, but my dad says it’s fake.”

She smiled wider and laughed, though Shawn had no idea what the joke was. “Some of it is. There are those out there who will pretend to hold power, as you will eventually learn.” She taped the line on his palm again. “But belief will come, when we meet again. By then, you will have helped many people. You will have saved lives. You will be a hero, in place to help many others with your gift.”

“You really don’t know me well, do you, lady? I’m not a hero.” As much as his father wanted him to be, he knew he’d never make it that far.

“No, but you will be. What else could the son of a cop be?”

At that point Shawn had pulled his hand free and backed out of the tent slowly. There had to be something shady about this lady if she knew that much about him, though it was kind of weird that she never asked for money. Weren’t all the charlatans supposed to be after money?

Still, he thought it better not to mention the strange fortune teller to his father. He didn’t see her again until nearly two decades later.

*****

Shawn whistled lightly as he walked into the coffee shop, the bell above the door jingling merrily, announcing his entrance. There was a bit of a line, but not enough to deter him from his sacred quest for really good coffee. That and Janice was working today. Janice always gave him extra cream on top. Hands in his pockets, he stepped in line and bounced slightly from foot to foot while he waited. Maybe he’d be nice and get Lassiter some too. Random acts of kindness always threw him off guard.

“Shawn Spencer.”

The female voice sounded young enough and happy enough to make him turn quickly, a wide smile on his face. His smile slipped as he came face to face with possibly the only beautiful woman in the world that he desperately wanted to avoid.

“H-hi.” He recognized the fortune teller instantly. “Long time, no see.”

She held out her hand in greeting. Shawn hesitated in taking it. “It’s been too long. I had hoped you would come see me again.”

“U-um, I’m not…” Shawn glanced around for a possible excuse to walk away. Only four people between him and coffee, and as much as he didn’t want to be speaking to her, he also wanted his coffee.

She looked the same as Shawn had last seen her, not even a day older, which was really not helping with the whole creepiness factor. Her clothes were less ostentatious, though she still wore the same golden bracelets.

“Do you not want to know what the future holds for you, Mr. Psychic?”

She must have seen a newspaper article on him somewhere, or maybe one of his appearances on TV. That didn’t explain how she’d found him inside one of his favorite coffee shops. Admittedly it was near the precinct, within walking distance, so it could have just been a lucky guess. For some reason, he didn’t think that was the case.

He smiled uneasily and tapped the side of his head. “I think I’ve got the future covered. I can see it just fine.”

The corner of her mouth turned up slightly. “Really?” He almost thought she was mocking him, but her tone was too polite and lacked any real malice. “Are you sure? Observation can only bring you so close to the truth. Wouldn’t you like to see more, to know more?”

“How do you-”

She reached forward quickly, grabbing his hand in both of hers before he could pull away, and squeezed tightly. Her hands felt hot against his skin. A strange tingling sensation ran through his arm and upwards. It felt as if she’d just shocked him but he could feel nothing in her hands that would have caused it. She squeezed his hand a second time before slowly stepping away.

“Believe in what you see.”

Shawn almost stopped her. He had no idea what to say to her, but he was pretty sure there were questions he should be asking her, things that she should be telling him.

“Mr. Spencer, your usual?”

Shawn glanced at the cashier. “Yeah.” He pulled out his wallet, dropped a large enough bill on the counter, and turned back to stop her from leaving.

She was already gone.

*****

Shawn rubbed a hand across his forehead. He’d had a headache ever since the strange fortune teller had grabbed his arms. Her words had stuck in his head. He kept replaying them in conjunction with what she’d said to him at the amusement park. None of it made sense to him, or at least not the kind of sense that he wanted to think about. Maybe she was just crazy.

That was something to worry about later. Right now, he was on the steps of the Santa Barbara Police Department which meant, headache or not, it was show time. Vick had actually called him in this time, something about a girl murdered, no witnesses, no evidence, nothing to go on and thus the need for psychic help. His fashionably late arrival was more accidental than planned. The coffee had perhaps been an unnecessary detour, though it would at least provide him the pleasure of seeing the look of confusion on Lassiter’s face as Shawn handed him a cup of coffee. He’d ended up pitching his own cup, extra cream and all, after the first few sips had made his stomach turn. The headache was doing quite a good job at killing his appetite.

He forced a wide smile onto his face as he headed towards the conference room, nodding at Buzz as he passed and absently scanning over the strangers in the bullpen. His gaze lingered on a quiet-seeming man handcuffed to a chair in the corner. The man looked like an average accountant, here as the result of some strange mishap. Shawn had the feeling that he wasn’t as innocent as he seemed. He shivered as he walked under an air vent and turned his attention to the conference room.

Vick, Lassiter, Jules, and Gus were gathered around the conference table. Pictures littered the surface of the table, crime scene photos, judging by the was Gus kept turning to look away then glancing back as the chief or one of the detectives would point to something, only to quickly turn away again. Their backs were to the door as Shawn approached, so none of them noticed as he walked up to the door, pushing hard against the handle as he opened it.

The door hit the wall with a loud bang, drawing their attention to him for a brief moment, long enough for him to scan the pictures spread out on the table. He handed Lassiter the cup of coffee as he stepped forward, grinning at the confusion that spread across the detective’s face. It was everything he’d hoped for and more. Well, close enough.

Bits of the images stuck out – a circular impression on the floor, gray feathers sticking out from under a cabinet, gold hoop earrings, beads scattered across the floor, two small bowls side by side on the floor. He brought his hands to his temple and closed his eyes, scrunching up his face as if pained by a thought. The pain at least wasn’t hard to fake. He could feel his headache starting to reassert itself.

“What’s this?” Shawn exclaimed. “Polly wants a suspect?” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The bird saw it all.”

The Chief frowned down at the pictures. “She had a bird? Did we recover a bird?”

“Save the bird, save the world.” Blank stares met him. Perhaps the jazz hands had been a bit too much. Gus arched an eyebrow. Lassiter was staring between Shawn and the coffee. His expression softened as he sipped at the coffee – three creams, four sugars, exactly how Lassiter liked it. As much fun as annoying Lassiter was, Shawn liked seeing what other emotions he could evoke.

Shawn blamed the headache for throwing off his game. Normally it took a night of heavy drinking to make him feel this awful, and it was only getting worse as time passed. It felt like there were gnomes mining inside his skull, gnomes with little sharp and jagged mining… mining tool things that they used to chip away parts of brain. He should probably wrap this up quickly, maybe snag a couple of the photos to take home and get out of here in favor of half a bottle of Aspirin and a nap.

“Okay.” Shawn clapped his hands together as he stepped up to the table. Vick and Juliet made room for him. “That one – not so funny.” He mock-glared over his shoulder. “Polly, you really gotta give me better lines than that. No, I don’t think that one’s gonna fly either.” He paused to give the imaginary parrot a moment to respond. “Look, no need to get snippy. How was I supposed to know she clipped your wings?” He had around an eighty percent chance of being right on that. Indoor birds usually had their wings clipped, especially if they were left to wander around the apartment as this one obviously was.

Lassiter looked like he’d swallowed something foul. Shawn had that effect on people. Kudos to him for noticing the bird when they hadn’t. Lassiter hated it when Shawn noticed something they’d overlooked, though admittedly the detectives had gotten better at picking out details in the crime scenes. A couple more years and they may not even need Shawn to solve their cases for them.

He stared down at the photographs, leaning forward slightly over the table to get a better look at the far photos and pretending Lassiter was checking out his ass instead of just glaring at Shawn on principle. It was a nice ass, if he did say so himself, and the strange quirky part of him that liked the little paper umbrellas that came in cocktails and Cher albums really wouldn’t have minded if Lassiter actually was checking out his ass. But that was a mental conversation for another time.

The victim appeared to have been stabbed, judging by the bloody wound on her chest. She’d been found in her living room, sprawled on the floor less than a foot from her coffee table. Feet towards the door meant she likely saw her attacker. Lack of defensive wounds suggested surprise or familiarity with her assailant. The detectives would have picked up on all of that. They probably even had a full psych profile done up on her, hiding in one of the folders on Lassiter’s desk. He made a mental note to rummage through them later.

The girl had expensive tastes. She lived alone, minus the one – no, make that two pets. “I’m sensing another love in her life. Small, furry, used to sleeping on the bed with her at night.”

He could hear the smile in Jules’s voice. “She had a Shitzu. He’s currently at the pound.”

Shawn shuddered. He hated little yappy dogs.

Shelves were built into the walls, broken apart in even intervals to form a series of cubes, each randomly decorated with small stacks of books and carefully placed trinkets. She was obviously interested in foreign cultures, and well-traveled. There were a number of photos of famous tourist spots from around the world. A young man was featured in several of the pictures, smiling at the camera with his arm around the victim. The police would have found and questioned him, which meant they were looking for someone less obvious or maybe a complete stranger.

A wooden carving of a Hawaiian girl mid-dance stood out about eye-level on the shelf next to the door. It made him want pineapple.

“Polly never liked her beau,” he said as he reached for a picture. The words struck him as odd only after they’d left his mouth. That wasn’t what he’d been intending to say, but he’d roll with it. His fingertips gently brushed over the still face captured in the photos.

Something heavy struck Shawn in the center of his chest, right between where his breasts would be if he’d been born with them. He staggered a step back, gasping for air as the wind was knocked out of him. A dog was yapping loudly, almost drowned out by the shrill cry of a bird.

“Shawn?” Gus was looking at him funny.

He held up a hand, but he couldn’t quite get the words out to tell Gus he was fine. It’d felt like…. No, that was silly. He rubbed at his chest, though the pain had already faded. The impression of a knife stuck with him. A very specific knife.

Shawn took a step forward, towards the table. The room flashed black and instead of looking down at the pictures, he was looking down at the girl in her living room. A white-handled knife stuck out of her chest. He crouched down to get a better look and noticed faint black lines carved into the hilt. Something moved in the corner of his vision. A black shape stepped forward, reaching down with one hand to pull the knife from the victim’s chest. The knife passed in front of his face, giving him a good view of the blood-covered blade.

He blinked and the conference table was right in front of him. That was weird in a way he really didn’t want to think about right now. Weird and disorienting, but at least it made his headache shrink down to a more manageable level. He hoped he was going crazy. That’d be a lot less disturbing than the only other possibility that came to mind.

The picture closest to him showed a hint of pink hiding under a couch cushion. Shawn stood quickly and turned. He wagged a finger at Jules and had trouble forcing a smile. “Someone didn’t check under the cushions. There’s more than just loose change in there, you’ll also find your vic’s lost cellphone.”

The kind of noise he normally associated with a crowded bar filled his ears, along with a cheerful female voice saying “Nice to meet you. I’m Katherine Marcen.”

“Katherine,” Shawn corrected himself. “You’ll find Katherine’s cellphone hidden in the couch.”

Even Gus looked surprised.

“How did you…?” Jules never finished her sentence.

Shawn shrugged, belatedly realizing he should be throwing more theatrics into this if he didn’t want to come off looking like the prime suspect. He pointed over his shoulder. “A little bird told me.”

Lassiter was flipping though a file, holding it open enough for Shawn to read if he could get close and distract Lassiter at the same time. He smiled as he stepped towards the head detective. “Polly also told me that your murder weapon is a knife with a white handle with thin black carvings in it. Blade’s an inch wide, five inches long, usually carried in a belt sheathe.” He hadn’t seen the sheathe, but it sounded right.

The papers tipped forward slightly as Lassiter gaped at him. It was the coroner’s report. Autopsy confirmed possible knife wound to the chest, bled out, died sometime late yesterday evening. Lassiter followed Shawn’s gaze to the folder and snapped it shut with a frown. “Who told you-”

The rest of Lassiter’s sentence was cut off by a screeching bird. He clapped both hands over his ears but that only made the sound worse. It was coming from inside his head, he realized, and growing louder with each minute. He felt himself falling but he didn’t hit the ground. Brown liquid splashed across the carpet.

She knew her attacker, and the bird did too. It was a guy, someone Katherine had met years ago, someone she hadn’t seen in a long time and he got the impression that seeing him would be a bad thing. It had been a bad thing, since she’d wound up dead. He wasn’t her boyfriend. No, her boyfriend was a guy named Victor that worked downtown and made a lot of money. Victor was good for her. This guy was not and that was why… that was why he’d gone away. He’d left her. He’d been forced to leave her.

The bird cried again and this time he managed to catch the bird’s name. Magellan. The bird was named Magellan and this guy, whoever he was, had picked Magellan out for Katherine. Magellan was supposed to keep her company while he was away. He wasn’t ever supposed to come back.

He could hear Magellan inside his head, and each time the bird cawed it brought up images, flashes of the life he’d had with Katherine, of places she’d gone, people she’d met. He saw her entire life flash in front of him like a sideshow fast-forwarded ten times over, so fast that it was hard to distinguish one picture from the next.

Then, all of a sudden, the images stopped, and all he saw was black.

*****

He woke to a wet cloth across his eyes and the faint sounds of someone moving around the room. There were more noises, things he had a strong feeling weren’t actually happening in the room and some that he recognized from the station. The station copier needed servicing. Officer Allen was on the phone with Michelle again. He could hear distant voices, just at the edge of his hearing and he knew most of them weren’t actually coming from the people in the precinct. One sound carried over that, focusing his attention on the room around him. Someone… someone was… humming?

The humming stopped. “Time to wake up,” an unfamiliar female voice said from across the room.

Shawn sat up, almost wishing he hadn’t as his head throbbed dully. Lassiter had his back to him, staring at something on the conference table. A strange woman sat on the opposite side of the conference table. He could see the wall through her.

“Huh.”

Lassiter turned, a slight frown on his face. “Oh. You’re up.”

The woman giggled. She was young-ish, late twenties, early thirties, curly hair though it was hard to make out the color. “Don’t let his nonchalance fool you. He was worried.”

Shawn closed his eyes and counted to ten before opening them. The woman was still there. He rubbed at his eyes. Still there.

Insanity was sounding better every minute.

Lassiter crouched down in front of him. “Spencer?”

Shawn held up a finger. “One question.” He pointed to the woman. “Is she actually there?”

Lassiter turned, his gaze roving across the room, passing over the woman without pause. “Is who where?”

“Crap.”

The woman smiled. “You should just accept this.”

“You are not there.” He only pretended to see ghosts, they weren’t supposed to be actually there, much less talking to him.

The woman just smiled. Lassiter’s frown deepened. “What?”

“Not you,” Shawn clarified. “Her.” He pointed.

Lassiter turned again. “Are you alright?”

She leaned forward on her elbows. “I’m quite real. Well, real enough. He’s rather concerned for you. Don’t you think that’s charming?”

“No,” Shawn answered them both at once. He was lying, at least to one of them. The woman laughed a little.

Lassiter stared at him for a long minute before standing slowly. “Ah… right.” The detective turned back to the table. “You were right about the cellphone.” He held up a plastic bag with a pink cellphone in it.

“You should thank him.” The woman’s voice had a strange tone to it. She sounded like she was talking through a phone with less-than-perfect reception. “He caught you when you fell earlier. They almost called an ambulance for you.”

They were concerned? For him? He had to admit he was more than a little concerned for himself as well.

“Just roll with it,” the strange woman said. “That’s what you do. Is it so bad to be valid for a change?”

He wasn’t quite sure how to answer that.

The door opened. “Shawn!” Gus was at his side in a second, his voice dropping to a low hiss. “What the hell was that, Shawn?”

“Aren’t you going to tell them?” The woman actually seemed amused at all of this. “I’m sure they’d love to hear that you’re a real and true psychic now. Isn’t that wonderful?”

He didn’t feel like dignifying that with a response. Who knew ghosts were so smug?

“I’ll explain later,” he whispered back to Gus.

“Mr. Spencer?” Chief Vick’s very sensible shoes moved into his field of vision. He looked up with a half-smile. “I trust you’re feeling better?”

“A bit.”

“That must have been some vision.” Juliet actually sounded impressed. “Did you see who the killer was?”

Shawn glanced at the ghost. “I saw a lot of things, but no name.” He remembered the bird. “Well, one name, but that’s just the bird’s. It’s a cockatiel named Magellan.”

The ghost raised an eyebrow. “There’s something you’re forgetting.”

Even the dead criticized him.

“And the guy that killed her has the bird. Ex-boyfriend, moved out of town years ago. He’s the one that bought her the bird.”

Vick started to turn. Juliet held up a hand. “Right, on it.”

“You know, Mr. Spencer, you’ve been a lot more informative than usual.”

“You really should tell them why,” the she-ghost said. “She’s thinking of bringing you on full time. Isn’t that great?” She nodded towards Lassiter. “If you were anyone else, he would have arrested you on suspicion of murder by now, but he doesn’t think you did it. Well, he doesn’t want to think you did it.”

He wasn’t quite sure if the extra pay was worth it if this is what he had to deal with. Were all psychic visions that intense?

Vick held out her hand to help him to his feet. He hesitated for a brief second, remembering the way the fortune teller had approached him. This was Vick, as normal as they come. He did not like the ghost’s smile. Vick’s hand closed over his. Shawn froze halfway out of his seat as images assailed him – square hats made out of a blue fabric, a large gathering on a college campus, people in robes, Vick and her husband posing for a picture with a young woman. His mouth moved on its own. “Your daughter will be a doctor – her choice, not yours. It’ll be sunny the day she graduates from medical school, and you’ll have a room rented at the Holiday Inn nearby. You flew in and met her fiance Barry at the airport. He plays rugby.”

The chief stared at him. Shawn pulled his hand away quickly. “Sorry.” Words failed him. He was half-afraid of what would come out of his mouth if he tried to say anything more.

Shawn grabbed Gus by the shoulder and edged towards the door.

“We have to go. Now. Bye.”

The ghost waved, and thankfully did not follow them.

“You have a lot of explaining to do,” Gus hissed.

“I’m not the only one.”

*****

“You’re absolutely certain you’ve never employed a fortune teller at your park? Specifically in the summer of 1988.”

Gus stared at him from opposite Shawn’s desk. He could almost hear the questions bumping around inside of Gus’s head, but that was more due to their years of friendship than shiny new psychic abilities.

“Right. Well, thank you for your time.” Shawn put down the phone slowly.

“Shawn?”

Their office was thankfully ghost-free and he was proud to say he hadn’t seen anything in the last hour. It didn’t really make him feel any better.

“Shawn, why are you calling people about fortune tellers? I thought you thought they were creepy after you met that one at the amusement park.”

“That opinion has not changed.”

“And what was all that stuff about Chief Vick’s kid? You know that’s gonna come back to bite you when her kid grows up. I mean, rugby?”

“Not if it comes true.” He knew it would, just like he knew exactly what Gus was about to say.

He spoke along with Gus. “You’re insane.”

“If only that were true,” Shawn added. Gus’s mouth was hanging open. He knew what he had to say, though that didn’t mean he liked it. “Okay, Gus. You know how I’ve been pretending to be a psychic the last year or so?”

“Why, yes, Shawn. I had noticed.”

“Ouch!” Shawn mocked offense. “Dude, no need to get catty. Well, I ran into that creepy fortune teller – still uber-creepy – this morning and now I’m seeing things.” He leaned forward over the desk. “There was a ghost in the police station, Gus. A ghost!”

Gus waited a whole five seconds before bursting into nervous laughter. “Right, Shawn. Of course.”

Shawn waved his hands at Gus. It didn’t seem to make him stop laughing. “Gus! Really. I saw all this weird stuff. Like that Katrina girl-”

“Katherine.”

“Right!” He really should have remembered that. “Katherine. Anyways, she goes to like, half the places I do, just at different times of the day. How odd is that? I know what she orders. I know what her favorite bars are and that she talked to her bird like it was a real person. I don’t even have to think about half this stuff, it’s just there.”

“Shawn.”

“I’m telling the truth.” Now he understood how the boy who cried wolf felt.

“Seriously, Shawn.”

“Dead serious, Gus. Emphasis on the dead, as in I now see them. I see dead people, and hear them, and they seem to be trying to give me dating advice.” Why was it easier convincing people he was a psychic when he was faking it?

“Shawn.”

“Serious.”

“I’m not falling for it.”

“Fine!” Shawn stood, his chair nearly smacking the wall. He absently reached out a hand to stop it. He felt like something was tugging at his shirt. “I think we should go.”

“Go where, Shawn? We just got back.”

“What do we always do in these cases? We need to go investigate, go where she went, find that ex-boyfriend.”

“I thought you said he moved?”

“He’s back. Hence the killing.”

“Right.” Gus hesitated a second. “Where to?”

*****

Shawn stared out the window of Gus’s car. They’d been to a dozen of Katherine’s favorite places in the last three days and he’d gotten nothing. Well, nothing relevant. This psychic gift seemed to be turning him into the do-gooder of all do-gooders. He’d helped find lost cats, lost car keys, lost boyfriends, given financial advice, stopped twelve accidents, and won himself a free smoothie. It was like he didn’t even have to try anymore, the answers just popped into his head, at least on trivial things. He’d be enjoying it if it wasn’t still a little creepy.

Still nothing on the killer.

Gus was silent, his eyes only half-focused on the road. Every few seconds, he’d glance over at Shawn and his brow would wrinkle. Gus was starting to believe him. Was it really that hard for people to believe he was telling the truth?

He fingered the bottle of aspirin in his pocket and debated taking another one. His head hurt constantly. There was just so much out there, so many people who had something to say, so many things clamoring for his attention. It never stopped, never went away. He knew that all he had to do was stop, clear his mind, and he could know it all, but he didn’t think he was ready for that. He didn’t think it’d be a good idea, at least not until he had some sort of vague clue how to work this whole psychic thing a bit better.

Just one clue. All he needed was one clue to solve this case, or the cops were gonna start thinking it was him. If he were a cop, he would have arrested himself days ago. The tip about the blade? Why in the world had he given them specifics?

Shawn closed his eyes and dropped his head back onto the headrest. It seemed like they’d done nothing but drive around.

Driving. The guy had driven into town. Shawn could see the highway stretching out behind his closed eyelids. Wide, open country, and hills before that. Signs passed by in a blur, green backgrounds with white lettering. He passed the city’s welcome sign, and stopped in front of an apartment complex.

He had his phone out in seconds.

“What is it, Spencer?” Lassiter even sounded grumpy over the phone.

“Grab a pen.” He needed to tell the detective the numbers he’d seen before he forgot.

“Fine.” That was Lassiter’s ‘I’ll humor you’ tone.

He knew the detective hadn’t actually moved. “Seriously, Lassiter. Pen. Paper. Hurry up with it. I can tell you’re faking.”

Shawn could almost feel Lassiter’s surprise. He heard a drawer open and close. “Okay. Now what.”

“I saw some numbers connected to your case. Think driving. Now, write these down: 210, 15, 134, 101. I’m getting 18 hours, give or take with traffic, and a lot of countryside.”

The phone was silent for a moment. “Those are highway numbers leading into Santa Barbara.”

“Bingo.” Now if only his psychic vision could have told him where they guy was from. “I’m sensing North.”

Lassiter tapped his pencil on his desk. The eraser made a dull thunk that could be heard even over the phone. “Right,” he drawled out the word. “Look, why don’t you come into the station and we’ll go over these?”

Shawn straightened quickly. Lassiter was asking him to come in? Lassiter. He must have gotten something right.

“Sure thing, Lassy-bear. We’re on our way.”

He was smiling as he closed his phone. “Gus, to the police station.”

*****

Shawn paced nervously, walking from one cement wall to the other in a few short steps, then repeating the process. He really should have seen this one coming, what with being psychic and all. What good were precognitive visions if they didn’t keep you out of jail? And his head… his head was killing him. The voices were stronger here, practically shouting to be heard. They wanted to tell him everything that everyone who’d been in this room had done. Most of the men and women who’d been in here had been harmless, but some of them, some of them had done bad, bad things.

The ghost was back, lounging in one of the chairs like she belonged there. Shawn guessed this woman was a former cop, but he didn’t remember seeing anyone like her when his father had been here.

“At least tell me your name,” he asked thin air.

“Call me Margie,” she said.

Gus was nearby. Shawn could feel him. If he closed his eyes, he could have turned and pointed right to where Gus was sitting in another interrogation exactly like this one. The interrogation room felt different than the last time Shawn had been here. He didn’t like it, and not only because he was alone with a ghost. It made him nervous, made words and phrases bounce around his skull, made him think of things that would just keep him in here longer if he said them out loud.

“Would it really be so bad to tell them the truth?”

Shawn bit his tongue to stifle his first response. He didn’t sense anything from the other side of the one-way glass but that didn’t mean no one was listening.

“Yes,” he answered instead.

“Lassiter wants, more than anything, to hear the truth from you, but not quite in the way you think. It’ll turn out alright. They’re not going to throw you in jail for lying to them. Technically you’re not lying anymore.”

He could just picture the rage on Lassiter’s face if he knew the truth. Okay, that one time at the bar aside, Lassiter hated it when Shawn knew something he didn’t and he was pretty sure Lassiter would do just about anything to see Shawn in handcuffs. Hence the interrogation room he was currently stuck in.

“You’re half-right on the handcuffs,” Margie said with a wide smile, “though the fuzzy kind are more probable.”

Shawn’s entire brain crashed on that thought. It took a few minutes before the images cleared out from his head and his mind reset. “We’re not-”

“You sure?”

He was not having this conversation. Not with a dead woman, not with anyone, ever, much less aloud. “Very. Perfectly. Crystal. He hates me.”

She waved a hand. “Nah. He just doesn’t like that you’re lying. You could go a long way with him if you were honest.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere, short or long.”

He was starting to hate that smile. “Really? I think someone doth protest too much.”

“Yes!” For a brief second, he imagined what it would be like with Lassiter on top of him. Lassiter would pin him, arms above his head while he held Shawn down and- “Aaaah!” Shawn shook his head to clear it. That was not hot. Not at all. And by not, he meant entirely in a ‘please, sir, may I have some more’ kind of way.

“It’s not like you’ve never been with a guy,” Margie pointed out.

“Not in this state.” There’d been Marco in Miami. Marco, whom he’d even brought to meet his mom. Marco, and a few others scattered around the country. Bill, James, Andrew, Dennis. “Which is kind of odd considering I live in California.”

“Well-”

“No! Just, no! Why are you even here, anyways?”

She tilted the chair back on two legs. That had to look creepy to anyone not-him who happened to be watching. “I’ve been here for years, you just never saw me. But I am a fan. I was right here the very first time you had a vision. I’ve been watching you all along.”

“That’s kind of creepy. And sad. You’re stuck here?”

Her chair landed back on all four feet. The door opened before she could answer, and the two detectives walked in. Lassiter frowned darkly as he stormed into the room, Juliet trailing quietly at his side. She shot Shawn an apologetic look as she took a seat at the opposite side of the table. Margie stood before Juliet could sit on her and waved to Shawn before disappearing through the wall.

“Who the hell were you talking to, Spencer?”

So they had been listening.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

Lassiter’s frown darkened. “Whatever. Sit down. We have a few questions for you.” Lassiter didn’t sound nearly as pleased as Shawn expected.

Shawn eyed the table warily. He had a bad feeling about that table, and about what would come out of his mouth if he sat down.

“About my wonderful tips? Don’t you think we should go somewhere more comfortable? Did you catch the guy?”

“There is no guy.” So much for wishful thinking. Lassiter opened the folder he was carrying and slapped five photos down on the table. Photos of Shawn asking questions at Katherine’s favorite hang-outs. “There’s just you, with a history of visiting the same places as Katherine and a lot of inside information.”

“But the ex-boyfriend with the cockatiel?” He’d seen it. It was real, he just couldn’t prove anything, not without actually finding the guy.

Juliet fidgeted with the corner of a photo. “He doesn’t exist, Shawn. No one knows anything about him, not even her parents. The bird was purchased with one of her own credit cards.”

Shawn saw the killer in front of a computer, typing numbers into an online form. He’d memorized her credit card number.

He should have kept his mouth shut.

“He must have-”

Lassiter’s fist banged against the metal table, making both Shawn and Juliet jump.

“Sit!”

He did, slowly. Shawn carefully pulled the chair away from the table, making sure to stay a good distance away from the metal surface. It didn’t help. Shawn felt his back tense as soon as he sat down. His head rolled back as faces started to appear before him. He recognized some of them from when he’d walked through the precinct this morning. Most of them had been behind bars. Others he knew from previous cases, or the news.

Words filled his mouth, almost faster than he could get them out.

Water, pipes, a red metal box, wooden paneling. “Michael Jones is innocent, his brother stole the money. It’s hidden in a box under the bottom panel of his kitchen cabinet, the one just below the sink.” Dirt and shovels, the smell of cement, white flowers. “David Ross is lying. The body’s in the cemetery, buried just below the casket of Annabel Myer.” A girl crying, strong arms, musky cologne. “Jessica Maefs was not alone that night. Her friends saw what happened, and who did it, but they won’t say because they’re afraid of his friends.” Flowered curtains, binoculars, gray hair. “James Daniels threw the first punch, ask the man in the building across the street what he saw.”

A table, set for two though only one ate. “Eric…” His skin crawled. He had a bad feeling. There was something about this man, about Eric, that frightened him. He didn’t want to know why this guy was in jail, but he knew Eric deserved it. He was in the holding cell right now, in his own, private cell and Shawn didn’t want to be anywhere near him. “Eric Carol ate…” He could see the utensils thick with blood. Something was boiling on a stove. Red linen on the table. Fine silverware, expensive plates, sharp knives. Bones. A lot of bone, some with meat still on it and it wasn’t from an animal.

“Stop it.” Shawn’s voice rose an octave. He couldn’t see the interrogation room anymore, just the table. “He ate…” He didn’t want to see this. He really didn’t want to see this. “Stop.” The visions weren’t stopping. They weren’t going to stop. He saw the man opening his door for a guest. “Make it stop.” He saw the man again, in the kitchen, blood on his brown apron. “Please make it stop.” Shawn could feel the bile rising in his throat, but his mouth moved around it. “He cooked and ate…” There was an oven, and a spice rack. “He ate…”

“Shawn.” Lassiter’s hand closed around his arm, shaking him roughly, and suddenly the faces went away. When had Lassiter moved this close? “Shawn?”

Shawn swallowed bile and licked his lips. “I…” He stared at Lassiter’s face and tried very hard not to remember any of what he’d just seen. He was shaking. He should probably be asking for the garbage can. “I don’t want to know what that man did. I don’t want to know.”

Both of the detectives were staring at him.

Shawn forced a small smile, though it turned out more like a grimace. “Being psychic isn’t as much fun as TV makes it out to be.”

Lassiter stood, his hand falling away. “There’s no way you’re-” Blood and knives. Steak knives. There was a plate with…. Shawn quickly grabbed Lassiter’s arm and stood, moving as far away from the chair as his grip on Lassiter would let him.

“Yeah. Not joking here.” He moved so that Lassiter was between him and the chair. “Soooo not joking. Not funny at all.”

Juliet was frowning. “But you always used to wave your hands around more.”

“This is different.” Shawn wondered if he could get out of this without admitting to lying.

“But… how did you know about Eric Carol?” Juliet took a step forward. “That was a closed case. No one’s supposed to know anything about that.”

Lassiter half-heartedly tried to tug his arm free from Shawn. “Who told you? I didn’t, which leaves the chief, Detective O’Hara, or someone from the DA’s office.”

Shawn tightened his fingers in Lassiter’s sleeve. The voices weren’t nearly as loud around Carlton, which was all the more reason for Shawn to stick close to him. He tried not to think about what the ghost had said. “No one told me. I saw… I saw the knives and the pot and…” Shawn gagged slightly around the words. He needed to move closer to that garbage can. “I don’t want to know what the hell he was eating or who…” A name waited, hovering at the edge of his consciousness and trying to press in.

Lassiter jerked his arm away and both of Shawn’s hands flew to his head. There was a table setting, a cutting board, a slab of meat. The face of a young woman in a dress suit appeared. “Anne Marie Sorenson.” Arms caught him as he fell, cutting off the images that started to fill his mind at the name.

“Maybe he should wait in the Chief’s office,” Juliet suggested. No one argued with her.

*****

Vick stared at the detectives. “He said what?”

“You know, this lack of trust really hurts me. I’ve been very open about my abilities and yet you people…” He cut himself off with a sigh.

Vick almost looked ashamed. “Yes, well, given the sudden wealth of information you’ve provided on current cases, I have no choice but to believe in your psychic abilities. Still, I am curious why you’ve suddenly gained such a surprising amount of insight.”

Shawn shifted in his chair. Gus was staring at him. “Let’s just say I got a little upgrade. One could almost say I… leveled up, to use a video game metaphor.”

Gus chimed in. “And, like when leveling up in a game, Shawn has developed new powers with which to help you all fight crime. Isn’t that right, Shawn?”

“Absolutely.”

Juliet stepped forward and put her hand on the back of Shawn’s chair. It was meant to be a comforting gesture but he couldn’t help but shy away. He wasn’t quite sure he wanted to see what Juliet’s future held. “Maybe we should take Shawn to Miss Marcen’s apartment. I mean, in all those psychic shows, they have the psychic touching something that belonged to the victim and then getting flashes.”

“No offense, Jules, but I’m not a compass. I can’t just point you in the direction of the killer.”

Vick leaned across her desk. “But you could try. You’re our only lead at the moment, Mr. Spencer, and may I remind you that you’re currently also our only suspect.”

Crime scene or jail with the cannibal, not a hard choice. “Yes, ma’am.” He glanced back at the detectives. “So, who’s driving?”

*****

At this point he doesn’t find it odd that he ends up in Lassiter’s car. Margie had said something about ulterior motives but even though Shawn was starting to accept this whole actually-psychic thing, it was a far leap to believe that Lassiter might secretly like him. That thought was far stranger than talking to ghosts.

“Hey, Lassy, do you remember anyone by the name of Margie who used to work for the police?”

Lassiter glanced over at him for a brief second before turning his eyes back to the road. “Not recently.”

Shawn shifted in his seat. “I don’t mean now, I… I mean someone who died. A young woman.”

Lassiter’s brow furrowed. “There was an officer named Margie Hall who died a few years ago, but she was retired and in her late sixties.”

“Huh.” Could ghosts do that? It made sense, sort of, since they weren’t actually physically there. He wondered if they could look like anyone or if they were limited to a form they’d once had.

“Why?”

Shawn blinked. “What?”

“Why, as in, why do you ask?”

It felt different explaining what he’d seen when he wasn’t just making it up. “She’s haunting the police station.”

“Oh.” Lassiter didn’t believe him. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He didn’t want to believe Shawn, but he was starting to.

The car slowed to a halt in front of an apartment building much like the one Shawn had seen in his vision. He stepped out of the car slowly. The air around the building seemed to hum. His head throbbed in what he was coming to recognize as the precursor to a vision. He heard Gus and Juliet park, their voices faint in the crackling air. Shawn took a step towards the building.

He saw a brown car, a Toyota. The killer stepped out, duffle bag in hand, and started towards the building. Shawn turned as the man walked by, but he couldn’t quite make out a face.

Shawn followed the man into the building. Someone held the door open for him and he saw Katherine smiling at the janitor as he added a name to one of the mailboxes. He couldn’t see which mailbox, the janitor was blocking most of the words, but it was one of the lower floors. She lived higher, seventh floor. He saw an initial, E, but no number.

“Spencer, this way.” Shawn blinked and the vision was gone. Lassiter was frowning at him, but it wasn’t his usual frown.

He glanced at the mailboxes in front of him. There was Katherine’s name on room 704.

“Right, coming.”

Lassiter held the elevator door open for him. Shawn was the last one in but no one had selected a floor. He reached over and pushed the number seven.

“How did you-” Juliet cut herself off.

Shawn smiled slightly. Some things never changed.

His stomach sank as the elevator rose and he got the sense of something foul, like they were driving downwind of a skunk and getting closer to the source. The doors slid open, bringing a waft of air into the elevator. Shawn nearly gagged. He coughed, wishing he had something to take the taste out of his mouth but Lassiter was allergic to mint and Juliet had forgotten hers.

It was kind of creepy that he knew that.

Lassiter led the way down the hall, stopping in front of room 704 and opened the door. A nervous looking middle-aged man waited just inside the door.

“Oh, there you are, detectives.” The man wrung his hands together. Shawn studied him for a brief moment before dismissing the man as a suspect. He wasn’t nervous from guilt, but rather from being alone in a room where someone had been killed. This man was superstitious.

The man – most likely the manager – glanced at the two newcomers.

Shawn held out his hand, though his mind was already drifting elsewhere. “Shawn Spencer, head psychic for the Santa Barbara Police Department.”

He could feel the man’s surprise, and excitement, through his grip. Here was a man who was fascinated by the occult, not the flashy stuff, but the people fortune tellers, astrologers, and, most of all, psychics. There would be questions, tons of questions, if Shawn didn’t get him out of the room.

“It’s an honor to meet you,” the man started. A name came to mind.

Shawn flashed a charming smile and stepped to the side. “I’m sure it is, Mr. Waldermere, but if you’ll excuse me, I need to…” He felt stupid saying it, more so considering he actually meant it. “Read the psychic vibrations of the room. I think Detective Lassiter had a few more questions for you.”

“I do?” Lassiter stared at him. Shawn moved past the manager and pointed at the man before jerking his thumb sideways. He needed this man out of here, or at least distracted. “Oh, that’s right. Questions. Detective O’Hara, did you bring that list of questions?”

Juliet smiled quickly. “Yes.” She took the manager by the arm. “If you’d just step over here, we have a few things we need to ask.”

Shawn stepped into the living room and gagged. The stench was worse in here, centering near the coffee table. “Gus, crack a window.” He didn’t think it’d help that much but it was worth a shot. At the very least, it’d get some air in here.

He walked around the room slowly, sticking towards the edges and not touching anything. It was obvious that a crime had been committed here, so obvious that he almost wondered why the others didn’t feel it. A woman’s laughter echoed faintly through the living room, and a bird’s cackle. The faint outline of a wire cage appeared in the corner of the room, but the bird was missing from it.

A sharp tug on his wrists brought him to his knees. The carpet cushioned his fall and he curled his fingers into the shag fibers. His hands felt warm. The floor pulsed beneath him, vibrating like someone had the bass up too high on their stereo but there was no sound to go with it.

“Under.” The word stuck in his head and to his lips. “There’s something under.” It wasn’t like dirt, or a grave. It wasn’t something buried, but it was something hiding. He knocked on the floor. “Under where?”

“I think we can leave her clothes out of this, Shawn.” Gus commented from near the window.

“Not underwear, under where.” Shawn leaned forward and closed his eyes. He could hear heavy boots thudding along the hallway. There was something important below him.

The manager’s voice broke Shawn’s concentration. “The apartment below this is Mrs. McCreenan’s.” He glanced at the detectives. “Do you think she had something to do with this?”

“No,” Shawn answered for them. “She’s fine, though her cat is about to have kittens. The cream-colored one, Adam.”

He stood slowly, one hand on the back of the couch to help himself up. Lassiter was watching him from the doorway, blocking the manager from entering though he kept peering around Lassiter’s shoulder. Shawn smiled, his grin slowly echoed on Lassiter’s face though more muted than Shawn’s own.

Juliet tapped Mr. Waldermere on shoulder. “What can you tell us about Ms. Marcen’s bird?”

The blood was gone from the carpet but Shawn could still picture Katherine lying there as in his first vision. His gaze was caught by her imaginary figure on the floor. As he stared, her image solidified. He shivered as cold air gusted through the room. Shawn turned to ask Gus to close the window but Gus wasn’t there. The door was closed. He was alone with the corpse.

Another figure appeared next to the couch, more shadow than solid form. Blood dripped from the knife in its hand, falling in slow drops to splash on the carpet. Shawn reached forward but his hand passed through the figure. He smelled blood and sawdust and oil. The figure solidified, resolving into a young man, slightly younger than Shawn. The man’s attention stayed on Katherine as a slow smile spread across his face. Shawn studied his face, his height, any detail that might help the police identify him.

He followed the man into the kitchen where he pulled two paper towels off the rack and wiped the blade clean of blood. The bloody towels went into the trashcan in a pull-out bin under the sink. Shawn pulled out the trashcan as soon as the man walked away. There was nothing there, just an empty bin.

“Shawn?”

He closed the drawer. Gus was leaning on the opposite end of the counter, staring down at the drawer.

“Nothing there anymore.”

Gus raised an eyebrow. “See anything?”

“You mean like the killer? No name, but I’ve got his face up here.” Shawn tapped the side of his head.

“Dude.” They bumped fists over the counter. “We good here?”

Shawn closed his eyes briefly. Nothing else was coming to him, at least not in here. He glanced into the living room but Katherine’s body was gone. The air smelled clear, fresh.

“We’re done.”

The look of relief on Lassiter’s face was obvious. Shawn moved slowly through the living room, almost expecting another vision to hijack his sight. Nothing happened, not even the slightest tingle. Lassiter stepped away, giving him room to move past. He paused one last time and stared back. There was nothing here he hadn’t seen in photos, but he still felt like he was missing something.

Lassiter leaned close while the manager locked up. “You saw the guy’s face?”

“Yeah.” Juliet flipped open a notepad. He spoke slowly for her, giving her time to write. “Young man, black spiky hair, square jaw, slight tan. Wore black clothing and heavy work boots. Clothing was slightly worn, but still good condition. Jeans looked almost new. Knife sheath attached to his belt.”

“Height?”

Shawn glanced up at Lassiter. “Halfway between you and me.”

“Build?”

“Stocky, slight bulge in the stomach but a good amount of muscle.” He held out his hands to indicate a man several inches thicker than himself.

“You know,” the manager turned towards the elevators. There was a line of red leading down the hall. “Katherine had a nice bird. Normally I don’t like them so much, too noisy, but hers was an angel, at least when she was around.” Shawn let the others walk ahead of him as he studied the red on the carpet. It wasn’t solid. Rather, it trailed off in parts then picked back up again, like something had interrupted it. “Not like that noisy thing down on the third floor. New guy, name of Yates, Edward Yates, has a bird just like hers but this thing just won’t shut up. I’ve had twelve complaints so far. Twelve, and the guy’s barely been here a week.”

The detectives filed into the elevator. Shawn walked past, following the line around the corner and down the hall. It led to a door. The knob turned easily in his hand and he stepped into a dimly lit stairwell. He had to go down. This is what was under. Under her apartment. He took the stairs two at a time. It made sense. New tenant with the same bird that happened to be missing from the crime scene, the guy coming here first thing from out of town. He was here, in this building.

How had he not seen this? It was so obvious in retrospect.

Shawn followed the trail of red to the third floor, back around the corner to room 303. The sounds of a loud bird cawing were slightly muffled by the walls. He knocked without thinking.

The door opened and Shawn came face to face with the man from his vision. Specifically, the killer.

This probably ranked very high on the list of stupidest things he’d done, ever.

“Hi!” Shawn blurted quickly, throwing a wide smile on his face. He held out his hand. “I’m your new neighbor from down the hall.” He pointed to the left. “310, just that way.”

The man didn’t move but his brow furrowed. “And?”

“And,” Shawn drew out the word, “I heard you had a bird. I love birds.” He let his accent slip a little south – north of Georgia, south of Virginia, something nice and mild. “My ma had a bunch when I was little and I’ve always wanted to pick up a few. I’m new around here, so I was wondering if you knew any good stores. Not those chain things, but someplace that actually hand-raises their birds. You know, the social birds.” He had quite possibly never been more thankful for the month spent at the exotic pet store.

The guy stepped back, silently inviting Shawn in. His fingers itched to reach down to his cellphone but there was no way to do so without being suspicious.

Magellan quieted as soon as Shawn stepped in the room. This was Katherine’s bird. He could almost see her, superimposed over the cage. The guy had kept the cage. He’d probably taken it straight from her room after he’d killed her.

“What apartment did you say you moved into?”

“310.” Shawn moved closer to the cage. “This is a beautiful bird you have here. What’s it’s name?”

“You don’t look like Donna Lukavich.”

“What?” No way the guy knew all his neighbors.

Magellan screeched and Shawn turned just in time to see a silver blade coming towards him.

*****

Carlton noticed something was missing as soon as the doors closed. He turned, taking a quick headcount. They were one short.

“Where’s Spencer?”

Burton had been the last one in. “He wasn’t out in the hall.”

He couldn’t have gone back into the vic’s apartment, which meant he’d wandered off for some other reason. What had Spencer said about their suspect? New in town, had the bird, young man.

Carlton turned quickly and grabbed the over-weight manager by his shirt. “What apartment did you say the new guy was in?”

“What?”

“The new tenant!” He may have used unnecessary force when shaking the manager, but at least it felt good.

“Three… 303.”

Carlton punched the button for the third floor and glared at the numbers as they slowly counted down from six.

“You don’t think Shawn…” Burton sounded nervous.

O’Hara was staring at him. “So when Shawn said ‘under’-”

Carlton stamped his foot. “He meant under. This guy’s been right here, under our noses the entire time.”

He could see the cogs turning in their heads as they caught up. The number four lit up above them.

“But, why move into the same building as someone you’re planning to kill?” Burton asked. “Doesn’t that make it kind of obvious?”

O’Hara answered before he could. “Maybe he wasn’t planning on killing her. I mean, Shawn said they dated, right? So maybe he came back here hoping to rekindle things and found out she already had a boyfriend.”

“And then offs her and takes back his bird,” Carlton finished.

The elevator dinged, ending their conversation. He had his gun out before he set foot in the hall, safety off, low and at the ready. The door to room 303 was closed. There was a bird inside making a loud racket. He tried the handle. It was locked.

One nod to O’Hara was all it took to get the keys from the manager. She unlocked the door while he waited, hoping fervently that Shawn hadn’t been stupid enough to get himself killed. The lock clicked. O’Hara tossed the keys back to Burton as Carlton entered the room. Out of the corner of his eye he saw O’Hara pulling out her pistol.

The door opened into a short hallway that ended in a larger room three paces down, much the same set up as Miss Marcen’s room. He saw a man, a bird cage, and a figure on the floor. There was blood. The man was ignoring them. Carlton stepped closer and trained his gun on the man. He had black hair, a build like Shawn had described. Another step put him in sight of the man on the floor. That was Shawn, covered in blood. The man raised a knife.

He realized he’d squeezed the trigger only after he heard the gun go off, kicking his shoulder back. He’d forgotten to brace himself properly. He hadn’t had time. His aim was perfect, perhaps not what he’d consciously been intending but the man, their killer, fell as the bullet bore a hole straight through his head.

Carlton switched the safety back on and shoved his gun in its holster. Shawn’s eyes were wide, staring at where the man had been seconds ago. He blinked, one hand moving to press his shirt against the slash down his arm. Relief washed over Carlton as he realized Shawn was still alive, hurt but still breathing. Anger followed quickly after.

“What the hell were you thinking!?” His shout shut the bird up instantly. Shawn flinched. “You almost got yourself killed!”

Shawn’s lips moved but Carlton couldn’t hear what was said. He crouched down inches from Spencer’s face.

“If you ever, ever do that again, you are out. You understand me?”

“I’m sorry,” Shawn said. He wasn’t looking at Lassiter.

Shawn’s face was pale. There was blood on the carpet, more on Shawn’s shirt.

Carlton swore and pushed Shawn flat on his back. “O’Hara, call an ambulance. Burton, find a pillow.” He shrugged out of his jacket quickly, unbuttoned his shirt in seconds. The blue fabric turned crimson as he wrapped it around Shawn’s arm, holding the limb up in an attempt to reduce blood loss.

“I’ll be fine,” Shawn muttered. He sounded tired.

Burton slipped the couch cushion he’d grabbed under Shawn’s feet. He could hear O’Hara giving directions over the phone.

“You better be,” Carlton said, his voice as low as Shawn’s had been.

There was no way Shawn Spencer was dying on his watch. He wouldn’t allow it.

*****

Six stitches, four hours, and several yards of bandages later and Shawn finally was allowed out of the hospital. He must have passed out at one point because Lassiter had been there one minute and gone the next. The jump from floor to hospital may have had something to do with that. He’d woken up to a doctor holding his arm, Gus holding his hand, and Juliet pacing in the hall.

They’d solved the case, one more bad guy off the street though he wasn’t quite sure he was happy with how it all played out. He’d never seen Lassiter look so scared. He wondered what was going to happen to the bird.

The night air felt cool against his bare skin. He’d switched his blood-stained t-shirt for a spare he’d left in Gus’s car, though there were still spots of blood on his jeans. He picked at them as Gus drove him home. Did they make detergent to get out blood? Maybe Lassy knew.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to crash with you tonight?” Gus asked as he stopped in front of Shawn’s apartment. “I mean, to help with the bandages and all that.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Gus didn’t look entirely convinced. It was somewhat uncharacteristic of Shawn to play down an injury, but he also wasn’t planning on staying home, at least not for very long. He left Gus with multiple assurances that he would call if he needed anything.

His apartment was dark. Shawn didn’t bother locking the door behind him, or turning on a light. He walked straight into his bedroom, pulling off clothing as he moved. A bit of light came in through the window, enough for him to aim his clothing in the vague direction of a corner before rummaging through his drawers for something clean. He debated a shower but that would require unwrapping and then rewrapping the bandages around his arm, and he really didn’t trust himself with that right now.

The bathroom light shined far too bright, reminding him of the hospital. He stared down at the sink while he brushed his teeth. Water swirled around the sink. It reminded him of….

“Not tonight,” Shawn murmured.

The water shut off. He wiped his mouth on the hand towel and flicked off the light, dropping him back into darkness. Shadows danced along the walls but he ignored them. He was alone, regardless of what he saw. One murder solved was enough for the day.

He called a cab on his way out the door.

*****

For what was probably the first time in his life, Shawn knocked on someone’s door uncertain of what kind of reception he was going to get. It was late, but there was a faint bit of light on the other side of the curtains covering the window. He waited, counted to ten, then knocked again. Maybe Lassiter knew it was him. Not hard to figure out. Who else would be knocking on the detective’s door close to four in the morning?

He wouldn’t blame Lassiter for being mad at him. Shawn knew he’d messed up. Yeah, he’d found the killer, but they had no solid evidence. There was the bird. Photos flashed briefly through his mind and he knew exactly where they could find pictures to match the bird in the suspect’s apartment to Magellan. All that proved was that he’d stolen the bird. Knife wounds would match between Katherine’s chest and Shawn’s arm, and they could prove that the two were former lovers. It was all circumstantial. Or at least, that’s what a lawyer would say if they’d actually had a chance to take it to court. There would be no trial for this case. All the police had to prove they’d gotten the right guy was Shawn’s word.

It shouldn’t bother him so much that the police placed so much trust in his word, but it did, just a little.

The door opened, minutes after he’d last stopped knocking.

“Spencer.” Lassiter almost sounded surprised.

“Hey.” His hands were in his pockets. He smiled. It felt false.

Lassiter’s gaze ran down Shawn’s body. From anyone else, Shawn would have thought he was checking Shawn out. In a sense, Lassiter was – checking him for injuries.

“Can I come in?”

Lassiter stepped back, holding the door open for Shawn. He hadn’t actually expected Lassiter to let him in. He hadn’t really expected anything when he’d come here except maybe leaving disappointed.

“Thanks.”

The door was locked behind him while Shawn kicked off his shoes, toeing them against the wall with a semblance of neatness.

He’d never been inside Lassiter’s home before, though he’d often thought about what kind of house Lassiter lived in. He was a single man that lived in an entire house by himself, which meant it was either one hell of a bachelor pad or something inanely normal. Turned out it was the latter, though sparser than Shawn had pictured. The hallway was dark and uncluttered, just a rug running along the floor, a closed door to his left and two doorways across from each other down the hall a few feet in front of him. One was dark, the other lit.

He headed towards the light. Lassiter’s living room was slightly better. Another rug, a plain couch that looked like it had seen better days – possibly something handed down from a grandmother. Matching lamps stood on tables at either end of the couch. Two armchairs finished a semi-circle in front of the rather large TV, one more worn than the other. Neither matched anything else in the room.

There were pictures on the wall but he ignored them for now. He wasn’t in the mood for any more detective work. Shawn sat in the further of the two armchairs, the less used one. His arm froze an inch above the armrest and he shifted his arm so as not to put pressure on his wound.

“Why are you here?” The words were familiar, but they lacked Lassiter’s usual biting tone.

Shawn’s smile widened. Maybe he had something to hope for after all.

He shrugged in answer. There was a reason why he’d come to see Lassiter, reasons actually, but Shawn wasn’t quite ready to put them into words. This was like his visions. He just leaped and trusted that he’d land on his feet.

Lassiter didn’t sit down, but his eyes never left Shawn. Judging by the way he was fidgeting, Lassiter was suppressing the urge to pace. He had questions, questions about all of it, and they were just pooling inside of Lassiter’s mind, filling it up until the detective had to feel like he was going to burst.

“Ask me.” That wasn’t what he’d been planning to say, but he went with it.

The detective just stared at him.

“Ask me,” Shawn repeated, his tone as serious as he could make it.

Lassiter hesitated for a second, his expression uncertain. “How did you-”

He knew what Lassiter was trying to say. “Know where to find Katherine’s killer? You probably won’t believe me, but it was a hunch. I saw this line of red, and the manager mentioned the new guy with the bird and… it just all clicked. Like, poof, there was the answer.”

“Line of red?”

Shawn just shrugged. “That’s what I saw.”

Lassiter moved around to sit on the arm of the other chair. His body language said he was unwilling to believe but there was a subconscious relaxation there that said he might actually have Lassiter convinced.

“Just like you saw the vic get murdered and you saw her bird the minute you first walked into that briefing room?”

He hesitated. There were two ways he could play this and he knew exactly how each would work out.

“I saw her, but I didn’t see the bird until later.”

Lassiter’s jaw quite possibly dropped a few centimeters. He shifted forward on the chair arm. “You mean, you admit that you lied?”

“Yeah.”

The mix of emotions on Lassiter’s face intrigued him. There was relief mixed with smug satisfaction, topped with what might possibly be described as a close cousin to joy. “So, all along…”

“I lied.” Admitting it didn’t feel as terrifying as he’d thought it would.

Lassiter stood slowly. “And now? What about this case?”

Shawn rose to his feet slowly. “That was different.” It took him six steps to cross to stand in front of Lassiter. “That was real. It’s something of a ‘be careful what you wish for’ experience, except that I didn’t wish for it and there was crime fighting involved.”

“I should arrest you, you know. Obstruction of justice.” Except Lassiter wasn’t reaching for his gun or his handcuffs. Instead, he stared down at Shawn, his face a mask of calm.

“You won’t, though I’d be more than happy to play with your handcuffs later. I solved cases for you. I still solve cases for you, I just have more of an unfair advantage now than I did before.”

Lassiter quirked an eyebrow. “How did you do it before? How’d you know I was dating my partner when you’d just met us, or that Buzz was learning to dance?”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice as he did so. They were close now, almost touching, and he ached to bridge that gap. His instinct said wait. Just a little bit longer.

“Observation. I saw you touch her hair in the reflection on the one-way window and Buzz was practicing in the copy room while I was waiting in the hall.” Lassiter opened his mouth to speak but Shawn kept going. “You’ve met my dad. He’s a freak. I mean, I like him, now, but he’s always been a real freak about the whole observation thing. He was training me to be a cop since I was seven. Seven! And, it’s like, now I just can’t shut it off. I just see things and they click, only now I see things in the mystical sense and they click too so it’s…” He was talking too much. He needed to stop. “It’s this big… clicky… thing.”

“I’m just going to ignore that last part.”

“Probably a good idea.”

“So you’re psychic.” In a different situation, he would have been more excited about finally getting Lassiter to admit it. “Now what?”

It was as good a time as any.

Shawn stretched slightly, balancing on his toes as he bridged the short distance between their mouths. He closed his eyes and waited, expecting to be rejected. He wasn’t. After a long, awkward moment, one of Lassiter’s arms went around his waist to steady Shawn, lightly pushing him back down onto flat feet. Lassiter – Carlton, moved with him, his lips firm on Shawn’s as he took control of the kiss.

Lips parted. Tongue met tongue and they danced, circling each other inside Shawn’s mouth. It was nicer than he could have imagined and incredibly hot. Judging by the way Lassy was holding him, he thought so too.

Air shortly became a necessity. They broke apart slowly, only moving far enough apart to gasp a few lungfuls of air.

Shawn ran his fingers down the collar of Lassiter’s shirt. “You wanna?”

“Yeah.”

Lassiter’s arm stayed around Shawn’s waist as he lead Shawn upstairs. The bed was made, sheets tight, military style. Shawn was looking forward to messing them up. He smiled as he fell back on the bed, flat on his back, legs spread. Lassiter’s attention stayed on him but he didn’t move.

“Like what you see?”

“Yeah,” Lassiter repeated, before finally joining Shawn on the bed.

The mattress dipped, sliding Shawn slightly towards Lassiter, his legs around the detective’s own. They both reached forward at the same time, fingers sliding under shirts and unfastening pants. Lassiter’s mouth distracted him from the details, at least until Lassiter started sliding Shawn’s t-shirt up to his elbows.

“Watch your arm.” The words were whispered against Shawn’s mouth as Lassiter pulled away. Gentle hands pulled Shawn’s t-shirt off, keeping the fabric from jostling against his injury.

Lassiter’s gaze stayed on the bandages. His fingertips skimmed along the edge of the wrappings, far away from the actual wound. It made Shawn’s nerves tingle in a pleasant way.

This wasn’t what he wanted Carlton to focus on.

He moved his arm away, reaching between them to push Lassiter’s pants down, taking Lassiter’s boxers with him. Shawn wasn’t disappointed with what he saw. If it was less late, if he’d been less tired, he would have considered sliding off the bed, dropping to his knees and taking Lassiter’s thick erection into his mouth. Maybe later. Maybe tomorrow. Right now, he wanted something different. Shawn reached for Lassiter’s shirt as Lassy reached for his pants.

The blankets were soft under his skin. Shawn slid up the bed and Lassiter followed, fumbling with something in the bedside table.

Slick fingers slid inside of him. Shawn didn’t wait long before pushing them away. He rolled, somewhat surprised that Lassiter let him. There would be time for dominant/submissive play later on. He could imagine Lassiter holding him down, pinning Shawn to the bed while buried deep inside of him. He could imagine rope and handcuffs. When his arm was healed, he might have to talk Lassiter into it. Then again, maybe Lassiter didn’t need to be talked into it.

Shawn sat up. He took Lassiter’s erection into his hand, lifting his hips and positioning Lassiter at his entrance before sliding down. It felt good. He moved his hips, lifting himself up slowly before sliding back down onto Lassiter’s cock. It ended too fast. His nerves had been all over the place today. He was strung tight. Lassiter’s hand circled Shawn’s erection and that was all he needed. He pitched forward as he came, catching himself on his forearms before he landed on Lassiter and wincing as pain shot along his arm.

They moved again and Shawn was on his back once more, his legs around Lassiter’s hips, Lassiter’s hands holding his hips up. Shawn pulled Lassiter’s mouth down onto his own, kissing the cop as hard as he could. Lassiter came minutes later, breath escaping in a surprised gasp. His head landed on the pillow next to Shawn but he didn’t move further than that.

“Hey.” Shawn’s voice broke the quiet of the room. “Does this mean I can work on more cases?”

He felt Lassiter’s chuckle against his chest. “I might be able to put in a good word.”

Shawn didn’t need a vision to tell him that this was quite possibly the beginning of a great partnership.

Nakahara Atsushi doesn’t look away from the computer as the apartment door opens and shuts. His fingers beat out a steady staccato beat on the keyboard, punctuated by the sharp click of the enter key and the thump-thumb of shoes being dropped on the floor. Computer code slowly fills the screen in front of him but his mind has already wandered away from for loops and if statements. Memory fills in the gaps where his hearing fails, and between the two he catches the soft wisp of fabric on wood as Kojima’s coat slides onto the hanger, the jingle of keys as they’re dropped into the tray set on the little table by the door for just that purpose – because otherwise Yuki would be racing around every morning trying to remember where he put them – and the quiet patter of socked feet against hardwood floors.

His fingers move even as his eyes close, and he smiles. He pictures Yuki setting his briefcase next to the couch before heading into the bedroom. Once inside, he’ll unbuckle his belt, sliding the leather off and hanging it on a hook on the back of their closet door, mixed in with Atsushi’s own belt and a few of their ties. That’s the next garment to go. Silk slides against cotton, slithering around Yuki’s neck before falling into the hamper on top of a pair of Atsushi’s jeans and some of Yuki’s t-shirts. The dress shirt is next. Some days Yuki will change into a t-shirt, others he just leaves his undershirt on and doesn’t bother with anything further.

The file came to an end and Atsushi opens his eyes to scan over the code. He sees no obvious errors so he saves the file and runs it through the compiler. Status messages fly over the screen as the door opens. He turns.

Yuki pauses in the doorway, a smile already in place on his face. His pants hang loose around his hips, his shirt tight against his skin. It was perhaps one of the sexiest things he had ever seen. Admittedly, when it came to Yuki, he was biased.

The computer beeped at him but he ignored it.

“I’m home.” Yuki’s voice is soft. He’s lost some of the bubbly vibrancy of his youth but Atsushi knows it’s not far gone. He can still see it hiding in the mischievous twinkle in Yuki’s eyes.

“Welcome back,” Atsushi returns, completing their evening ritual.

Yuki steps away from the door frame, bare feet soundless on the carpet. Atsushi waits.

They’ve both changed from the children they once were, though that was only to be expected. There are the obvious changes – they’ve both mellowed, Atsushi smiles more, and Yuki has calmed down considerably from the excitable child Atsushi first fell in love with. Other changes are more subtle, like the way Atsushi no longer longs for the sea or how Yuki has finally put away the mechanical pencil he’d used as a lucky charm during their exams. He takes the changes as they come, and while Yuki’s different, Atsushi can’t help but love him more.

“Are you busy?” Yuki asks as he sidles close. Atsushi’s chair spins easily under his hands until Atsushi’s facing Yuki instead of the computer.

He smiles wider and lifts his hands to Yuki’s sides, his fingers toying with the hem of Yuki’s shirt. “Not anymore.”

Yuki takes another step forward, moving as sinuously as a cat as he places his hands on the back of Atsushi’s chair and lifts himself onto Atsushi’s lap, his legs dangling over the arm of the chair.

Gone is the hesitancy of their first touches and the blushing shyness of their youth. Some days he missed the way Kojima would turn red at the mere thought of sex but that never lasted long. There was, after all, something incredible about knowing exactly how to turn Yuki on with just a touch, or even a look, and none of the blushing or stammering was nearly as sexy as the way Yuki would move his hips forward just so, intimating exactly what he wanted without the need for a single word.

Atsushi slipped his hands under Yuki’s shirt, pushing the fabric up as Yuki’s mouth latched onto one of Atsushi’s ears. A wet tongue trailed along the rim of his ear and then pulled away as Yuki’s mouth closed over a lobe, worrying it gently between his teeth. Yuki’s hips moved, rocking slowly in a suggestive motion, pressing down just over the bulge in Atsushi’s jeans.

“Atsushi…” Yuki moaned softly. The sound alone was enough to hasten Atsushi’s hands. He flung Yuki’s shirt and reached down to cup the matching bulge in Yuki’s pants, squeezing tightly for a brief moment. Yuki arched into his hand with a gasp, the sound muffled slightly as he pressed his face into Atsushi’s hair.

He slid his hands around, cupping the round globes of Yuki’s ass before continuing up to the waistband of his pants. His hands reversed directions, sliding between fabric and bare skin and taking the fabric away with them. Yuki leaned forward, his chest pressing centimeters from Atsushi’s face as he reached for the desk drawer. It was hard to resist temptation when it was so close in front of him.

Atsushi’s teeth closed over a pink nipple, earning him another moan from his lover as he alternately sucked and bit at the skin. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Yuki pull a packet from the desk drawer. He ripped the corner off with his teeth, squeezing gel onto his fingers before reaching back. Atsushi let one of his hands follow Yuki’s and he pressed inside along with his lover, his finger brushing against Yuki’s own lubricated digits. Yuki’s entire body shook with anticipation and it didn’t take long until he pulled his fingers out.

Two hands pulled open Atsushi’s pants. He lifted his hips, shifting forward just enough to let Yuki slide their pants far enough out of the way to get his erection lined up with Yuki’s entrance. Yuki pushed himself down onto Atsushi without hesitation, his breath catching as Atsushi filled him. They worked together, Atsushi’s hands gripping Yuki’s hips, Yuki’s legs rocking against the arms of the chair. It was slow. Pleasure built inside of Atsushi, pooling in his stomach and tingling along his nerves, gathering like clouds before a storm. Yuki’s knuckles where white against the back of the chair, a sharp contrast to the red of his face and the faint flush of his skin.

Release caught him by surprise and he jerked, hips slamming up inside of Yuki to knock him forward into Atsushi. Wet liquid dripped down onto his legs but he didn’t stop. Yuki was still hard, his eyes half-lidded as he panted, waiting for release. He could already feel his erection waning but he kept pulling Yuki down onto him.

He knew that Yuki was close, he could tell by the pleading little moans that fell from Yuki’s lips between each shaky breath, and the way his thighs were tense around him. Atsushi leaned forward slowly, timing his movements with another sudden jerk of his hips. He bit down firmly at the junction of neck and shoulder at the same time as his hips slammed hard into Yuki, and it was enough. Yuki’s shout filled the apartment.

Yuki’s arms went around him and Atsushi returned the embrace. Neither of them moved, content for now to stay intertwined, breathing softly of the other’s scent.

No matter what changes the years brought, Atsushi knew one thing would always be the same.

He was loved.