Burning

Burning

Disclaimer: Wolf Films and MCA/Universal own them, but all original characters are my creation.
Pairing: McCoy/Green
Rating: NC17
Summary: Set in and around the episode Burn Baby Burn, Season 11 (2000). First-time story.
Author's Note: This started because of two canonical moments, which I interpreted in a Jack/Ed way, and are included herein. It is also another type of fanfiction besides "first-time," which will become apparent. I've often been frustrated by stories of this type that don't carry the concept to its fullest potential. This is my attempt at something more in-depth. Written alongside a companion piece, Radiant Heat, by jessebee. They overlap during one evening, and each has ramifications for the other. We hope you read them both.
Author's Note II: Goodness, jesse, I just can't thank you enough. For the offer, the steadfast support, feedback, beta help, and the continual discussion of all the characterizations. I bow in humble gratitude.
Copyright November, 2004, Cassatt

Jack McCoy was walking down the stairs in One Hogan Place, the elevators being temporarily out of order. Something that rarely happened. He had briefly considered staying on the tenth floor, so he would not have to walk back up six flights once he'd gotten what he'd needed, but the file under his arm was of paramount importance. The ADAs working with OCCB had to be consulted. There was no putting it off, stairs or no stairs.

"Counselor!"

The voice was at least a flight above him. The tenth floor, likely. He easily recognized the smooth tone, so he stopped, and waited for the man to catch up. His stomach displayed a small sign of interest by quivering, up and down, just enough to be noticeable. Still, he waited, and attempted to ignore it.

"Detective," he said to Ed Green, when the other man reached the landing he occupied.

"Sorry to make you wait." Green smiled, a dimple appeared, and Jack's pulse responded. He wondered if the racing of it would be noticeable. "I've got those reports you asked for." Jack was handed a file folder, slightly bent from a tight grip, but Green retained his hold on it for a moment too long before finally letting go.

Jack dropped his eyes, out of sheer self-preservation, from the dark brown ones boring into him. "Thank you," he said.

Green took a step closer, landing on the edge of Jack's personal space. Jack backed up, and sensed the wall behind him. "Do you need me to go over them with you?" Green asked. "Review what happened and why?"

"No, thank you, that won't be necessary," Jack answered.

"I don't mind. Honestly." Green smiled again, and took yet another step forward. He was now in Jack's personal space.

"No, I can review them as needed," Jack said. If he backed up one more step, he'd hit the wall, and then be truly pinned. His heart had started a quiet dance in the cavern of his chest--only a stutter step, which wasn't in tune with anything. The implications of the other man's actions would not be contemplated. Jack couldn't contemplate them or he might do something extraordinarily stupid. He tried to smile but couldn't force his mouth to move properly.

"Well," Green replied, leaning fractionally closer, "you just give me a call if you need me for anything." His voice had dropped and his eyes had locked firmly with Jack's.

This can't be happening, Jack thought. Contemplation or no contemplation, Ed Green was so far inside Jack's personal space that he could smell him. Something musky, something else sweet, and a hint of curry. An enticing scent. An almost heady scent. And still Ed moved closer and closer and there really was no way to misinterpret what the man was doing, bringing his face in so close that Jack almost lost the ability to focus on the dark brown eyes and warm skin. He opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out. He lifted his hands to make some attempt to push Ed away, but they were too heavy to move. The files were in the way. An hour from now, if he needed to make some excuse for his lack of actions, that could be it. The file under his arm. The one in his other hand. That would be believable.

He brought his attention back to the situation, and just in time, too, because Ed's mouth was a millimeter away from his own, and in that split second he had a choice. Turn his head, or let it happen. His heart was thudding now. His skin was hot now. His ache was greater now.

He didn't move. Ed's mouth did, closing the gap between them. Soft, soft lips were working his, caressing his, and it struck him then that this was really happening. Ed was kissing him, with purpose, and skill, and Jack's mouth was responding in kind. He felt a moan rising from the depths of his gut, and the heat of desire race through his body. He dropped first one file, and then the other, and slipped his arms around Ed's waist as the moan broke free, shooting down Ed's throat. Ed grabbed him by the shoulders, and shoved his tongue past Jack's lips, and at the taste of it, the feel of it invading his mouth, the current between them burst through the floodgates.

Jack's back hit the wall; Ed pressed himself full length against him; their hips started to thrust together, and it all felt so... damned... good. So damned good, better than he'd imagined, better than his years of experience could have ever told him. So damned, fucking, good. He wanted more--more contact, more tongue, more taste, more skin. Just more...... and more......

He woke with a start. Sweating. Hard. Aching. With the feel of Ed's mouth locked tightly with his. He looked at the clock. Four a.m. He groaned aloud. Hours from now Ed would be sitting across the desk from him, reviewing his upcoming testimony. Hours from now Jack would need to be professionally polite. With the stairwell mere yards away. With dream memories floating in the back of his mind.

All in all, Jack thought, the meeting was progressing exactly as every one of them had progressed up until this day. He sat at his desk. Ed sat, facing the leather couch, in a chair at the head of the T-table, a few feet away. Jack took him through each task the NYPD had accomplished in their quest to find the murderer of Detective Jake Kearsey. Took him through precisely how they had come to arrest former Black Panther Lateef Miller. The tension around Ed's eyes was becoming more pronounced the closer they got to the actual arrest, but Jack was doing what he could to ignore it. To keep this on the strictly professional level. He thought that it was going very well. Facts were brought forth, described, reviewed, set aside. Step by step. Easy, and clean. Even if his lips held some sort of a remnant of imaginary contact. Some whisper of a sensation which had never happened.

"I plan," Jack said, forcing himself to look directly at Ed, "to ask you to describe the situation when you entered the mosque without your gun, or backup."

Ed sighed harshly and looked at the papers in front of him. He bent one corner down, unbent it, then repeated the actions. He didn't respond. Jack was about to say something when Ed turned in his chair to face him. Ed draped an arm over the back of it, and crossed his legs, but kept his other hand near the paper's creased corner. "It was necessary to go in alone," Ed finally said.

"Because Miller wouldn't have come out if you hadn't escorted him."

"I didn't want ESU sweeping in and causing a riot." Ed's tone was sharp.

Jack yearned to know what about this case was bothering Ed so deeply--he was certain it was more than the killing of a cop, as difficult as that was. As heinous. As emotionally charged. But he had to stay behind the line. He had to. He pretended to write something on his legal pad, glancing down at it briefly. "So you were doing what was necessary to show respect for the mosque and the other people in it, and apprehend the suspect at the same time."

Ed's eyes narrowed and his mouth set in a firm line. "Yeah, for all the good it did me." He quickly looked to his right, down at the papers again. "Sorry. Yes," he said, meeting Jack's eyes, "I was showing respect for their house. I thought if I went in without my gun, I could convince Miller to surrender without incident."

"And you were right," Jack said, aiming to placate. "He surrendered."

Ed let out a small noise, halfway between a snort and a chuckle. "Yeah," he eventually answered, "he surrendered to me. He was also convinced that we would shoot him as soon as he stepped out the door." He shrugged. "I told him they'd have to shoot me first."

"I see," Jack said, his heart hammering a few extra beats against his ribs. A picture of Ed, shot and bleeding out on the street, came to him, unbidden. He nearly shook his head to clear the image, as uncalled for as it was. He knew he had no right to imagine that, or feel anything from the imagining. He opened the case file and mimicked reading it. "That's not in here, is it? The fact that you offered yourself as a sacrificial lamb in order to apprehend Miller?"

"Hey, I ain't no saint," Ed said. "And no, it's not in there." Ed loosened his tie, and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, then rolled his neck.

Honestly, it was so unfair, this treacherous line Jack was trying to walk. The tie away from Ed's throat; the shirt gaping open; the skin revealed--sights before him creating more uncalled for images to dance behind his eyes. Images of touching. His fingers on the side of Ed's neck, the skin of his chest. Close-ups of the hollow of Ed's throat, the hint of collarbone. Jack flipped through pages in the case file. These flights of fancy were completely ridiculous. Distractions which Jack could not afford. Briefly, he considered that all of this was merely his way of grasping at something he could never have, something fleeting, and always out of reach. Perhaps something he was using to distance himself from this god-awful case. A simple stress reaction. Human frailty at its finest. Drinking would probably be more productive.

"Look," Ed said, into what was fast becoming a lengthy silence. Jack looked up, schooling his face. "It wasn't any big deal. I knew nobody was gonna shoot him." Ed tilted his head. "But, yeah, if pressed by the defense, I'd have to say that I ... appreciated Miller's standing in the community."

There it was again, that look in Ed's eyes. "You mean you treated him with some deference."

"Deference." Ed nodded. "A good way to put it." He glanced at his watch. "Any idea how much longer?"

Jack did the same; it was almost five-thirty. "Do you have somewhere you need to be?" He had no idea why he had asked that. Ed's evening was absolutely none of his business, and furthermore, he didn't want to know the answer.

Ed flashed him a small grin. "Just hungry. Lennie and I had lunch on the run about five hours ago, and it wasn't that great or meant to last a long time." He hesitated, and flashed Jack another grin--this one wider, and warmer. "It was crap."

Jack smiled.

"If we've got more to do," Ed said, "we could order in? Or go grab something?" He hesitated again. "Unless you've got plans...."

"No, no," Jack replied, "it'll be a late night." He told Ed there was more testimony for them to review, while he thought about meal options, and made a quick decision. In an effort to prove to himself how completely professional he could be--how clearly he understood the reality of the situation--he suggested they leave the building to eat. There was no need to stay in his office to retain boundaries. He wouldn't even invite Abbie. Ed seemed pleased with the suggestion, and offered one of his own--a restaurant a few blocks from One Hogan.

Ed said that he'd go on ahead and secure them a table, while Jack checked in with Abbie, compiling their exhibits for the first day of trial, tomorrow. Jack resolutely ignored Ed buttoning his shirt and fixing his tie. Slipping on his jacket, and coat. The inches of dark skin were, once again, covered. The man left his office, and walked down the corridor to the elevators. Toward the stairwell. Jack resolutely ignored the memories that thought triggered. Memories of forceful, deep, wet, heated kisses. Dream memories. Nothing to hold onto.

Ed was glad of the chance to walk, full out, with nothing but his own thoughts for company. He was anxious for the trial to start, for his testimony to be completed. The tension around the force was as palpable as it had been during the first days after Kearsey's shooting. Kearsey's murder. Everyone knew it was not really an in-the-line-of-duty shooting, even if the detective had been working at the time. Arriving at the wrong apartment to bring in a witness and being shot for his trouble, for no good reason, was murder, plain and simple. But even more than anxiety about the start of this trial, for Ed there were too many feelings being brought up during the review of the case. Too many.

The light at the first corner turned red, and Ed was forced to stop. He shoved his hands into his pockets. It wasn't only the shit he'd got from his own community, during the investigation, but the fact that he still hadn't told Lennie about any of it. Not that Lennie had been particularly interested in the intensity of what Ed had experienced, at the time. No, Lennie had ignored the turmoil, had never asked about it, had all but rolled his eyes and went right on working the case. There had been only one moment when Ed had felt that Lennie gave a damn. But it was due to the simple fact that Ed had chosen to go into the mosque without his gun or his partner. And then, it had been Ed who had ignored the other man's emotional reaction. Lennie's acute discomfort over being left behind was not something to which Ed had given a second thought.

Ed had tried to talk everything over with his brother, but that had been fifteen minutes of frustration, since his brother sided with their father in the first place--a life in the NYPD was no life for Ed. Friends were next, but sympathy and love wasn't what he'd needed then, and he was fairly certain it still wasn't what he needed. Even if he had, eventually, come to terms with his role as a cop and a black man, the trial was forcing him to look at it all again. The other facet of his identity, thankfully, had had nothing to do with the case. Three prongs of a dilemma's horn, and he would have been hitting the bottle in earnest. Or the poker tables.

The light turned green, the little man flickered 'walk,' and Ed crossed the street. His stomach growled in anticipation. A few yards more and he was entering the cafe. As he approached the hostess, it suddenly occurred to him that he and McCoy would be eating together, alone, for the first time. He smiled to himself, and ignored the why.

Jack hit the tenth floor call button, then slid both hands into his coat pockets and listened to the elevator, judging whether or not the car was close. It wasn't. He waited, keeping his eyes on the floor, the call panel, the elevator doors--anywhere but the nearby stairwell. Ridiculous, he knew, but he simply could not shake his dream. And that wasn't even normal, for him. Dream from the night before? What dream? Life was about the here and now, not imaginary possibilities. Yet, he'd known it would be like this as soon as he'd awoken. He sighed, and shook his head at his own folly.

Abbie was nearly finished with the exhibits, she'd said, and had expressed no reaction to the news that Jack was going to dinner alone. She had grinned, and picked up the phone to order ribs, waving him off with a laugh-laced comment intended to make him jealous that he'd be having none of them. That he had specified 'alone,' had not even occurred to him until he'd returned to his office for his coat. The coat he had forgotten to put on before he'd headed down to Abbie's office on nine.

He was still studying the floor tiles, waiting for the excruciatingly slow elevator to arrive, when a voice behind his right shoulder nearly made him start, and visibly so. He hadn't jumped, thank god. He turned.

"Hey, Jack, long time," William Mayes said.

Jack smiled. "William, what are you doing way up here?"

"Way up here meaning where the privileged work?" Mayes teased. "Just passing some information to Lewin that she needed. We've got the first Washington Heights Cowboys' trial starting next week." The elevator arrived; they stepped into the car. Mayes pushed the one. "It's a tough case. But strong."

"Good. The three of them deserve full punishment."

Mayes nodded. "I noticed that you had Detective Green in your office earlier. I understand he's working Homicide now?"

"Yes, he is," Jack answered, his stomach fluttering for a second or two.

"Well, better you than me," Mayes said with a shake of his head.

"What do you mean?"

"Let's just say that I got damned sick and tired of the attitude. Defensive? Hostile? Way too full of himself? You know, thinks we're all incompetent?"

Jack looked at him, momentarily confused. "Ed Green?"

"Yeah, the guy who was in your office this afternoon. Used to work Gang Intel. Don't get me wrong--he was good. Smart." The elevator landed on the first floor and they both exited, heading toward the front doors. "Just a pain."

"Huh," Jack replied. "I haven't noticed any attitude."

Mayes looked at him in surprise, then pushed open a door and walked outside with Jack on his heels. They paused on the sidewalk, facing each other. Mayes patted him on the shoulder. "Maybe the detective likes Homicide. Or maybe you've just got someone watching over you." He grinned. "Either way--good luck. Let's go for a drink one of these days?"

"Sure, give me a call." Jack zipped his jacket and watched the other man walk away. Then he turned and went in the opposite direction, toward the cafe, and thought about an attitude-filled Ed Green. He supposed he could see it. Maybe. He could see Ed having a chip on his shoulder if he was unhappy, and clearly, he'd wanted out of the Gang Unit. But Ed had always been so easy to work with. He had always treated Jack with the utmost respect, and comradery. He actually laughed at Jack's jokes. Which, in itself, was unusual, in Jack's experience. Ed smiled a lot in Jack's presence. And that was the entire problem, in a nutshell. At least, that was Jack's current problem. He sighed to himself and deliberately thought about something else. Food. What his stomach wanted, and only his stomach.

Ed rested against the back of the booth, and watched Jack answer another innocuous question with what appeared to be a vaguely uncomfortable demeanor. He couldn't put his finger on what was off, but McCoy was normally relaxed and easy going when food was the agenda. Quick to reply, if he had an opinion, and quick to come back with a question of his own, if he had one. Not that Ed knew him well enough to judge what was normal for Jack, he had decided in the prior five minutes. Still. Ed had always seen him as possessing a combination of laid back body language and rapid-fire intelligence. The man across the table from him was not laid back. And so far, all they had talked about was their respective weekends, just passed. Ed had skirted anything that even showed the hint of veering too close to the personal--he wasn't in the mood to make up something, much less change pronouns in the made-up tale.

Why Jack looked anywhere but in his eyes, when he talked about his Sunday evening, was the mystery of the moment. Ed imagined something more indecent than chaste occurring in Jack's apartment the night before, then found himself not particularly liking that thought. Whatever the other man had done, and with whom--Ed didn't want to know. Which wasn't exactly the kind of male-bonding attitude to carry. He should make a light, offhand remark, a little manly-man type of comment, nudge-nudge, and all that. Ed knew this; he had practiced it many times. For some reason, he couldn't make himself do it.

He studied the silverware in front of him, as the conversation slowed to a halt. He had an unaccountable urge to excuse himself, take a trip to the john, get up from the table for any reason he could think of. He was realizing something. He wanted Jack to be comfortable. With him.

Jack watched with a sinking stomach as Ed began to fiddle with his spoon. The telltale sign of either overwhelming boredom, or nervousness. Ed had nothing to be nervous about, but boredom was certainly a possibility given the stilted nature of the conversation so far. He sipped his water and asked himself the million dollar question. What the hell was wrong with him, that he couldn't even carry on a friendly conversation with this man? He knew what was wrong, but it was also becoming more and more clear that he was making it a bigger deal than was absolutely necessary. So what if he had had an erotic dream about Ed? So what if he could barely stand to look into his eyes, so close? Sense his knees within knocking distance of his own? His hands inches away should Jack rest his on the table? Was all of that worth the chance that this dinner would end up excruciating--for both of them?

He put down the water glass and cleared his throat. Ed looked up. "So," Jack asked, "I assume that things around the precinct are pretty tense right now? With the trial starting?"

"Oh, man, you have no idea," Ed answered, returning the spoon to its proper place. "It's hard to concentrate on our current cases. There were a lot of phone calls this morning, mostly from the three-six. You know."

"Go get 'em kind of calls?" Jack forced himself to relax, resting on his forearms.

"Yeah." Ed gave a small half-grin. "I let Lennie take over answering the phone."

Jack again wondered about the earlier tension in Ed's face. "Are you feeling the pressure? Being the one to testify?"

Ed shook his head. "No, no, not at all. It's just--"

Jack lifted his eyebrows, hoping to encourage him to continue.

Ed sighed. "God, I shouldn't be saying this." He reached for the spoon, but pulled his fingers back before touching it. "It's just--I heard some comments from a couple of Kearsey's buddies, about how I was picked because I'm black." Ed's lips tightened, but he held the eye contact.

"That's not why," Jack said with a bit of force. "You know that." He hesitated. "Don't you? You were the arresting officer. Your name is on the reports."

Ed shrugged and leaned forward, mimicking Jack, his arms on the table, bringing his face alarmingly close. "I know. But it's kind of hard to avoid--race is all over this one," Ed replied, his voice sharp by the time he had finished.

"It is. And yes, it's impossible to avoid." Jack stopped, and took a moment to study Ed's features. The lines around his eyes were back. They were subtle, but had definitely returned. He had a sudden urge to push, to pry a bit, to cross that boundary he had so carefully and precisely established. He knew he might regret this, and for a long time, but he couldn't seem to control himself. Or maybe, he had simply decided to lose a small bit of control. Just a bit. A tiny bit. Enough to take some of those lines away. "What is it, Ed?" he asked gently.

Ed's eyebrows shot up for a brief second, then fell back into place. He looked down at his hands, then quickly swept them into his lap and met Jack's eyes. "It's going through all of this again, in the prep. I--"

The waitress arrived with their dinner orders. Conversation again came to a halt, while plates of food were placed in front of them, while Ed asked her for a cup of coffee, while Jack tried to fill his lungs with air. While he questioned whether or not he was glad of a potential reprieve from learning more about Ed. He was still wondering as she walked away. As Ed reached for the pepper. As he smiled at Jack, and Jack's heart reacted with a single, resonant thud.

Ed set the pepper shaker next to the napkin holder, grateful for the chance to look anywhere but into Jack's eyes. The man had been just shy of staring at him, and though Ed wasn't unused to people looking at him twice, the sensation of being the object of scrutiny of this particular person was slightly unnerving. Ed had smiled at him, more out of habit than anything. Someone looks hard at you, someone you don't choose to ignore, and you beam those pearlies at them. That's what his grandmother had always said. "Don't ever forget to show your appreciation, Eddie. Good lookin' boy like you, you're gonna get the eye. Long as it feels safe, give 'em a bit o' those pearlies of yours. Show 'em pretty." She might have come to regret the use of 'pretty,' with Ed, at a later time, but that was a question Ed would never get answered. He had never had the courage to ask.

Not that he was making any sort of assumption that Jack was looking at him in that way. Not that way. Which, he considered over his first bites of dinner, was a line of thinking that couldn't be any further out in left field. The bleachers, maybe. Which led him to the conclusion that he was simply grasping at something to steer his mind away from their interrupted conversation. Why he was doing that was a no brainer. Jack had shocked the hell out of Ed when he had asked what was bothering him. In that tone of voice, that kind tone of voice, using his first name, like Jack really cared. And maybe he did. And maybe that, on top of the scrutiny, was just a little too much. Gave him all kinds of left field notions which were best forgotten. None of which explained why he had chosen to respond with frankness.

"So," Jack said, interrupting his self-absorption, "you were about to answer my question." His tone of voice, this time, was a shade more matter-of-fact. He took another bite of his chicken sandwich.

Ed knew he had the perfect chance to say anything but the truth. He toyed with a few possibilities, but Jack interrupted his thoughts again.

"It's been hard for you to review this case?" Jack asked. "In what way?"

He looked at the man across the table, and sighed to himself. He knew why he had wanted to answer, why he still wanted to. Because Jack was the one asking, and to have his undivided attention was worth something. Ed had to take a deep breath before he could start, and did what he could to make that as unobtrusive as possible.

"If," he said, "I give you a short answer, an abbreviated version of what happened during this case, it might sound like I'm the kind of guy who likes to complain when things don't go quite right. Like I need them to go my way. But the long version--" He shrugged. "Is complicated."

Jack's eyebrows shot up, and he gave Ed this small smile, and Ed almost had to take another deep breath in response. Jack said, "We can start with the short one. See where that goes." His voice had dropped back to the warm one, the caring one.

Ed took a sip of his coffee, and plunged into a self-defined brief version of his experiences during the investigation. He described his confrontation with Detectives Canizaro and Hart, but particularly Canizaro, and the man's racist goading. How clear it was to him that Canizaro wanted to fight; how many times in Ed's career that had been the case. He stayed away from any mention of Lennie.

"Looking back," Ed said, "I shouldn't have let Canizaro get to me like that. I mean, the guy had no business pushing that old man around, and he sure as hell had no business making racist remarks in the bar. But--" He hesitated, and saw no censure in Jack's eyes. "But, I know better, really."

"Doesn't mean it's easy to let that kind of thing roll off your back, at the time it's happening."

"No, it doesn't." Ed sighed.

"That's not all there is to the short version, is it?" Jack asked with a slight tilt of his head.

"No." Ed continued, after another sip of coffee, describing how the investigation was one encounter after another with his own people looking at him like he was something they would just as soon push down the stairs as talk to. It was hard for him to give details, which surprised him, and even as he talked about Lateef Miller's children painting him as the enemy, the words to describe what he was feeling at the time stuck in his throat. "So, see?" he said, deliberately deflecting. "A complainer. Like I didn't know anything about how the black community viewed cops. Like it was such a shock...."

Jack leaned forward. "I assume you ran up against this in the Gang Unit."

Ed's stomach clenched, and he picked up the spoon again, barely stopping himself from tapping it against the tabletop. "The Gang Unit was two and a half years of hell, and yeah, attitude was a big part of it. From everybody, but mostly from stupid punks who didn't care they were heading straight for a grave. Their parents? They were grateful that somebody was pulling their kid off the street. That somebody was doing something."

"This case was different, though," Jack said in a quiet voice. "This was people not seeing you as anything but a cop. Seeing you as an outsider."

The clench of his stomach increased an impossibly higher notch. He looked Jack in the eye for as long as he dared--looked for longer than he should have, most likely. The man had pinpointed the precise, salient issue. Ed nodded slowly. "Yeah. An outsider."

"That can be tough. And I don't think it qualifies you as a complainer." Jack shook his head. "That's not a fair judgment."

"Well...." Ed wasn't sure how to reply.

"Sounds like parental crap," Jack said with vehemence.

Ed chuckled; he couldn't help himself. "I guess it is a kind of parental crap, as you put it so succinctly." He smiled, but the smile faded quickly. "Not just parents, though."

"Other family members?"

Ed shrugged. "Some. Other cops, too. Even though I'm not supposed to tell you that. Hell, I wasn't supposed to tell you that Canizaro wanted to slug it out with me, for that matter."

Jack held up his hand. "Trust me--I'm very familiar with the blue wall. I've knocked my head against it many times."

"I've heard."

After a beat, Jack chuckled, this time. Full out, complete with crinkled eyes and a sudden flush in his cheeks. Ed's insides did a flutter at the sight, and he smiled.

"I bet you have," Jack finally said. His countenance gradually settled to neutral. "But back to feeling like an outsider? Has that gotten any better since the arrest? Well, before the trial prep, anyway?"

Ed took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Yeah, it has. Though I had an altercation with a guy at my bodega a few weeks ago. He recognized me from the walk-in with Miller, and started giving me attitude, which gave other people there a reason to let me know just how much I betrayed the community." He took another breath. "It wasn't pleasant. I just paid for my six pack and left. And we both know that those are the same people who will expect us to fix it if one of their kids gets killed, even if they don't believe that we'll do a damned thing." He shook his head. "But, overall, things felt better, before the prep started." He paused, as a thought struck him. "I'll be fine tomorrow. I want to testify--"

"I know you will," Jack said, interrupting him. "You're very good on the stand."

Jack's cheeks flushed again, and Ed had no idea why. It threw him, for long enough that Jack continued, his hands slipping under the table; his body leaning toward Ed.

Jack said in a low voice, "I know what it's like to feel that way. Like an outsider. Look at me. Son of an Irish cop, surrounded by other Irish cops as a kid. What do you think I was supposed be when I grew up?"

"Not a lawyer," Ed answered with a smile. "It's funny, but my folks would have loved it if I'd gone to law school. Almost any profession but a cop, as long as it was white collar." He hesitated, then added, "I guess you do understand what it's like."

Jack nodded. "And I don't know about you, but I'm glad I went to law school."

"Well, I'm glad I became a cop, so it looks like we both got what we wanted." Ed's stomach fluttered again as Jack's eyes locked with his. The moment stretched for a second too long.

Jack said, "It's good to have a job you enjoy, when it takes up so much of your life."

Ed nodded slowly. "Yeah, it is." He wanted to say more, about how lonely his life felt sometimes, about how hard it was to meet anyone except on the job, and how impossible that would ever be, for him. Jack was looking at him, again, in that same way, and Ed sensed a well of unspoken thoughts sitting between them. Even if he could figure out what they might be, he wasn't sure he could ever uncover them.

Jack smiled and asked if he wanted some dessert, before they returned to the prep, and Ed said he did. Whether or not something sweet appealed, sitting with Jack, and talking to him, was exactly what he wanted, and he would take any excuse to stay right there. In the booth. Across from Jack McCoy, and his amazingly expressive dark hazel eyes.

Jack thought about his earlier conversation with William Mayes, as he and Ed ate pieces of pie and sipped coffee, chatting much more easily now, about a few of the other cases on Ed's desk, about items in the news, both national and local. It couldn't be any more apparent that the Ed Green whom William had known was nowhere to be found. And if Jack's eyes drifted down to Ed's mouth more often than they should, or locked with those deep brown irises more often than was absolutely necessary, Jack was coming to the conclusion that he didn't care. He was enjoying himself. Drifting along in the talk, the opinions, the banter. If there would be any regrets, they might come later--a great deal later. For now, Jack relaxed, and appreciated the smiles being given to him. Gave back as many as he could.

Abbie walked into Jack's office just as Ed was putting on his overcoat for the last time. The prep was finished; it was eight-thirty, and Jack was tired and ready to go home, too.

"Hey, Ed," Abbie said, walking past him with a stack of file folders in her arm.

Ed nodded to her and grinned briefly. Jack's stomach lurched, and he couldn't seem to take his eyes off the other man, no matter how he tried to look down at his desk and his desk alone. He watched, as Ed made small talk with Abbie, as they showed him how comfortable they were with each other; how easy their working relationship was--how much closer than his and Ed's. How Ed and Abbie obviously liked each other. How utterly obvious it was. There was something in Ed's behavior that was achingly familiar. A man interested in a woman.

Then Ed was looking directly at him, and their eyes were locking together, and again Jack was unable to look away no matter how much he wanted to. A smile broke slowly across Ed's face, and again Jack's stomach reacted, with a short lurch that transmuted into butterflies.

"Thanks," Ed said, "for dinner." His voice was warm, and gentle, and laced with something indefinable.

Jack smiled in spite of the turmoil inside of him. He nodded, and said, "You're welcome." He nearly added some advice about getting a good night's sleep so Ed would be ready to testify. He bit it back, and Ed's eyes finally dropped.

With a last good-bye to both of them, Ed left, closing the door behind him. Jack's glance finally landed on paperwork on his desk, and he made a sincere attempt to take a deep breath, as surreptitiously as possible.

"So," Abbie said, from one of the chairs at the T-table.

He looked up. She was sitting sideways on the seat, facing him, one arm draped over the back of the chair, mimicking Ed's pose from hours before. "So...," he replied.

"You and Ed went out to dinner."

"We needed to eat."

She grinned. "Yes, Jack, I'm sure you did. Which doesn't explain why you told me you were eating by yourself." She shrugged, picked up her pencil and began to tap the eraser end against the table, absently. "Not that you owe me any sort of explanation...."

"And not that there's any explanation to give," he said, his tone sharp, his heart starting to hammer.

Now it was his second chair who was making intense eye contact with him, except that this time, he didn't get drawn into it. He got up, retrieved his briefcase from the coat rack, and brought it back to his desk. He heard Abbie's pencil stop its tapping. He started to sort through the files, shoving into his case the ones he would need to review before sleep.

"Ed's a nice guy," Abbie said.

He didn't look up, but kept moving forward in his task. He wanted a drink. He wanted to be home. He wanted to get his head back around his opening statement, already memorized. He didn't want to think about what exactly Abbie was implying with her comments, or her looks. If she was jealous because of some perceived threat on his part, there was no way he was going to address it. His absurd fantasies about strictly heterosexual Ed Green would stay private. His even more absurd fantasies about filling the loneliness in his life, with the man whose company he had enjoyed, would remain a closely held secret. Period. End of sentence. He shoved in the last file and zipped the case closed.

Jack was dozing off and on, reclining on the leather couch in his office. Sounds from the corridor--people talking, phones ringing, footsteps on the stone floors--were muted behind the closed door. Occasional, as Jack's hearing faded in and out along with his level of consciousness. He was deliberately not thinking about the present case, or the interview opposing counsel had just given to the television cameras. He was thinking about taking his bike up to the mountains when the case was over; how relaxed he was; how the smooth leather felt cool beneath his shirt.

The sensation of someone touching his chest forced his eyes open, in confusion. Ed was kneeling on the floor next to the couch, and stroking Jack's tie between his forefinger and thumb, down to his belly, then back to the top to do it again. He was gazing at Jack with a small smile playing on his lips.

"You need to wake up," Ed said.

"Why are you caressing my tie?" Jack asked.

Ed's smile blossomed. He let go and went for his own tie, loosened the maroon silk knot, then unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. "Go ahead," Ed said, still smiling.

Jack reached up with his left hand and dipped his fingertips inside the opening of Ed's shirt, touching the very warm skin, feeling the heat fly down his arm and race through his bloodstream. He went deeper, along the collarbone, then higher to the side of Ed's neck, fascinated with how hot the skin felt, and how his heart was pounding, and how much he wanted to release more buttons from their confines.

"Go ahead," Ed said in a quieter voice.

Jack used both hands to undo the tie completely, and unbutton the shirt down to the waistband, all the while his eyes darted up to meet Ed's, bright and dancing. Ed leaned forward enough for Jack to press his palms against pecs sprinkled with tight black curls. Ed made a noise deep in his throat, and moved, and Jack moved, too, just in time for Ed to fall on his mouth, taking it with strong kisses that made Jack's pulse fly. Yes. He wanted this--this feeling--this feeling of pure need surging through him. So, so good. Jack swept his hands around to Ed's back, the skin soft, the muscles flexing as Ed came closer, and probed Jack's lips for merely a beat before Jack parted them without resistance.

Ed plunged into the depths of Jack's mouth, and he was responding, plunging into Ed's mouth, lifting his head off of the pillow as many times as he was pushed into it. The hot kisses continued, and Jack was pulling Ed forward, wanting the man to get up on the couch with him. On top of him. Then suddenly Ed moved off of Jack's mouth, and though Jack tried to follow and bring him back, Ed smiled, and got his hands between them, to Jack's tie and shirt. Quickly, he undid both, and fell on Jack again, lower, and more gently this time, kissing his way across Jack's chest, stimulating his nipples, which only made Jack writhe, and drove more blood into his groin.

Then Jack's belt was unhooked; Ed's long fingers unbuttoned the top of his suit pants, swiftly pulled down the zipper, and he hardened impossibly further, his heart careening around inside of his chest with loud thuds that pounded his eardrums. He didn't know what he wanted more desperately. Ed's mouth on his erection, or Ed's mouth locked tightly with his.

Ed made the decision for him, kissing and biting across Jack's abdomen, then sliding a hand under the waistband of his briefs and wrapping it around what felt like the hardest erection Jack had had in years. He groaned, a climax coming on so fast, he couldn't absorb the sensation. Ed kissed him again, deeply, thoroughly, swallowing Jack's moan right down his throat......

Jack woke with a start, gasping, his heart thumping; an aching, throbbing rod pushing against the flannel of his pajamas. He kept his eyes shut tight, and clutched at the sheets, trying to regain his senses. "Fuck," he muttered with minimal coherency. He knew that if he let himself remember the feeling of Ed's hand on him, and that strong tongue stroking his palate, he'd come without even laying a finger on himself. But what was the point of ignoring the need between his legs? "Fuck," he said, and reached in, and remembered it all.

Jack finished his cup of coffee and took it to the sink. His thoughts were ninety percent concentrated on the trial starting in a few hours, and ten percent on the man whose testimony would begin the prosecution's case. Jack washed his cup, scrubbing it hard, harder than it needed. Rinsed it quickly and slammed it down in the dish drainer. He had to stop thinking about Ed like that. Like he was. Thinking about him. It was getting ridiculous. Jack was no teenager, ripe for a crush -- he was a grown man who knew what was up and what was down. He would stop thinking about Ed as an object of lust, and maybe more. He would. He had no choice.

Sitting in the witness box, Ed kept his breathing steady, his attention away from his fellow cops in the gallery, away from the defendant; his concentration firmly on Jack and everything they had reviewed. The more he looked into Jack's eyes, the more relaxed he felt. He had such complete and utter confidence in his prosecutorial abilities that it was easy to block out everything but Jack asking him questions, and he answering them. Like sitting together in a car, in the midst of a raging thunderstorm. Like sitting together in a diner's booth.

Jack, summarizing the salient points of the last hour, asked him again who was renting the apartment where Detective Kearsey was shot, and how the police connected Lateef Miller to it.

Ed answered, "A woman named Selina Watts lived in three D. Our Latent Print Unit lifted four prints belonging to Lateef Miller from her apartment. We also found a pair of shoes, his size, in her hallway."

Jack asked him to relate a new piece of evidence with, "Was there anything that connected Mr. Miller to Ms. Watts' apartment on the morning of the incident?"

Ed nodded once and wanted to smile. He hoped he stopped the grin in time. "When we subpoenaed Watts's phone records, there was a phone call from her apartment to the defendant's answering service thirty-seven minutes before the nine-one-one call."

Jack asked if anybody could have done that. Ed told the jury that anyone trying it would have to have Miller's private PIN code. He gave the code as four-two-four-four-eight. Jack nodded at him, and Ed breathed an internal sigh of relief. His direct testimony was over. Jack turned around to go to his seat, and their eye lock was broken, and Ed's reaction was visceral, and needy, and altogether inappropriate. Before he had the chance to think about it, the defense attorney, Mr. Childs, was approaching him and shooting out a question.

"Four, twenty-four, forty-eight is Mr. Miller's birthday, isn't it?"

Ed answered, "I believe it is, yes."

Childs paced in front of him. "It's fairly common, is it not, to use one's birthday as one's PIN code?" The tone was unmistakable -- the man was beginning to ratchet it up, already.

Ed did his best to keep his voice evenly modulated. "It may be, I don't really know."

"Well, wouldn't anyone who knew Mr. Miller's birthday have a good chance of accessing his messages?"

Ed answered drily, "Assuming they also had his phone number."

"And," Childs said emphatically, walking right up to him, "the Police Department has access to both of those pieces of information."

Ed's stomach clenched. He wanted to pop the guy for the innuendo. He clasped his hands together on the small shelf in front of him and said slowly, in a more even tone of voice than before, "Right."

Childs went on to suggest the possibility that the NYPD had deliberately gone out of their way to implicate Lateef Miller, and had deliberately not followed up on any other possibilities. Other fingerprints; other people who were in the apartment. And only because Miller used to be a Black Panther. The more questions he asked, the more racist implications he made, the angrier Ed became. He knew how to control it, however, and he certainly was not going to let down the case by losing his cool. He glanced at the prosecution table. Jack's eyes met his. He was not going to let down the EADA.

Childs eventually finished, with one last jab at the police department in general, and Ed and Lennie's investigation in particular. Now, Ed really and truly wanted to deck him. He looked at Jack, and saw just as much anger reflected back. Then Jack turned to Abbie, tossed his pen down, and slammed back into his chair. Ed wanted to tell him he was sorry. He knew there wasn't anything he could have done to stop it.

Sitting in the gallery now, next to Lennie and behind Van Buren, afforded Ed two views of the trial unfolding in front of him. The first was an assessment of how the presentation of evidence was going, for the jury. Detective Kearsey's partner was testifying about how the victim ended up at the scene of his death; how it was a fluke, a mistake, an error in the address given to them. The man on the stand was obviously emotional, but held it together through his grief to explain what had happened. Ed thought he was doing very well.

Ed's second view was of the prosecutor--an unobstructed view that he rarely had the opportunity to enjoy. Most trials, Ed would testify and then leave to return to the job. He took full advantage of this chance, watching Jack move in front of the witness box, the jury box, the prosecution table. If either his commanding officer or his partner knew half of what was going on in Ed's head, they would most likely question his dedication to seeing that Lateef Miller went down, and went down hard.

Eighty percent of Ed's concentration was on the situation, but twenty percent was firmly on Jack. Ed's stomach was doing things whenever Jack lifted a hand to make a point, or swung his head toward the jury so that the silver in his hair reflected the hanging lights. Ed's stomach was giving him signals--familiar signals, but ones he hadn't felt in such a long time that he'd almost forgot what they felt like. Like the quickening of a pulse, deep inside, that causes your heart to skip and your fingertips to tingle. The same signals Ed had felt the night before, in Jack's office, when he was about to leave. He suspected that he might be falling into serious trouble.

Defense Attorney Childs got up to cross-examine the victim's partner, and Ed was ridiculously grateful for the distraction from his wayward thoughts. Five minutes later, Ed wanted to strangle Childs, again. The implication was being made, no matter how Jack objected, that Kearsey was a racist. He was Irish. He had belonged to a social club for Irish cops. He had belonged to an all-white motorcycle fraternity. Therefore he had associated with some cop who had once written "KKK" on the wall of his all-white high school. Ergo, Kearsey was a racist, and, as such, he had deserved to die.

Kearsey's partner was getting more and more furious as the cross-examination went on. Jack was right there with him. The judge agreed to strike the question about the high school, but when Ed looked at the jury, he could see that they were buying the entire implication. His stomach signaled again. This time, it was churning.

Outside of the courtroom, at the end of session, Ed and Van Buren stood off to the side while Kearsey's widow, Ann, and his partner pleaded with Jack to do something to stop the character assassination. Lennie was standing with the widow, and after Jack explained that there wasn't much that could be done, that the judge's hands were tied to some extent, Ed's partner let Jack know precisely how rapidly the case was tanking. As much as Ed understood Lennie's frustration, and felt it, he wanted to yell at him to lay off Jack. To leave him alone. He didn't deserve the criticism.

Ed could see so clearly the lines of stress and pressure that Jack was under, in his face. He could hear it in his voice. He wanted to--

Jack said, ignoring Lennie and focusing on the widow, "I know it's difficult, Mrs. Kearsey. You'll have to excuse us, we have a witness to prep." Jack kept his eyes on her for a beat, until she nodded, then he turned to go, and looked directly at Ed.

Needy, hard, fathomless, dark eyes. Questioning eyebrows. Only a moment of connection. A moment suspended in time and space. Ed's heart reacted with a single, resonant thud, reverberating inside of his chest and down into his groin. His breath caught. By the time his heart kick-started, Jack and Abbie were on their way to the elevator. Ed watched him walk away, for another suspended moment, and made a vow. Neither this case, nor Jack, was going to fail.

Ed tapped Lennie on the shoulder and walked in the opposite direction from Jack. Something was bothering him, about Miller's actions, and timeline. He thought he might have had an idea, back in the courtroom. Lennie and Van Buren followed him across the marble floor.

"I didn't come all this way to let this guy go," he said, staring hard at Lennie, and Lieu.

She said, "What are you thinking?"

"Nobody saw Lateef between the crime scene and the mosque?"

Lennie shrugged. "We struck out with the cab drivers and the bus companies."

Ed said, "Maybe we're looking for the wrong address. You're Lateef Miller and you just gunned down a cop--who do you go see?" He fed Lennie the premise, wanting him to get it, to be on the same page as he was.

Lennie's lip curled with his usual smile turned grimace. "A lawyer."

Ed almost grinned, but didn't. He pointed at his partner, tapped his fists together, and took off, with Lennie on his heels.

The elevator was full, as usual, and Jack could freely admit that he was glad of it. Conversation was impossible. His day, so far, had sucked. The case was going badly--he knew it. He didn't need anyone telling him, and certainly didn't need Briscoe giving him a hard time. It wasn't as if he hadn't expected Childs to be the hard ass Jack had always known him to be. The man fought for his clients. It wasn't as if Jack hadn't known the race card would probably be played at some point--he just hadn't expected the victim's attitudes to be the issue.

Abbie sighed, loudly, next to him. He had to agree with her.

And what the hell had he done not three minutes ago? What, exactly, was that? He couldn't leave without looking at him; he just couldn't do it. He was so hyperaware of precisely where Ed was standing, like the man was the only one in the entire courthouse aside from Jack. He had watched, in his peripheral vision, every reaction of Ed's. He had registered the exasperation, coming on the heels of Briscoe's criticism, or maybe it came after Jack had tried to explain about the judge's rulings? Jack didn't know what the reaction had signified. He didn't know if it meant Ed was as frustrated as Briscoe; or if he didn't like Jack's explanation; or if he somehow felt responsible because of his testimony; or if he was upset that Jack hadn't stopped Childs from making insinuations about his own investigation. Jack only knew one thing regarding Ed.

Seeing Ed, having him on the stand, watching him keep his cool under fire, Jack had felt so--proud of him. Like that was an appropriate feeling for him to even have, like they really had some connection that was more than a good working one. A connection that was close, and intimate, like in Jack's dreams. He knew his perceptions were getting skewed. Ed's eyes locked with his, and the world around Jack became nothing but white noise.

Why he kept falling back into the fantasy life--that was the honest question. Like a rhythmic game of tug-o-war, with reality on one end of the rope and illusion on the other. Which side would dump Jack into the mud? The answer to that was the only simple thing in this whole situation. Illusion would always be the one to send Jack falling on his ass. Every time.

It was 11:30 at night when Ed unlocked the door to his apartment. He was exhausted and buoyed at the same time--after nearly eight hours of footwork, they'd found the cabbie who drove Miller to his attorney's office. Ed had wanted to call Jack immediately to tell him, to possibly give the man an easier night of sleep. An easier mind, anyway. Lennie had wanted to wait until the morning, when they could verify the trip sheet information, and speak to the cabbie himself. Ed knew it was a valid point, but it rankled nonetheless. And he couldn't argue much without giving away the reason he was feeling so adamant. Or, at the very least, raising suspicions in Lennie's too-sharp mind.

After changing out of his suit and into some sweats, he dug around in the refrigerator looking for something to fill his empty stomach. A slice hours before wasn't going to hold him until breakfast. He found some praram gai from his local Thai place, and sniffed it. Sunday dinner, two days ago. Still good. He shoved it in the microwave, retrieved a bottle of water, opened it and leaned against the counter, sipping. There was another reason he had wanted to call Jack immediately, and in the quiet of his apartment he could admit it. Maybe there were two, now that he thought about it. Neither had any place in the case. The microwaved beeped, and his stomach growled anew.

Ed walked into Jack's office, looking at the man lying on the brown leather couch, his head toward the door, his eyes closed and one arm resting above him. The other arm, the one closest to the edge of the couch, was on his stomach, the hand half curled, covering the buttons of his shirt. Ed sank to his knees next to Jack, knowing that what he wanted to do was directly at odds with what he should do. With what was expected of him. But there was no time to question his actions; someone might interrupt them at any moment.

He lifted Jack's tie out from under his hand, wanting to get it out of the way--the constriction that would keep the skin of Jack's chest away from Ed's touch. And touch was what he craved. He needed it; deep in his gut where his blood was dancing, the signals were there. Loud, and boisterous--a hidden urge that he could no longer fight. He wanted, so badly, and with every single cell in him. Jack's hand shifted, and Ed's eyes flew to his face. The man was surprised for a moment, a brief moment, then, Ed was certain, there was something else there. Something previously concealed, now obvious. Ed felt surprisingly calm to see it.

He pulled gently on Jack's tie, his own hand an inch away from Jack's. Jack didn't make any move to stop him, on the contrary--his gaze heated up. Ed let go of the striped silk, and undid his own tie, then unbuttoned his own shirt down to the waist, never losing the eye lock, and never hesitating. He pulled open the shirt, picked up Jack's hand and, palm to palm, pressed the back of Jack's hand to his chest, feeling an instant surge in his blood from the contact, from the hot stare in Jack's eyes, from the hard pounding of his own heart.

Jack pulled his hand out of the embrace and moved smoothly, touching Ed's chest with both hands, a searing touch, a caress, and Ed had to lean into it, wanting those strong hands anywhere and everywhere at once. Jack's face was only a foot away, and he couldn't stop himself from doing the most natural thing in the world, doing what he'd wanted to do since the evening prior, and maybe even long before then. Dipping his head, tilting slightly so the angle would be just right, knowing this would be so, so good, his blood racing faster... and suddenly Jack slid his hands up Ed's neck, sending a shiver down his spine, cupped his head and pulled... and before he could blink, think, or change his mind, they were kissing. Ed's mouth melted into Jack's, their lips moved together slowly, and the mere fact that he was doing this with the EADA stretched out on his leather couch made the act that much more intense. Clandestine. Wrong, yet incredibly right. Jack's hot mouth, soft hard lips, moving faster, parting, wanting, and Ed plunged in. The sensation of tongue on tongue was almost too much; Jack's hands were travelling all over him, under his shirt, across his back, down the front of his pants... and in response Ed could only dive more deeply inside Jack's mouth with a moan, matched by one from Jack... holding himself up with increasingly shaky arms, but dying to let go and fall right on top of him... tongues tangling faster... Jack's fingers scrabbling for his zipper... needing so much from this man... wanting to give him more... desire pumping, pulsating, surging through every vein.....

Ed woke with a gasp, his heart hammering as he slowly regained consciousness. He was hard, and aching; a hot ache that permeated not only his groin, but his chest as well. Mixed with vivid memories of pushing Jack's head into the pillow on the couch, came the sharp memory of his reaction earlier in the afternoon, when Jack had looked at him in the corridor. The telltale signal from his heart that the trouble he was in truly was as serious as he had feared. He could still feel Jack's lips devouring his, could hear that low, hoarse sound of Jack's that had come straight from his own imagination. Shit, if this was anything close to what it could be like in reality, depositing Jack into his bed and keeping him there for a week probably wouldn't be enough for a first--

Ed sighed loudly in the silent bedroom. He glanced at the clock; it was nearly time to get up. A shower, with the added bonus of relief for his still throbbing erection, would be the start to his day. And if he let memories of a heated Jack succumbing to him be the fantasy of the hour, nobody would ever be the wiser.

The courthouse elevator was empty except for Jack and Abbie. She hit the four on the panel, then swore to herself, and hit a second button, then a third.

Jack asked, "What are you doing?"

"Wrong floor," Abbie muttered, then hit yet another number.

"It's not the wrong--"

Before he could finish, the elevator stopped abruptly and the door slid open. Without a word, Abbie walked out of the car, and Ed walked in. Smiling brown eyes surrounded by warm, enticing skin met his, and rather than voicing his confusion over where Abbie was going, and why, much less calling out to her retreating form, Jack smiled back at Ed. Ed turned to the panel and pushed the "close door" button, to which the elevator responded immediately.

Ed leaned against the side. "How did I do today?"

"You did fine," Jack said, taking two steps closer, "you did better than fine...."

"But it wasn't enough, was it, Jack?"

Jack took another step, and he was a mere foot and a half away, and his insides were reacting to Ed using his first name, which he rarely did. Ed never called him by his last name, either, he just usually smiled and talked to him like someone who was happy to do whatever he could to make the case. To give Jack what he needed. Jack liked hearing his name said in that silky tone of Ed's, and wanted to hear more. He wanted a great deal more from Ed, and that was the clearest, most obvious state of Jack's existence.

Jack dropped his briefcase on the floor and took one more step, until they were nearly knee to knee and toe to toe. No more pretenses, no more excuses, no more denial. Jack lunged at Ed, pressing him tightly to the wall, tilting his head, and after a last, brief look into Ed's eyes, he covered Ed's mouth with his own. Kissed him with all of the passion and heat he held in his blood. Ed moaned a rich, sweet moan and wrapped arms around Jack, kissing him back, prying Jack's lips apart with full encouragement from him. The kisses escalated to deep, searing ones in a heartbeat. Jack wanted clothes off, and as much skin exposed as they could manage in less than a minute. He squeezed his hands between them and started to work on Ed's tie, when the other man wrenched his mouth away from Jack's onslaught.

"It's not enough," Ed said, in between heaving breaths, "is it, Jack? It's not enough."

Jack looked at him in confusion.

Ed shook his head. "It'll happen."

Jack only wanted soft, heated lips caressing his own, hands touching him, and his touching Ed. He wanted, and needed......

Jack woke up, slowly, disoriented. Ed was right there with him, in full body contact, in the elevator; Jack knew he was right there. His mind cleared a bit more, and the empty bedroom surrounding him gradually became more real than the courthouse elevator. A sense of overwhelming longing hit, deep in his bones. A stab of pure loneliness followed. He rolled over and pulled the covers tightly around his shoulders, hoping for oblivion, but expecting the alarm to go off before unconsciousness could reclaim him.

Ed stifled a sigh that threatened to escape, looked out the window of the car, and willed Lennie's foot to push down on the accelerator. They were on their way to the courthouse, with one eyewitness cab driver, by the name of Jean Marchier, in the back seat of their unmarked. Mr. Marchier had initially been unable to verify the trip sheet information, until Ed whipped out a photo of Miller from his jacket, almost demanding to know if this was, indeed, the fare Marchier had picked up outside of the apartment house where Detective Kearsey was murdered. Marchier identified Miller easily, and Ed almost hugged him. They had their witness. Jack would be so elated. The cop killer would be so nailed. Ed tapped his knuckles on the window rhythmically.

"What," Lennie said, "I'm not goin' fast enough for you?"

Ed's sigh came out. "Just want to get there sooner rather than later." He stilled his hand.

"Well, I don't choose to get smashed up on the way there...," Lennie said lightly.

There was a noise from the man in the back seat, sounding like one of discomfort, surprising Ed, considering the guy was a cabbie and all. Probably drove like a--

Lennie chuffed. "But, you know, takin' a deep breath might not be a bad idea, Ed."

"What does that mean?" Ed asked, failing to keep the rise out of his voice.

Lennie spared him a glance, a pure Lennie-glance, with eyebrows lifted and one side of his mouth curling. "Thanks for proving my point." Then he sighed. "We've got the bastard, and we'll hand the witness to McCoy, and Miller'll get the needle, and so--calm down."

Ed looked out the window again. "I'm calm," he muttered. He knew it was a total fabrication, and the best possible front he could wear, if only he could make it stick. He was going to be face to face with Jack, and the dream he'd had refused to fade, and he wasn't necessarily certain he really wanted it to, and yet--his heart was quietly skipping every few beats. Face to face. A few feet apart. Eye to eye. Truly calming down did not appear to be in the cards.

As they walked into the courtroom, Ed hung back a few steps, letting Lennie take the lead, planting himself firmly at Marchier's back. Ed's quiet heart-flutters had morphed into a low thudding. Jack was in front of the judge, arguing intensely about something they couldn't hear. There was a uniform on the stand, a lieutenant whom Ed recognized as the supervisor of the unit from the three-six. At the sound of the door closing behind them, Jack turned, his eyes travelling over the three of them quickly. Too quickly for Ed's needs, he realized with a start. Jack said something else to the judge, then strode to the railing, meeting Lennie.

Lennie grabbed Jack's biceps and spoke into his ear, causing a momentary flare of jealousy, deep in Ed's gut, but he saw Jack's eyes drifting right for his as Lennie's whispered explanation went on. That low thudding morphed again, and when Jack turned to him, their eyes locked, and out of his close peripheral vision Ed took in the flushed cheeks and slightly disheveled hair as he handed Jack the trip sheet. When Jack broke the eye contact to read it, Ed dropped his glance. He couldn't keep looking at Jack, he just couldn't do it--his heart was pounding now, his emotions were so close to the surface; one of them becoming clearer as the seconds passed, and disappointment settled in his chest. He felt Jack's eyes on him again, and when Ed heard his step, he finally looked up and watched the man walk quickly back to the bench.

Ed could only hear words here and there, his concentration set on the back of Jack's head, his profile, the decisive movements, the firm tone of voice that floated back to where he stood at the railing. But rather than see Defense Attorney Childs falter, or hesitate, or even bat an eye at their new evidence, the man stated the phrase, "self defense," and Ed's stomach dropped. He gripped the manila envelope in which he'd carried the precious trip sheet, practically folding it in half, as he watched Jack look at the judge, who shook his head imperceptibly. Jack responded by doing the same and walking slowly back in their direction.

This time he met Jack's eyes squarely, wanting to ask him any number of questions, about how could they claim self-defense, and what would Jack do about it, and what did he need from Ed by way of assistance. Lines of stress were etched deeply around Jack's mouth. If Ed could hold on to the fantasy of his dream, his urge would be to kiss the furrows away, to soothe his brow like a father comforts an injured child.

Jack said to him in a low voice, "Take Mr. Marchier out to the hallway." To the cabbie, he said he would be called before the lunch recess.

Ed could do nothing but nod. Jack nodded once in reply and turned to sit, and Ed followed suit, walking Marchier out with Lennie behind them. At the door, Ed looked back. Jack and Abbie were deep in conversation. He left the courtroom, did as Jack asked, handing off Marchier to the guards, leaving the final witness support to Lennie. While Lennie and the cabbie sat and chatted for a few minutes, Ed crossed the corridor to the nearest garbage can.

He crumpled the manila envelope in both hands and threw it straight down into the can. He sank onto the nearest bench and dropped his head into his hands, closing his eyes to the sight of a scuffed and stained marble floor between his feet. His stomach was queasy; though it was only doing a gentle roll, it was enough. With fingertips massaging his forehead, he allowed himself time think about what he had felt ten minutes before. He had been so thrilled to give this witness--the witness who was going to save the case--directly to Jack. Aside from the sheer unreality of looking into the eyes of the man about whom he had had an incredibly erotic dream, the bottom line was that he had thought--no, believed--that he had done something really good. And if he were brutally honest with himself, he had wanted some acknowledgement of that fact from Jack himself. Some indication. A smile; a pat on the shoulder, or forearm. A nod of thanks. Something. Which was the pity of it, really. That he'd become so needy of Jack's attention. Desire was making itself known in all kinds of ways now, and all Ed could think was that he was so screwed.

One set of footsteps came out of the general hubbub of the corridor and approached him. The familiar scent of Old Spice. A heavy weight deposited next to him, making the bench creak and shift.

"Hey, we should get going," Lennie said.

Ed gave a last rub to his eyes and sat up straight, not looking at Lennie, but at the big wooden doors across the way. "Yeah," he said. "We should." He stood, and his partner followed.

"You know," Lennie said in a rough, sarcastic tone, "that son-of-a-bitch in there has got himself a prince of a lawyer. Anyone who can come up with self-defense for some ass shootin' a cop the second he sees 'im...."

"Yeah." It was all Ed could think of to say in response.

"Well, let's hope that McCoy and Charmichael are on their game, at least." Lennie sighed harshly.

"They are," Ed answered, hearing his voice come out much more strident than it should. Lennie looked at him. "They always are," Ed clarified.

Lennie shrugged. "Got that right. If McCoy were a cop he'd probably give Miller all kinds of reasons for thinkin' self-defense."

Ed almost said something about Jack's background, but stopped himself. It was a fact that the man had expressed directly to him, and it was personal, and he wanted it to stay exactly that. "Let's go," he said instead, and began to walk down the corridor toward the elevators.

Ed made a decision and then a vow to hold himself to it, ignoring the part of him that understood exactly how little heed he had paid to past vows. Live in the moment, and all that. He would stop obsessing over Jack. There was nothing Ed could do about his feelings for the man, no matter how deeply they went. He needed a few hours of relaxation, at least until it was time to sleep. And if he could make this same vow about his subconscious dream-state, he would. Or would he? He sighed to himself, and ignored that question, too.

He and Lennie fell into a companionable silence. Though his own insides were churning, it seemed as if Lennie had already let the prior twenty-four hours roll off his shoulders. Ed envied that ability in others. True, his partner was a cop's cop, but if this case was under Lennie's skin much more than usual, Ed had not seen many signs of it. He doubted that Lennie's stomach was in knots, like his own. Ed looked at him as they walked, wondering how he himself would act years from now if he was still on the job, wondering how Lennie had managed to stay. Was Lennie's particular brand of numbness the answer? Would Ed do the same in ten or fifteen years? Much less twenty? Without warning, the other man's face broke into a wide smile.

"Mike!" Lennie boomed, and Ed almost jumped.

People turned to look, including a tall, dark-haired, annoyed-looking man about twenty feet in front of them. The annoyance was replaced with a sudden grin, though, as the stranger reversed stride and came toward them, his hand out.

"Lennie!" Mike said. "Just my damn luck that I'd run into you here."

Lennie took the offered hand and, to Ed's surprise, used it to pull the other man into a quick hug. "You can run, but you can't hide," his partner zinged, looking happier than Ed could remember seeing him. "What are ya doin' here?"

Mike explained that he was testifying about an old case, one that detectives from the one-five believed they solved. And as Lennie commiserated about what a lousy break it was to have to sit with anyone from the one-five putting down a case he'd worked on, the names "Mike" and "Max" clicked in Ed's mind. Lennie introduced his new partner to his old one, Mike Logan.

Ed stuck out his hand. "Mike," he said.

Logan took the offer, and shook with a firm grip. "Ed," Mike replied, studying him, his gaze cool, and appraising.

Ed returned the favor.

An early end to the court day and mid-afternoon found Jack and Abbie in the DA's office discussing the change of plea with Nora. Even though Jack was angry over the claim of self-defense, he couldn't keep the admiration out of his voice when he summarized Childs's strategy for his boss. The opposing counsel had presented nothing that could ultimately contradict the plea. The man was good, no question.

Nora, sitting in the easy chair next to the couch, was not happy to hear it. She asked if there was any evidence that could refute the self-defense claim.

Abbie said, "The only ballistic evidence we have shows that both men were standing when the shots were fired."

"So, there's nothing to say that the officer didn't shoot first." Nora held some skepticism in her tone, and Jack assumed that she was implying that Kearsey may have truly done that.

Jack shook his head. "I can't see it. Detective Kearsey went to that apartment looking for a witness."

"Except," Abbie retorted, "they've already set the table by insinuating that Kearsey's a racist. I think this jury might buy it."

Nora stood and walked to her desk. "No," she said, with quiet certainty, "he's hitching his wagon to the antipolice sentiment in this city."

The door opened behind Jack, and he was handed a set of motion papers by his assistant, Jennifer. She closed the door as he read the summary, and his anger went up another notch. "And that's just the beginning," he said.

"What now?" Abbie asked.

"They want to present evidence showing a history of racial violence by the police department." He handed the papers to Abbie.

"You have got to be kidding me," she said, scanning the first page and flipping to others. "Forty years? This is ridiculous. And not relevant."

Nora tossed her glasses on the desk and crossed her arms. "And as you said, Abbie, this jury just might buy it."

Ed got out of the car Lennie had parked and stepped onto Worth. It was just six o'clock. Ed's afternoon had been as uneventful as his morning had been stressful. Lennie came around the car and joined him, and they headed to their dinner appointment--a strictly social appointment, with Logan, at a neighborhood bar and restaurant where Ed had eaten a few times before. His stomach growled as he followed Lennie through a door and into Harry's.

Jack leaned further back in his desk chair, his feet already propped on the open drawer to his left. He closed his eyes, which were tired and gritty from hours of reading old files. Compiled years before on one Lateef Miller, Black Panther leader. Most from the NYPD, but also some faxed to them by the FBI, containing information on Miller's activities on the West Coast, when he wrote for a newspaper based on Oakland, California. When he called for African-Americans to shoot cops before they themselves were shot. Heated rhetoric for heated times, but a motto in which Miller appeared to still believe. At least, Jack and Abbie were convinced that he did. Why else kill Detective Kearsey?

Without opening his eyes, Jack moved the legal pad from his lap to the files on his desk, dropping it without ceremony. He kept his pen, using his right hand to spin it within the loose fingers of his left. A meditative gesture, usually used to help him think through legal strategy. However, as had been the case over the past few days, his mind lit unerringly on the other topic of his imagination. Jack fought it for a brief moment, as if he really had the ability to ignore everything he was yearning for, then succumbed.

Jack hadn't expected to see Ed that day, so he hadn't been prepared for it. His own physical reaction to being in such close proximity had been mixed with the swell of euphoria he'd felt when Briscoe had explained who they had with them. His mind firing, his insides warming up, his speech impossible, and anyone would think Jack was head over heels. Maybe he should simply plead insanity.

A few feet away, Abbie made a sound suspiciously like a snort of disgust, followed by the whomp of a file hitting the table. Jack opened his eyes and turned slowly to lean on his desk. Abbie stretched her arms behind her back, with hands clasped.

"I think we've got enough," she said, rolling her neck and letting her hands drop.

"Probably." He started to shuffle through the files, putting them in the beginning of some sort of order.

"You know, this morning, when Briscoe and Green brought in Marchier, I wanted to kiss them. Metaphorically, of course," she said with a grin.

Jack looked up sharply, his heart skipping a beat. A flush was creeping to his face from his neck--he could feel it, and couldn't stop it.

"But now," she continued, "I don't know whether I want to punch them or buy them a drink."

"Metaphorically?" he asked, trying to understand the implication he was certain she was making. He knew her well enough to read a normally straight-shooting Abbie reverting to subtlety, which in and of itself was unusual.

"Well, I'm never one to turn down the opportunity for a good whiskey," she drawled. "And it sure looked to me that Green, at least, could have used one this morning." She turned in her chair and crossed her legs. "Not from me, of course."

He still had no idea what she was getting at. "Not from you," he repeated.

She shook her head.

"Is there some point you're trying to make? You're not interested in buying Detective Green a drink--"

She interrupted him. "He wouldn't be interested in having me buy him a drink. That's my only point, Jack."

Well, that clarified her perceptions, and he had no intention of arguing with her, though he could vehemently disagree. What man would turn down Abbie's company, particularly a man like Ed who was interested in her, no matter what she claimed? Or why she claimed it.

Abbie shook her head again, but much more slowly this time. "You didn't even notice him this morning, did you?"

Jack's heart slammed into his rib cage. "What do you mean, notice him? He was standing right in front of me." Three feet away, if that. Within touching distance. Looking so damned good, with those eyes--

"Notice him, like how he was doing. I mean, how upset he was when Childs changed the plea." She sighed deeply. "Ed wanted that cabbie to be the evidence you needed.... Never mind." She shrugged. "I thought you.... Never mind." She turned back to the table and began gathering together her work.

"I know how much he wants a conviction," Jack stated, feeling an uncalled for urge to defend himself. "This case has been tough on him, from the very beginning. He's had to fight all kinds of obstacles, personal and professional. I know," he finished, taking a deep breath.

"Because Ed told you all that, didn't he?" Abbie was still looking at the work in front of her.

"Yes. He did."

She had finished collecting things in a pile, and picked it up, tapping it on the table to straighten the files. Meeting Jack's eyes finally, she smiled a gentle smile. "He's a man who keeps a tight lid on all things personal." She stood, with the files on her arm. "He only opens up when he wants to, and even then it's only in small amounts. Surface stuff," she said, and paused. "I'm going for a walk, grab a burger and read my book. My brain needs a break."

"Sure," Jack responded. He lifted a hand in a half-wave as she reached the door of his office. She did the same and was gone within two seconds, shutting it behind her. Turning around, he lifted his feet to the credenza, letting the leather chair dip back, and crossed his arms. The city outside his window was dark; November's early sunset meant an abundance of lighted windows in buildings across the street. People working still, as they were.

Abbie was wrong about an essential point, among most of what she said. Jack had noticed that Ed was upset when he returned to the railing. The man's reaction was etched around his eyes, obvious because Jack had seen it before, two nights previous. Of course, there had been nothing Jack could do about it--the courtroom was not the place and then was not the time for any exchange other than the bare necessities. No matter how Jack himself had been feeling.

Was Abbie right about the rest? Maybe Ed was simply shy around women in whom he was interested? Felt he could talk to a man more easily; that old male bonding. Jack didn't know, had no way of assessing, and quite reasonably would never find out. It was one more thing to which Jack resigned himself. His stomach growled; he checked his watch. Almost six forty-five. A walk sounded good to him, too. So did a burger. He knew of a comfortable neighborhood place on Worth, with a bar and above average food. Where a man could make friendly chat or keep to himself. He got up, rolled down his sleeves and grabbed his parka.

When Jack entered Harry's, he was relieved to see it relatively full of customers, but not crowded. The hum and clatter; the scents of beer and simple foods, and his stomach growled anew. He had to wait behind a group of five who were making their way slowly out of the vestibule and, hopefully, heading to tables in the back, and not the bar. The ambiance of dark panelling, beamed ceiling, low lights and weathered booths along the wall was not only typically New York, but reminiscent of Chicago. Jack's Chicago. The hangout of his college years, when he and three friends would take a booth and, over a pitcher or two, harangue the currently hated professor. Or, alone, commandeer a table in the back and cram for Contracts sipping innumerable coffees, eating the sandwich Mrs. Krentkowski would plop in front of him a half hour before closing.

Jack followed the five people into the narrow room, and where they kept walking, he took a left and zeroed in on a stool at the end of the U-shaped bar. He could sit with his back to the door in a nice, quiet corner where it was easier to block out the din of the place. After draping his jacket on the back of the stool, he settled in, waiting to get the bartender's attention. Under any other circumstances, say, if he didn't have more work to do, and didn't want to be vaguely hung over the next day, he would get as drunk as he ever did. He would willingly pay the cab fare home, and back the next morning. The mind numbing distraction of at least four or five scotches would be such welcome relief. He might even have a dreamless sleep. But... did he really want that?

The bartender arrived and Jack told him he wanted to order dinner, along with an iced tea. The man set down a coaster, and signaled to someone in the room; Jack assumed a person to take his food order. He turned to his right in preparation of his or her arrival, and his heart stopped dead in his chest. Ed was rounding the corner of the bar, smiling a small smile, heading straight for him. The man had no overcoat on, and looked to have been coming from the inside of the restaurant, not from the front door. He was in the same suit he'd worn that morning; his tie was loosened; his top button was undone. Jack swallowed, hard, and by the time he gathered some composure, Ed was right next to him.

"Hey," Ed said, "do you mind if I sit for a few minutes?" He indicated the empty stool on Jack's right.

Jack shook his head in a pretense of nonchalance. "No, not at all." Ed turned the stool and sat, facing Jack, one elbow on the backrest, the other on the bar. "Quite a coincidence," Jack commented.

The bartender came back with Jack's iced tea at almost the same time that the waitress arrived. Jack waved off the menu, and put in his order for a medium rare hamburger with slaw and fries. She left. He gave his attention to Ed, who still held that small smile on his face, only now he was no more than two feet away, and Jack was having flashes from his dreams, assuming that stress and fatigue were making concentration difficult. It certainly was not because of Ed's proximity, a closeness that triggered dream-memories of pressing this man against the wall of an elevator and kissing the hell out of him. He grabbed his drink and took a long sip.

Ed said, "I'm here with Lennie, and Mike Logan. Ran into him at the courthouse today." Ed thumbed to the back of the restaurant. "We're back there. I'd invite you to join us, but it's not my party."

Jack was more than surprised. Logan. He was glad to be left alone--he and Logan hadn't parted on the best of terms and he didn't need more tension, or more ragging from a cop. He lifted a hand. "No problem. But I'm glad that you came over." Ed's smile, which had faded, returned. "Gives me the chance to say good job on finding Marchier. That was fast work."

There was a pause, as Ed blinked once, cleared his throat, and then said, "We probably should have thought of it sooner--checking for the lawyer's address. And it was only about eight hours of lookin' at trip sheets." He shrugged, and his voice dropped. "And... thanks. Too bad it didn't make much of a difference in the end."

"Still," Jack said gently, "it was eight hours well spent. Even with the change of plea."

Ed shook his head. "I can't believe that he's claiming self-defense--he's gonna say that Kearsey shot first because he was a racist? Call me ignorant," he said sarcastically, "but I didn't know that being Irish automatically equates to being a racist."

"Only shanty-Irish. Lace-Irish would never let it show," Jack said, smiling at his own joke. Ed's eyebrows shot up. Jack explained, "Lace-Irish move the dishes to the side before pissing in the sink." Ed chortled, and Jack's insides did a flip to see the man letting go. He could feel his cheeks flame, and took another drink to cover.

"That's good," Ed said, with a small grin. "So, let me guess. You're shanty."

"All the way and proud of it. No lace in my family tree."

Ed leaned forward slightly. "But you're not racist," he stated, with a certainty that caused Jack's already speeding blood to increase its pace.

No, he thought, if anything, the differences between us intrigue me like nothing ever has before. He took a surreptitious, deep breath. "And you're not ignorant," he replied, leaning slightly forward, too. Their steady eye contact faltered, as Ed smiled, and dropped his glance, seeming to study a spot he was suddenly picking at on his thigh. All Jack could think was that the man was incredibly endearing, for a rough, hard, Homicide cop. He kept his hands to himself with the greatest of willpower, clasping them together, with one elbow on his backrest, and one on the bar. Exactly like Ed. Only two feet away.

Ed tried to breathe, and gather some of his long-deserted cool. This he hadn't expected--to be skirting some confusing line between professional and personal. Though this was very close to how they had ended up talking at the diner on Monday night. Jack saying things to him, nice things, complimentary things, with that caring tone of voice again. Jack giving him the acknowledgment that he had wanted earlier, causing Ed's insides to heat up, and forcing him to stifle any and all reaction. Ed shouldn't have had the Harp, because being even slightly lit was not doing his imagination any service. And Jack just looked so... good. A little mussed, a little worn, his eyes piercing Ed's, his tie loosened and his shirt unbuttoned, and his cheeks flushing every minute or so, and Ed's fingers were itching to touch. Something. Anything. As long as it was attached to Jack somewhere.

"To be accurate," Jack said, and Ed looked up to see much more serious eyes, "Childs is asking to present about forty years of police brutality against African-Americans in support of the self-defense claim."

Ed couldn't believe it, and then again, he could. A hot pit of anger blossomed in his gut. "So, as usual, it's okay to kill a cop because the brothers have been discriminated against by other cops. That's a load of bull, Jack."

Jack's eyebrows twitched, and Ed realized with a start that he'd called him by his first name. But as much as Ed was not going to second guess himself, Jack appeared to not mind in the least, if the gentle smile gracing his face was any indication.

Jack said, "I think so, too. And we have to counter with all of the black power statements made by Miller, telling his people to shoot the pigs before the pigs shoot them." He shook his head. "We'll have to bring in the allegations about the Riverside Action Project, too."

A group of people must have arranged themselves a seat or two behind Ed, because the noise level suddenly increased. He leaned closer to be heard. "So the killing of Jake Kearsey gets lost somewhere in the whole mess."

Jack nodded slowly. "Yes."

The people nearby began to get raucous, just as Ed said, "What can Lennie and I do to help?"

Jack shook his head, turned it slightly, and cupped his ear.

Ed leaned in as far as he could, without considering the consequences, until his mouth was an inch away from Jack's ear. He caught a faint whiff of the man's long-ago applied aftershave, and it was one he didn't recognize, and from the immediate reaction of his bloodstream, racing, he doubted he would ever forget it. His breathing was more difficult. Jack wasn't moving. Ed said in a low voice, "What can Lennie and I do to help?"

Jack shook his head again, but this time it barely shifted. "Nothing," he said.

Ed pulled back, but he couldn't seem to move further away than a few inches from Jack's face. The man's eyes lifted to meet Ed's, and he could see that Jack's breathing was getting shallow from the rapid, soft puffs of his lips, his cheeks suddenly flushed, and still Ed couldn't move anything save his right arm, resting on the bar. It slid forward--an almost unconscious act so he could be more easily supported. So he could stay right there. Jack's eyes, in the low light of the bar, were crystal clear and boring into Ed's, and as if he were looking for some answer in their depths, Ed could not break the eye lock. But man, oh man, he wanted to kiss him... so... badly. To be this close. He was yearning for it, aching for it. He remembered his dream, and how good it had been, and all he had to do was to tilt his head to the left, just a little, just like that, and move forward and keep moving forward until he reached the point of no return, when he couldn't focus on deep eyes, but would only feel, and he closed his eyes--

"YEAH!" The shouts and clapping startled him back, a good foot in less than a hundredth of a second, until he was sitting almost upright, reality crashing around him with a wallop, like a punch in the stomach. What the fuck.... What the fuck had he almost done?

He focused on Jack. The man was still not moving, and if anything, his breathing was even shallower. He was simply looking at him. Ed didn't know what to do to explain himself, but he sure as hell knew he needed to get away from there, and fast.

"I'd better get back," he said loudly, and maybe too loudly, but he had no way to gauge it. He turned the stool enough so he could slide out of it without running into Jack's lanky body. He lifted a hand and tried a smile, spinning on his heel the second he saw Jack's hand coming off the backrest, where it had been gripping.

"Bye," came Jack's voice as he took a step away. He glanced over his shoulder, briefly, nodding and trying another smile, which felt more like a grimace. He walked as quickly as he could maneuver his way through the crowd, trying to breathe deeply and calmly, wanting to slap himself upside the head with enough force to knock sense back into his brain. What the fuck had he done?

Jack's heart was thundering in his chest as he watched Ed walk quickly away, following the tall man's progress through the crowd, catching sight of his head here and there until he was well beyond the far end of the bar.

"Sir?"

A woman's voice brought his attention back--the waitress with his dinner. She set down his plate and he thanked her, but his voice came out a hoarse croak. She gave him an odd glance before nodding, and leaving. Jack looked at his food. His pulse was still racing; he could feel it in his fingers, in his head, in the butterflies swirling in his stomach. He shoved a french fry into his mouth and chewed. It tasted like it should, which somehow helped ground him in reality.

"Son-of-a-bitch," he said slowly, to himself. Ed had made a move to kiss him. Simply to admit that, yes, the man had done that, there could be no other possible way to interpret that action of his, made Jack lose hold of his breathing again. Sent another shot of adrenaline right through his body.

He worked to prepare his burger, concentrating on ketchup, and pickles, and lettuce and a pale looking tomato slice, all the while seeing Ed's face only a few inches away. Seeing nothing but his eyes, even as Jack wanted to break the eye lock and look at his mouth, especially look at his mouth as it approached, heading right for Jack's. Ed had tilted his head, and Jack had automatically done the same. The telltale signal. Jack had closed his eyes, also automatically, when an approaching Ed became a blurry Ed, and even with the aura of unreality, it had felt so... natural. Like it was every day that he and Ed Green sat in a public bar and drew together to kiss.

"Jesus," he said under his breath. What the hell had just happened?

Jack picked up his burger and took a bite, suddenly ravenous. Obviously, his assumption about Ed's sexual orientation had been completely off the mark. Or at least enough off the mark to preclude gay leanings. Whether or not the man was bisexual like Jack, or strictly gay, or experimenting--Jack didn't care. Or maybe he did. He continued to eat his dinner, and attempted to use his mind, and only his mind, to make a decision. His libido was screaming, loud and clear, but dragging Ed into a bathroom stall in the next ten minutes was not an option. It was not.

Okay, Ed had made a move. Why, Jack had no idea. The where was--risky. So, Ed was a risk taker. That was not a surprise, given the man's history of pushing the legal limits of investigations. But then Ed had turned tail and run, basically, startled out of what had been happening. Again, the why was a mystery. So, what was Jack going to do about it?

He wiped his hands on a napkin and finished his iced tea. One thing was clear, to him at least. If he wanted something with Ed, then Jack would take it slow, and gentle. Not rush into it in the midst of a horrendous, emotionally draining, stressful trial. Stressful for both of them. Jack picked up his ticket, his heart starting to hammer, again. He smiled, and stood, slipping on his jacket, pulling out his wallet to leave a tip.

He walked further into the establishment, to the cash register at the other end of the bar, glancing over the tables to see if he could find a head of close-cropped black hair above shoulders encased in a dark grey suit jacket. To his surprise, he didn't see Ed anywhere. Another waitress took his money and his bill, and Jack thanked her heartily, unable to control another smile that he knew was probably too wide for the situation. While she was counting out his change, he looked over her left shoulder, into the pool room, adjacent to the eating area. The hammering in his chest increased another notch. Ed was standing with his back to him, holding a cue; Briscoe was bending over a pool table; and sure enough, that looked like an older Logan drinking a beer, watching.

Something with Ed was a possibility. Maybe. A true possibility. After one last look, Jack turned around and walked out, taking a very deep lungful of cold Manhattan air. It smelled sweeter than Jack could remember it smelling in a long, long time.

"So," Jack said, in a slow space between reviewing one letter of Miller's and another, "you were trying to tell me earlier that Detective Green is gay?"

He could say that he was certainly enjoying himself, watching Abbie's pencil come to a screeching halt as her head jerked up. It wasn't often that he had the opportunity to surprise her, at least not when it was something more personal than work-related.

She checked her watch. "And we're continuing a conversation from two hours ago with a non sequitur--quite possibly the non sequitur to end them all, Jack." She pointed the eraser end of the number two in his direction. "Impressive."

He waited, but she said nothing more, turning her attention back to her work. He chuffed. "You're not going to answer my question?"

Abbie stopped writing again. "Maybe I've just had second thoughts about any earlier implications I might have made."

He leaned across his desk. "Why?"

"Because," she said with an edge of frustration, "you didn't seem to have a clue, and I'm not going to be the one to disclose something that may be better left quietly sitting under a rock. That's why."

"But now I have a clue. I'm trying to find out what it means." He sat back.

"What clue?" She opened her mouth to continue, paused, and said, "What happened while you were at dinner?"

Jack set his feet on the edge of the bottom drawer and tilted his chair. He hadn't planned to give her any details, not because he necessarily wanted to keep his private life so private, but to say it out loud might take some of the reality away. It wouldn't sound plausible. Ed trying to kiss him in a busy, public, non-gay-centric place?

"Jack? If you want me to answer your question, you've got to answer mine," Abbie said with a smile. "And don't even try to tell me that your clue wasn't something big, cause it's written all over your face. What, did you see Ed out with some guy who was more than a friend?"

He sighed, and said, "I saw him. He wasn't with anyone but Briscoe and one of Briscoe's old partners, but I--spoke to him. Briefly. He came to me, to talk about the change of plea. We talked, and then--" He stopped himself.

Abbie waved her pencil in the air. "Then what? You did something? He did something?" Her eyes got wide. "Oh my god, he did, didn't he?" She whistled softly. "Go, Ed. What did he do?"

He dropped his feet down and leaned back over the desk. "So--what do you know, and how do you know it?"

"Good grief, we're just going to keep going around in circles, is that it?" She shook her head, and turned slightly in her chair, so she could lean in his direction. "About, oh, eight, nine months ago, I saw him on a Saturday night. He was at the movies with another guy, also good looking--the kind of good looking that in Manhattan usually means gay? You know what I mean? And there was something about them, the two of them together, that just clicked. Ed didn't see me--they were leaving as I was in line--and they walked away from me, then I saw this guy try to hold Ed's hand." She shrugged one shoulder. "Ed didn't let him, said something to him, and the guy shook his head and said something back. That, combined with some other smaller things, is what I know."

"That's it? That could mean anything," Jack said, dropping his glance to the legal pad in front of him. Abbie's information didn't exactly answer his question about the precise nature of Ed's sexual preferences, but did bring him up short. Why did it matter? Why had he decided to find out, like this was the crucial question? He himself wasn't gay, so why did he want Ed to be? What difference did it make?

"Oh, yeah," Abbie retorted, "cause it's every day that a male NYPD detective puts the moves on a fellow-male ADA in a public place like Harry's, that is, unless he did it in the men's room?"

Jack could feel the blush start in his chest and work its way straight on up to his hairline. Damn his Irish skin. "It wasn't in the men's room," he said sharply.

Abbie smiled and said slowly, "Well, all I can say, again, is 'go, Ed'--I'm sure he's wanted to do it for a very long time."

Jack's heart thumped once, then once more, as he stared at the person with whom he spent the majority of his waking hours. An extremely observant, sharp as nails, woman. A very long time?

"So," she continued, "what happens now? Are you two going to start dating?"

"I don't know," he said, finding words not nearly as difficult as he had imagined on his way back from dinner. "I don't want to start anything until this trial is over. Ed's having a pretty rough go of it," he continued, as if it were completely natural for him to be referring to the man in such a familiar way. "High stress isn't conducive to beginning--" Jack was going to say, 'a relationship,' a term which had so many connotations, none of which he was at all sure were possible in this situation, but all of them bringing such a sweet ache of longing to his chest, that the image of Ed really in his life had him imagining all kinds of things. Sunday mornings. Trips to the beach. Going to the movies. Dinners out.... Jack suddenly realized he hadn't finished his sentence. He focused. Abbie was waiting expectantly. He said, "High stress isn't conducive to much, except the drive to get through it."

Abbie nodded. "I'm crossing my fingers--for both of you."

Jack smiled, and thought about the ways he could approach Ed once the verdict was in. What he would do, ask for, talk about, negotiate. How quickly he could actually get Ed Green naked and between his sheets. How long he'd stay.

Ed stood in front of his closet, slowly and deliberately pulling off his suit. It wasn't that he was drunk, actually, though four beers was just about his limit for any pretense of sobriety. He had managed to say good-bye to Mike, have that unexpected conversation with Lennie as the man drove him home, get himself through the front door of his building with relative ease and into his apartment, though the keys seemed to have momentarily changed shape here on the third floor. Wrong key into right lock, making him look at the number on his door again just to make sure it wasn't the other way around. Then hanging up his overcoat he'd stalled, trying to figure out if there was such as thing as a right key in a wrong lock, because what kind of sense did that really make?

He stripped off the rest of his clothes and dumped them into the hamper, closing the lid with more force than was apparently necessary. The floor began to roll at an alarming rate, forcing him to catch the wall to stay upright. One sock had missed the target. Ed considered it, but decided that bending over would not be the best idea unless he had plans to crawl to his bed.

Covers back, falling on the mattress, hands groping to bring sheets and blanket up where they belonged, and Ed finally felt a sense of accomplishment. He was in bed. The room was barely spinning, more like a little wavelike action, sort of lifting and sinking. But he wasn't drunk. He wasn't. Usually, he drank just one beer, and then only occasionally. The vacation he had taken the year before was the last time he'd let himself get really stinking, and hey, wasn't that what guys do on Fire Island? Get drunk, get laid, go through a box of condoms if they're lucky? He ignored the fact that he'd stayed all of one night out of three, and picked up one guy for some satisfying but rather nondescript sex. Nothing to write home about. As if he could write home about that.

The room wasn't stopping, so he carefully rolled over to sleep on his stomach, and sure enough, all movement ceased. Bliss. He took a slow, deep breath, then another. Within the small space of quiet, between rambling thoughts, reality slithered back into his brain. He'd almost kissed Jack. His heartbeat took a wild, and thankfully brief, ride.

"Fuck," he muttered into the pillow, "fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck...."

Without warning, the entire thing replayed behind his tightly-shut lids. Being right up next to Jack's ear, breathing him in, then pulling back and staring deeply into Jack's eyes, the overwhelming longing he'd felt, moving in to do what he absolutely couldn't stop himself from doing, tilting his head so he could fit his mouth over Jack's--

"Shit," he said, as his pulse took off. He remembered something else, and for the very first time. Jack had tilted his head, too, and closed his eyes, and obviously, clearly, decidedly, was going to kiss him in return. The man had waited for it to happen. He not only hadn't been alarmed, or disgusted, or felt forced to push Ed away--no, uh uh--Jack had wanted the kiss.

Ed opened his eyes and looked, unseeing, at the lighted display on his clock radio. Jack had wanted his kiss.

Jack was walking down the courthouse corridor, briefcase in hand, Abbie by his side, and a cacophony of voices and footsteps assaulting his eardrums. He couldn't remember the last time it had been this loud inside the building. All sounds were echoing off of the marble floors, and walls, and Abbie was saying something but Jack couldn't hear what. Once, years before, Adam had held a press conference right there in the corridor, with sixty to a hundred reporters all clamoring for attention. Jack had tuned them out from sheer necessity, and found himself quite adept in the ability to do it. He'd forgotten how, apparently.

When he reached the end of the hall, he turned right, but someone grabbed his free hand, halting him in his tracks. Jack turned to see who just as he was pulled, and all he saw was the back of Ed, since the man, with him in tow, was now striding toward a destination Jack guessed was the door with a pebbled glass window and the number two seventeen. He looked back, over his shoulder. Abbie was grinning and waving, which was more confusing than the grip of Ed's hand around his own.

Ed opened the door, and still Jack had said nothing, like what are you doing and why with me, and when he was brought into the nearly pitch-black room he opened his mouth to speak, but it was immediately filled with the blazing hot tongue of Ed Green before Jack could make any sound other than a deep, clear moan. He dropped his briefcase. Ed was on him, lips devouring, tongue stroking, hands holding Jack's biceps firmly, while Jack was doing everything he could to climb down Ed's throat and press himself to Ed's body as tightly as possible. He moaned again; Ed did the same.

Good god almighty, how much he wanted this man. Sheer, unabashed, unfettered, lust, racing through his heated bloodstream. There was no need for breath; the urgent kisses went on, and on. Jack was about to do whatever it took to get Ed prone on the floor of whatever dark room they were in. Then Ed broke the lip lock, with a start, and there was just enough light coming through the pebbled glass in the door for Jack to see Ed's breath heaving, his eyes staring right down into him, his hand moving upward.

Ed covered his own mouth, briefly, then dropped the hand. He smiled slowly. "Brace yourself," he said, gently pushing Jack backwards. Something hit the top of his legs, and he and Ed stopped moving. Ed went for Jack's belt, undoing it quickly, then the button, and the zipper, saying, "Stress relief, Jack...."

He was going to keel right over, his knees were that rubbery, so Jack grabbed what was behind him, and found it cold porcelain--a sink. They were in a cleaning closet. And before Jack could think beyond that, could consider what was about to happen, Ed dropped to his knees and pulled apart Jack's slacks, and reached in, and freed his straining erection from now too-tight briefs. Ed's fingers were amazingly hot. Jack looked down. The dim light cast a muted glow on the side of Ed's face. The man was smiling, and moving closer, and Jack's legs threatened to buckle. He groaned loudly as Ed took him into his mouth, and sensation built upon sensation, up and up, hotter and hotter, until he climaxed in a blinding, furious, incredible.... rush......

Jack woke up with his heart pounding so hard it felt like his tee shirt was quivering. His body was still throbbing, his legs heavy as lead. Sheets were tangled around the pajamas covering them. Pajamas which were wet, and sticking to his abdomen with the result of a wet dream like he hadn't had since he was forty years younger. He stared at the dark ceiling, his heartbeat slowly calming back to normal, still feeling Ed's mouth milking him to oblivion.

Ed leaned in, closer to Jack's face, the crowd surrounding them at Harry's fading back long enough to create a pocket of quiet amidst the basketball game on television, the drinkers, the conversations, the clatter of bottles and glasses behind the bar. Ed leaned in, closer to Jack's mouth, and kept right on going until his lips touched Jack's. Ed kissed him with ease, like they had done it a thousand times before this, like there was no reason to draw away, and since Ed couldn't think of one, he stayed right there. Jack's mouth was responsive, his lips moving hungrily in tune with Ed's; the force of their joining bringing teeth into play, then tongues, and Ed kept getting closer and closer until he needed more contact than he could get with the two of them sitting next to each other.

He grabbed Jack's shoulders and hauled him to his feet, and still the kisses didn't stop, and he wasn't sure they could stop, not really, and then Jack brought one arm around Ed's shoulders, and neck, and Ed wrapped his around Jack's waist and pulled, and pulled, even tighter until they finally had full body contact. Jack felt hard, and strong, and lithe, and everything Ed had ever imagined. Jack moaned into his mouth; Ed swallowed it right down his throat, only to have it come back up and shoot into Jack's with even more force. This was good. So good, so heady, so absolutely right that he suspected he would never come to his senses again.

Without warning, someone strong clamped a hand on his shoulder and yanked him backwards, and the lip lock was severed, and Jack let go, and he stared at Ed with a look of dawning horror. Before Ed could ask him what was wrong, a loud voice yelled, "FAGGOT!" directly into his ear, and he was spun around and punched hard in the stomach, and man, that hurt, and he doubled over to hold his gut in place. He felt for his gun, and in one fluid motion stood straight, pointing it at the asshole's face.

Lennie was telling him to get in the car, and get in now, while Mike was pushing him through the back door. He rolled onto the seat, but before he could fasten the seat belt or even close the car door, Lennie was peeling away from the curb; Mike was slapping on the cop light and Ed was holding on for dear life, wondering when they had picked up a car with a light and a siren because the last thing he remembered was driving to Harry's in Lennie's car. They drove up a road that followed the curve of a mountain, and Ed couldn't figure out why they were going into the Catskills in the snow, since Jack wasn't with them. He suddenly realized he didn't know where Jack was. The car swerved, and Ed fell out, landing in a snow bank. It was bone-shatteringly cold.

DA Lewin was standing over him, seeming way too tall, Ed thought, even though he was sitting on the leather couch in Jack's office. Still, for a woman on the shorter side, she towered above him, folding her arms across her chest, and staring at him. Hard. He glanced around the room. Van Buren was perched on the table; Abbie was doing the same on the end of Jack's desk.

"Detective Green," Lewin said, "I asked you a question."

He had no idea what she wanted, but was loathe to disappoint her with a show of ignorance. In desperation he looked to Abbie. She crossed her arms, too. Lieu shrugged at him. He looked up at the DA. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he said, smiling at her, "would you repeat the question?"

"What are you going to make him for dinner? We have to know."

Why did they care what Jack ate? "He likes burgers," he tried.

"Ribs," Abbie said loudly.

"Pay her no mind, Ed," Van Buren said, shaking her head. "Don't buy into it. You know which side your bread is buttered on."

"But," he said, "I don't cook," not having a clue what buttered bread, ribs, or any of Jack's eating habits had to do with the reason he was there. He was supposed to be reviewing his testimony for-- His heart beat starting fluctuating wildly. The name of the case, the purpose for his arrival at Jack's door--he couldn't remember what it was. He tried to think. Nothing came to him. Nothing. The door opened; he looked up in anticipation of some help.

Jack walked in and came right to him, squatting, and resting his hands on Ed's knees. "It's okay, Ed, we'll just call a caterer." He moved closer, and cupped Ed's cheek with one palm. "I love you...."

Ed's heart beat took off. The look on Jack's face was familiar, and strange, and confusing, and he wanted to..... he needed to..... If he could only ask the right questions......

Ed moaned in his sleep, thrashing against the covers until one leg found its way into the cool air of his apartment. He turned, without waking, settling on his stomach. The clock on the nightstand changed one number before his breathing deepened, and gentle snores once again filled the empty bedroom.

Ed woke up slowly, consciousness returning as lethargically as his headache was spreading rapidly. He kept his eyes closed and willed, without success, the radio alarm to shut the fuck up. Some traffic report was going on and on, delivered in a tone that was meant to be soothing, and calm, as if to prevent any crazed motorists from driving up onto the medians to escape the traffic jam. The reporter's voice was harsh, grating, and altogether too goddamned loud. Ed reached out blindly and made contact with the radio, batting at the top, trying to hit the correct button. The woman's voice finally stopped slicing his brain.

"Thank you Jesus," he muttered, in homage to his great aunt. Normally, he would have chuckled at his own joke, but some feeble synapses were firing, faintly, reminding him that any vibration of his head would only make things worse. He let out a low moan. The toilet, shower, and medicine cabinet were calling his name. He wished that they would shut the fuck up, too.

He opened his eyes and though regretting it, intensely, dragged himself up and into the bathroom. He left the light off, and managed to relieve his bladder, get three aspirin followed by two glasses of water down his throat, and brush his teeth without making a mess of any of it. Telling himself, again, that a dimmer switch in the bathroom would be a good thing to beg from the super. For just such occasions as this.

Under the spray of the shower, everything he had been thinking right before sleep came rushing back. He assumed it was everything, though he had been known to make some promises in a fit of drink that were later recanted in the cold light of day. Once he had been told what they were, anyway. He leaned back against the tiles and closed his eyes. The pounding of the shower and his apparent need to focus were making his brain hurt even more than it already did. It certainly was not from the unending thought processes. About Jack. And him. And his life. And all of the things that just could not be.

Jack was.... Jack was too important in Ed's world, his work, everything he had been striving to accomplish. Getting to Homicide. Making a success of the transfer. Proving them all wrong. Proving to everyone that he could do it. He had done it. But fucking all that up by getting involved with the EADA? And he had no doubt that he would get involved, if he made one more move, or Jack did, or they did together. Ed had known he was heading for trouble, and here it was. Staring at him in the face; screaming at him. Ed wanted Jack with a desire that was palpable and almost tangible. His fingers itched to touch; his mouth ached to taste. His emotions? His feelings for Jack were what he would not consider. He could not. And so, he didn't. In the most simplified of terms, he wanted Jack and, shockingly, unexpectedly, Jack wanted him.

But--

The 'buts' were big, and loud, and overwhelming. Ed turned off the water, knowing something else. There was no way he could be on the job today. No way. He would be no good as a backup for Lennie, and he sure as hell didn't want to be anywhere near Superior Court or One Hogan Place. No conferences, no evidence to be delivered on a current case, no nothing. He had sick days, plenty of them. The heavy pit in his stomach, the cold ache in his chest, the throbbing of his head were all the proof he needed. That the ache in his chest was a chasm of loss--for something he had never had, and never could have--was irrelevant.

He would make two phone calls. The precinct, and his gambling buddy, Joey. He and Joey would go to Atlantic City, as soon as Ed's head calmed down, which he hoped would be well before noon.

"I'm not gonna ask you again," Joey said, one hand on the top of the steering wheel and the other resting lightly on the gear shift, "but this little excursion don't exactly fit the pattern." He glanced at Ed. "You're surly as shit, you're not really talkin', not so's you'd notice anyway, you even look a little hungover--"

"Thought you said you weren't gonna ask me again," Ed said, with force.

"Shit," Joey muttered, "who's the one who dropped all his plans to go gamin' with you, huh? Shit...."

"Like you ever need a lot of encouragement." Ed watched the dregs of New Jersey pass by, then turned back to Joey. "It's nothing. Just wanted to get out of the city."

Joey snorted. "Yeah, right. Nothing. Man trouble is what it looks like from where I'm sittin'. What happened, you pick up a trick who fucked you over or somethin'? Ripped you off?"

"Oh, I'm fucked all right," Ed said. "I'm so fucked that it's a good thing my gun is locked up in my apartment...."

Joey looked at him sharply. "You'd better be kidding, man."

Ed slumped further down in his seat. "I'm kidding." He took another drink of water from the bottle between his legs. "And yeah, it's about a guy. A guy I know through work--"

"Oh, yeah, you're fucked," Joey said, interrupting him, shaking his head for emphasis.

Ed sighed to himself.

Joey stared hard at him, then looked back to the road. "You can't get involved with someone you work with! That's askin' for it! You know that." He shook his head again.

Ed did know that. It was his rule number two. Right after, Don't Tell Anyone.

"So," Joey continued, "what, does this guy want some heavy action for a night, or is it--more--you know. More than that?"

The thought of Jack McCoy being one of Ed's one-nighters was something Ed had never considered, because it felt so utterly--wrong. That was the one thing he was sure of. "He's more serious than that--I mean, he'd be more serious than that." A cold hand gripped his heart and squeezed. "He would be," Ed repeated himself in a low voice.

"Well, that clinches it. You and serious, Eddie? Come on--" Joey chucked. "--that's a picture that just don't make sense. What's the longest relationship you've had?"

"I know, I know." Ed looked out the window again. "You don't have to remind me." There had never been anyone in Ed's life for longer than a few months, though strictly speaking, if Stefan hadn't moved to California, they could have had a chance to stick it out. Stefan was intense, and smart, and creative, and loved Ed unconditionally. But a cross-country relationship was hard enough--with a cop who worked 24-7 it was impossible. And then Stefan got sick, and by the time Ed went to the Gang Squad, his ex was one of those for whom the cocktails didn't work, and he slipped away surrounded by his new friends, a new lover. Ed learned about it from a card in his mailbox. No, he didn't need to be reminded. He knew what he was. Who he was. Fast Eddie. Just like his dad pegged him.

Jack walked out of the courtroom with Abbie by his side. The ruling that the judge had handed down not fifteen minutes before did not make either of them happy. "Let the jury sort it out," the judge had said, allowing in all of the evidence of police brutality Childs had wanted, and everything Jack and Abbie had dug up. A free-for-all, was how the judge had characterized it. The man had plastered that characterization on the opposing requests by the Prosecution and the Defense, but that was the very last thing Jack desired. Or what Nora had hoped for. She was not going to be happy, either.

He and Abbie turned a corner, walking toward the elevators to return to the office. He noticed an obscure door, with a pebbled glass window. His stomach fluttered.

"What do you think that room is?" he asked, injecting deliberate casualness into his tone.

Abbie looked to where he was pointing, then at him. Her eyebrows lifted. "No idea. Cleaning closet?"

They passed the room in question. Jack could feel a blush burn across his face. "Huh. Never noticed it before."

Abbie let out a snort.

"What?" He looked at her; she was not meeting his glance.

"Good place for a quick assignation," she said with a grin.

He waited a step or two before answering. "Looks like."

She gave him another grin; he returned it with one of his own.

The casino was a clamor of bells, pings and shouts; winking lights that moved through signs in waves, making Ed's stomach take more than one dive. He kept his eyes down as much as